The afternoon sun hung low over the city, casting long, amber shadows across the pavement as Nolan led his sons down a side street that seemed to time-travel back forty years. The buildings here were brick-faced and sturdy, housing quiet businesses that didn't need neon signs to announce their presence.
Mark and Dick walked a few paces behind their father, their energy a stark contrast to Nolan's steady, rhythmic stride. For the twins, this wasn't just a walk; it was a pilgrimage. Today was the day the concept of their heroism would finally take a physical, tangible form.
"So, let me guess," Dick whispered, leaning toward Mark as they approached a modest storefront with a gold-leaf sign that read The Tailor Shoppe. "The owner is secretly a world-class superhero costume designer, right? It's the classic 'hidden in plain sight' cliche. I bet there's a revolving bookshelf or a biometric scanner hidden in a bowl of buttons."
Mark looked at the shop—a quiet, unassuming place with a mannequin wearing a dusty tuxedo in the window—and felt a flicker of skepticism. "I don't know, Dick. It looks like a place where people go to get their pants hemmed for a wedding. You think Dad would really bring us to a 'cliche'?"
Dick caught the look on Mark's face and grinned. "Oh, come on. Look at Dad's face."
Nolan didn't turn around, but a small, knowing smirk played on his lips. He reached for the brass handle of the door, the chime of a bell ringing out with a nostalgic ting as they stepped inside.
The interior smelled of cedar, steam, and high-quality wool. Racks of half-finished suits lined the walls, and the soft whir of a sewing machine echoed from the back. Standing behind a wide wooden counter was a man who looked exactly like the setting suggested, yet entirely different once you looked closer.
He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, with skin the color of weathered parchment and hair as white as a mountain peak. Despite the wrinkles around his eyes, his frame was lean and remarkably fit, his shoulders broad and posture straight. He wore a simple, utilitarian shirt of greenish-brown, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with the kind of muscle that came from decades of manual precision.
This was Arthur Rosenbaum.
Arthur didn't look up immediately; his hands were busy guiding a piece of silk under a needle. "I'll be with you in a moment. Quality doesn't like to be rushed."
"I've heard that before," Nolan said, his voice booming slightly in the quiet shop.
Arthur's hands froze. He looked up, his sharp blue eyes narrowing behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. A slow, genuine light ignited in his gaze. "Nolan?"
He stood up, rounding the counter with a surprising nimbleness. He didn't shake Nolan's hand; he pulled the larger man into a brief, powerful hug, which Nolan returned with a rare, relaxed warmth.
"Art, you old dog," Nolan said, stepping back. "You're still at it?"
"Someone has to make sure you don't go out looking like a colorful disaster," Arthur replied, his voice a pleasant rasp. He looked Nolan up and down. "You're looking well. Same old immovable object, I see."
"Doing my best," Nolan said. "How's the business?"
"Quiet. Precise. Just the way I like it," Arthur said. Then, his eyes drifted toward the two teenagers standing awkwardly near the door. His expression shifted into one of profound recognition. "Ah. The boys."
He walked toward them, his gaze analytical yet kind. "Mark and Richard. The last time I saw you two, you were barely high enough to reach the counter. You've grown into your father's shoulders."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Rosenbaum," Mark said politely.
"Call me Art," the tailor replied. He looked at Nolan, a silent question passing between them. Nolan nodded.
Arthur's demeanor shifted. The grandfatherly tailor was still there, but a layer of professional intensity settled over him. "Suits, then. Real ones."
"The best you can do," Nolan confirmed.
Arthur didn't say another word. He walked back to his desk and reached underneath. There was no biometric scanner or revolving bookshelf. Instead, he pulled a simple, heavy brass lever.
Ding.
A section of the wall, seemingly solid and covered in fabric swatches, slid back with the hiss of hydraulics. Behind it sat a clean, metallic elevator.
"After you," Art said, gesturing with a pair of measuring tapes draped around his neck.
The elevator ride was smooth and fast. As they descended, the air grew cooler and took on a sterilized, high-tech scent. Dick was practically vibrating with excitement, while Mark felt a knot of nervous anticipation tightening in his chest.
"So, Arthur," Dick said, breaking the silence. "I've actually been doing some homework. I have a design ready. High-contrast, aerodynamic, maybe some reinforced plating on the vitals?"
Arthur hummed, looking at the boy over his glasses. "Everyone thinks they're a designer until they try to move at Mach 3 in spandex, kid. But I'll take a look."
The elevator doors opened with another ding, and the twins both gasped.
"Whoa," Mark breathed.
"Awesome," Dick whispered.
They were standing in a massive underground hangar. It wasn't just a workshop; it was a cathedral of heroism. Glass cases lined the perimeter, each housing iconic suits that looked like they belonged in a museum of the impossible. Some were sleek and metallic, others were made of fabrics that seemed to absorb the light. In the center of the room sat advanced looms, 3D printers for carbon-fiber alloys, and holographic displays flickering with structural schematics.
"Step onto the pedestals," Art commanded, pointing to two circular platforms.
For the next hour, Art was a whirlwind of motion. He took measurements with a traditional tape but followed up with a laser scanner that mapped their muscular structure down to the millimeter. He poked, prodded, and adjusted their posture.
