Robinson Park Nature Preserve, Evening
The rain had finally stopped, leaving Gotham's expansive nature preserve shrouded in mist and the heavy scent of wet earth. Most of the city's residents avoided the park after dark, their instincts warning them away from its thick forests and shadowed paths even before the recent string of disappearances had made headlines.
But Sergei Kravinoff was not like most men. He moved through the forest with preternatural silence, his muscular frame somehow flowing between trees without disturbing a single branch or leaf. The mist clung to his skin, beading on the lion's mane vest that he wore open over his bare chest despite the cool evening air.
Kraven the Hunter was on the prowl.
He paused, sinking into a crouch beside a fallen log, and examined the ground with practiced precision. The soft earth told a story to his trained eye—small, clawed prints moving in an erratic pattern that suggested hunting behavior. Night owls were creatures of habit, territorial and methodical in their movements. These particular owls—the spotted Gotham variety recently discovered by conservationists—were especially rare. Only a handful remained in the wild, their habitat shrinking as the city's development pushed ever outward.
Alberto Falcone wanted them gone, eliminated as quietly and completely as bats from a belfry. The endangered birds were the final obstacle to his development plans for this section of the preserve—a luxury resort complex that would conveniently provide perfect money-laundering opportunities through its high-end clientele.
Kraven cared nothing for Falcone's criminal enterprises. The contract had interested him purely for the challenge it presented. Tracking and eliminating an endangered nocturnal predator in its natural habitat while simultaneously hunting the most dangerous prey in Gotham—Batman himself.
He ran his fingers through the soil, bringing them to his nose and inhaling deeply. The owl had passed this way recently—within the hour. And it wasn't alone. The faintest chemical trace of advanced technology lingered beneath the natural scents of earth and decay.
Batman had been here too.
Kraven smiled, a predator's grin that held no warmth. The Dark Knight was conducting his own investigation, unaware that he was being hunted in turn. The bounty on Batman had increased to $15 million after Deadshot's failure, making him the most valuable prey Kraven had ever stalked. But it wasn't the money that motivated the hunter. It was the challenge—the opportunity to match himself against an adversary worthy of his skills.
Rising from his crouch, Kraven moved deeper into the preserve, following the intermingled trails of owl and bat. His senses, already naturally acute, had been enhanced by the specialized herbal compounds he'd developed during his extensive travels. He could detect scents that ordinary humans would miss entirely, distinguish sounds beyond the normal range of hearing, see details in near-total darkness that would require night vision technology for anyone else.
These abilities, combined with a lifetime of hunting experience across the world's most dangerous environments, made him perhaps the only person alive who could track Batman through his own city.
The trail led toward an area marked on conservation maps as a potential nesting site for the endangered owls. Conservationists had installed specialized monitoring equipment throughout this section of the preserve—cameras, recording devices, and motion sensors designed to study the owls without disturbing them.
As Kraven approached a particularly dense stand of oak trees, he noted the subtle signs of the monitoring equipment—wiring concealed against tree bark, cameras disguised as knots or branches, tiny microphones hidden among clusters of leaves. Sophisticated technology, but child's play to spot for someone of his experience.
More interesting were the signs that someone else had been examining this equipment recently. Minute disturbances in the surrounding vegetation, the faint imprint of a boot with a distinctive tread pattern, a few strands of black material caught on rough bark—evidence invisible to ordinary observers but clear as daylight to Kraven's enhanced senses.
Batman had been methodically checking each monitoring station, likely downloading data in his investigation of the recent owl disappearances. The pattern suggested he was working his way in a clockwise spiral, which meant his next stop would be...
Kraven smiled again, already moving toward the northeastern edge of the nesting area. He would be waiting when the Bat arrived.
Finding a suitable position amidst the upper branches of a massive oak, Kraven settled in with the patience of a born predator. Unlike Deadshot or other technologically-reliant assassins, he preferred to rely on his own abilities rather than gadgets. His only concessions to modern weaponry were the specialized fighting knives sheathed at his belt and a compact compound bow designed to his exact specifications.
From his vest pocket, he withdrew a small vial containing a viscous green substance—his own formulation, derived from rare plants found only in the deepest parts of the Amazon rainforest. He carefully applied the compound to the tips of several arrows, ensuring maximum potency without compromising the aerodynamics of the projectiles.
The poison wouldn't kill Batman—Falcone wanted him alive—but it would paralyze his voluntary muscles within seconds of entering his bloodstream, leaving him conscious but helpless. A perfect capture, worthy of Kraven's reputation.
Time passed, the forest growing darker as night fully claimed Gotham. Kraven remained motionless, his breathing so slow and controlled that nearby wildlife resumed their normal activities, unaware of the deadly predator in their midst. A raccoon scurried beneath his tree. An owl—not the endangered species he sought, but a common barn owl—swooped past in search of prey.