"You're broader in the chest than your brother, Mark. We'll need more elasticity in the lats to accommodate the flight take-off," Art muttered, scribbling notes on a digital pad. "Dick, you're built for agility. We'll keep the silhouette lean. Now, let's see that design."
Dick pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—a surprisingly well-drawn sketch of a suit with a bold blue V-shape across the chest, dark tones, and sleek gauntlets.
Arthur studied it for a long time. "A bit theatrical. The wing motifs on the boots are a nightmare for drag, but... the aesthetic is strong. It has a certain 'bird of prey' energy. I can work with this."
Mark, meanwhile, felt a bit lost. "I... I don't have a drawing. I was thinking maybe something with yellow and blue? Something bright?"
"Colors are easy, Mark. Identity is hard," Art said, looking at him intently. "A suit isn't just protection. It's a message. What message are you sending?"
They moved into the fitting phase. Art had them try on various prototype 'shells'—heavy, uncolored garments designed to test range of motion. They ran, jumped, and threw practice punches while Art adjusted the tension of the seams.
"So, Art," Mark asked while trying to get a feel for a reinforced sleeve. "Which heroes have you... you know, made stuff for?"
Arthur gave a small, secretive smile. "Let's just say if you've seen a cape on the news in the last thirty years that didn't tear in a stiff breeze, I probably had a hand in it. But a tailor never tells."
As the fitting wound down, Arthur leaned against a workbench. "Alright. The technicals are done. I have the designs. But there's one more thing. I need to know what to call the files. You can't exactly go out there as 'The Twins.'"
He looked at Dick first. "You seemed the most prepared. What's the name?"
Dick didn't hesitate. He stood tall, a spark of pure confidence in his eyes. "Nightwing."
Arthur nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. "Nightwing. Predator of the dark, but with a sense of grace. It fits the design. I like it."
Mark, however, gave his brother a long, deadpan look. "Seriously? Nightwing? Dick, isn't there already a hero in the GOTG called Darkwing? What's the point of the name Nightwing? Everyone's just going to think you're his sidekick or something."
Dick shrugged, his expression unbothered. "Darkwing is a brooding guy in a cape who uses gadgets. Nightwing is... different, Mark. It just feels right."
'There is no fucking way I am going change that name just because of a Batman rip off,' Dick thought.
"And you, Mark?" Art asked. "What's on the letterhead?"
Mark slumped his shoulders slightly. "I... I don't know yet. I want it to be... I don't know. Something iconic. Something that children would love to draw on their notebooks. Something people say when they feel safe."
"Take your time," Arthur said, patting Mark's shoulder. "I'll have the prototypes ready in a day or two. You come back then, and we'll do the final bonding. Now, get out of here. I have work to do."
The trio ascended back to the shop and stepped out into the evening air. The city was beginning to glow with streetlights. Nolan walked slightly ahead, giving the boys space to talk.
Dick was practically skipping. "Nightwing. It's perfect, right? The blue is going to pop against the black. I can see the headlines now."
Mark was silent, his brow furrowed. He was cycling through names in his head. The Flyer? Captain Brave? Justice-Man? They all sounded terrible. Generic. Empty.
"Hey," Dick said, noticing his brother's distress. He stopped and placed a hand on Mark's shoulder, his playful demeanor softening into something genuinely supportive. "Stop overthinking it, man. You're trying to find a word that describes a legend. You haven't even started yet. Just cool your head. You're talented, you're strong, you're... well, you're basically invincible."
Mark stopped dead in his tracks.
The word echoed in the quiet street. Invincible.
It wasn't a title. It wasn't a bird or a dark animal. It was a statement of fact. It was a promise.
"What did you just say?" Mark asked, his voice low.
Dick blinked. "I said cool your head? You're basically invinc—" He stopped, seeing the look on Mark's face. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Dick's lips. "Oh. Oh, I see."
A massive, beaming smile flashed across Mark's face. The weight that had been sitting on his chest for weeks suddenly evaporated. It was perfect.
"That's it!" Mark shouted, startling a pigeon nearby. "That's the name!"
"It's a bit cocky," Dick teased, though he looked proud. "You sure you can live up to it?"
"Watch me," Mark said. He turned and began beelining back toward the Tailor Shoppe. "I have to tell Art! And the colors—I want yellow! Bright yellow and blue! Like the sky!"
Dick watched his brother sprint back toward the shop door. He looked over at Nolan, who had stopped a few yards ahead. Nolan was watching Mark with a strange, unreadable expression—a mix of pride and something else, something deeper and perhaps a little more somber.
Dick shrugged at his father. "He finally got there."
"He did," Nolan said softly.
A few minutes later, Mark emerged from the shop again, his face plastered with a smile so wide it looked like it hurt. He looked like he could take on the entire world and win without breaking a sweat.
"Yellow and blue," Mark declared as he rejoined them. "Invincible and Nightwing. The world isn't ready."
"Probably not," Nolan agreed, turning to lead them toward home.
As they walked, the twins began to banter again—arguing over who would get the first lead on a patrol, which colors were more aerodynamic, and whether or not Nightwing should have a utility belt.