Then, a change in the air currents. A nearly imperceptible sound that didn't belong to the natural forest rhythm. Kraven's muscles tensed subtly, though his position remained unchanged. The Bat was approaching.
Batman moved through the forest with impressive stealth—clearly trained in the art of silent movement—but to Kraven's enhanced senses, he might as well have been announcing his presence with trumpets. The distinctive breathing pattern, the soft whisper of his cape against leaves, the subtle electronic hum of his equipment... all of it painted a clear picture of his approach.
Kraven nocked an arrow but didn't draw the bow. Not yet. He wanted to observe his prey first, understand his movements, his patterns. The greatest hunts were those where predator and prey were evenly matched, where success came through superior strategy rather than mere ambush.
Batman emerged into a small clearing just below Kraven's position, moving directly to a monitoring station concealed within a hollow tree trunk. His movements were economical and practiced as he connected some device from his utility belt to the monitoring equipment, presumably downloading data.
From his elevated position, Kraven studied his opponent with professional appreciation. The costume was impressive—functional rather than merely theatrical, with armor plating visible beneath the fabric at key points. The cowl's design limited peripheral vision somewhat, a weakness Kraven noted for future exploitation. The cape, while dramatic, could potentially be used against him in close-quarters combat.
As Batman worked, Kraven silently drew his bow, taking careful aim at the exposed portion of Batman's jaw—one of the few areas not protected by armor. At this range, with his skills, he couldn't miss. The poison-tipped arrow would graze the skin, delivering just enough of the compound to take effect without causing permanent damage.
He released the arrow, the motion fluid and silent.
What happened next both surprised and impressed Kraven. Without any apparent warning—no sound or visual cue that Kraven could detect—Batman moved, his hand snapping up to catch the arrow mere inches from his face. The movement was pure reflex, suggesting training beyond what even most special forces operatives received.
Batman's head turned sharply, the white lenses of his cowl focusing directly on Kraven's position.
"Kraven the Hunter," Batman's gravelly voice carried clearly in the still forest air. "I was wondering when you'd make your move."
Kraven smiled, genuinely delighted by this unexpected development. He had been anticipated, his presence detected despite his perfect concealment. This would be a worthy hunt indeed.
"You have good instincts, Batman," Kraven replied, not bothering to hide his Russian accent. "Most prey never sees the predator until it's too late."
"I'm not prey," Batman countered, dropping the arrow and shifting his stance subtly, readying himself for combat while maintaining his position. "And this forest is under my protection, as are the endangered owls Alberto Falcone hired you to eliminate."
So Batman had already connected the dots regarding his contract. Impressive. Kraven had expected no less.
"Fifteen million dollars to bring you in alive," Kraven said conversationally, still hidden among the branches. "The most expensive game I've ever hunted. But it's not about the money. It's about the challenge."
"You're the second assassin in as many days," Batman replied. "Deadshot failed. You will too."
Kraven laughed, a rich sound that echoed through the trees. "Floyd Lawton relies on technology. I rely on this." He tapped his temple, though he knew Batman couldn't see the gesture from his position. "The hunter's instinct. Something we both possess, I think. Though you use yours to track criminals rather than prey."
"Last chance, Kraven. Surrender now, tell me what you know about Alberto Falcone's operation, and I'll ensure you're treated fairly by the GCPD."
The negotiation attempt amused Kraven, but he appreciated the strategy. Always try the peaceful approach before resorting to violence—a philosophy he himself followed, though with different definitions of "peaceful."
"I appreciate the offer," Kraven replied, "but the hunt has already begun. And Kraven never abandons a hunt once it's started."
With that, he dropped from the tree, landing in a crouch some twenty feet from Batman. He rose slowly, allowing his opponent to fully register his physical presence—the lion's mane vest, the tribal scarification patterns across his chest and arms, the arsenal of primitive yet deadly weapons at his belt.
"Sergei Kravinoff," Batman said, clearly familiar with his dossier. "Former aristocrat, turned big game hunter, turned mercenary. Wanted in twelve countries for poaching endangered species."
"You've done your research," Kraven acknowledged with an appreciative nod. "Then you know I've never failed to catch my prey."
"There's a first time for everything," Batman replied, his stance shifting almost imperceptibly into a combat-ready position.
Kraven mirrored the movement, his own body language signaling his readiness for battle. "Indeed. Tonight will be your first time experiencing defeat at the hands of a true hunter."
The two predators circled each other in the small clearing, each assessing the other's strengths and weaknesses. Batman's technology and training against Kraven's enhanced abilities and lifetime of hunting experience. The Dark Knight versus the Hunter. Bat versus Lion.
"You're different from Deadshot," Batman observed, clearly buying time while calculating his strategy. "He kills for money. You kill for sport."
"Not sport," Kraven corrected, genuine offense in his tone. "Honor. The true hunter respects his prey, uses every part, wastes nothing. Modern poachers who kill for trophies or money alone—they are the criminals. I follow the ancient ways, the pure ways."
"And how does working as a hired assassin fit into these 'ancient ways'?" Batman challenged.
Kraven smiled, appreciating the psychological tactic. "Man has always been the most dangerous prey, Batman. The highest test of a hunter's skill. I choose my contracts carefully—only those that offer true challenge."
"Like killing endangered owls?" The disgust in Batman's voice was evident even through his modulator.
"The owls are merely bait," Kraven replied honestly. "I knew interfering with them would draw you out. And it did."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind his cowl. "So you haven't killed them yet."
"Only one. To confirm its unique attributes. The rest still live, for now." Kraven rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles in preparation for combat. "But enough talk. The true communication between hunter and prey comes through action, not words."
Without further warning, Kraven launched himself forward, covering the distance between them with explosive speed. His opening strike—a knife-hand blow aimed at Batman's exposed jawline—was calculated to test the vigilante's reflexes rather than cause serious damage.
Batman blocked the strike with practiced efficiency, his armored gauntlet deflecting Kraven's hand while simultaneously countering with a strike of his own—a sharp jab toward the hunter's solar plexus. Kraven twisted away from the blow, using the momentum to circle behind Batman with preternatural quickness.
"Good," Kraven acknowledged, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Your technique is excellent. Military training as a foundation, but refined with what... Martial arts from East Asia? Perhaps some Silat or Kali as well?"
Batman didn't respond verbally, instead launching a combination of strikes that would have incapacitated most opponents. Kraven evaded or blocked each one, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to anticipate Batman's movements with uncanny accuracy.
"Your reputation is well-deserved," Kraven continued as they exchanged blows, neither gaining a decisive advantage. "But something is holding you back. Hesitation. Uncertainty." His eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. "Ah, I see. Your injured. Ribs, I think. Deadshot's handiwork?"
A subtle shift in Batman's posture confirmed Kraven's assessment. The vigilante was indeed working through injuries from his previous encounter, though he hid it well. Most opponents would never have noticed.
But Kraven was not most opponents. He was the world's greatest hunter, with senses honed to detect even the slightest weakness in his prey.
Adjusting his strategy, Kraven focused his next series of attacks on Batman's left side, where the injury seemed most pronounced. A powerful side kick forced Batman to block in a way that stressed his damaged ribs, drawing a barely perceptible grimace behind the cowl.
"The wounded animal fights most desperately," Kraven observed, pressing his advantage with a flurry of strikes designed to exhaust rather than immediately defeat his opponent. "But eventually, the predator wears it down."
Batman countered with a smoke pellet, momentarily obscuring Kraven's vision. But the hunter merely smiled, closing his eyes and relying on his other senses to track Batman's movement through the smoke. He could hear the vigilante's breathing, smell the unique scent of his armor and the human beneath it.
When Batman emerged from the smoke behind him, Kraven was already turning to meet the attack. He caught Batman's arm mid-strike, using the vigilante's momentum to throw him into a nearby tree trunk with bone-jarring force.
Batman recovered quickly, but not before Kraven closed the distance again, this time drawing one of his hunting knives—a wickedly curved blade designed to penetrate deeply. He slashed at Batman's exposed jaw, intentionally missing by millimeters when the vigilante dodged.
"The contract says alive," Kraven reminded him. "It doesn't specify unharmed."
Batman responded by producing a batarang from his belt and throwing it with precision at Kraven's knife hand. The hunter deflected it with his blade, but the momentary distraction allowed Batman to launch a powerful front kick that caught Kraven squarely in the chest, sending him staggering backward.
For the first time, Kraven felt the full force of Batman's strength. Despite his injuries, the Dark Knight hit with incredible power—enough to momentarily rattle even Kraven's enhanced physiology. He grinned, wiping a trace of blood from his lip where he'd bitten it during the impact.
"Excellent!" Kraven exclaimed, genuine excitement in his voice. "Now we begin the real hunt!"
The battle intensified, both combatants abandoning pretense and pushing to their limits. Kraven's enhanced strength and speed versus Batman's superior technology and tactical approach. They moved through the forest clearing in a deadly dance, each seeking advantage, probing for weaknesses, adjusting strategies on the fly.
Batman utilized his environment skillfully, using trees and uneven terrain to neutralize Kraven's physical advantages. The hunter countered by forcing the fight into more open areas where his superior mobility could be leveraged effectively.
Minutes stretched on, the fight continuing with neither gaining decisive advantage. Despite his injuries, Batman's technique remained impeccable, his movements economical and precise. Kraven fought with more flamboyance but equal effectiveness, his augmented abilities compensating for any technical deficiencies.
Finally, sensing the need to end this first encounter before exhaustion became a factor, Kraven disengaged, leaping backward to create distance between them. Both combatants were breathing heavily, though Kraven showed fewer signs of fatigue.
"You continue to impress, Batman," Kraven acknowledged, genuine respect in his tone. "Few have ever matched me in direct combat."
Batman remained silent, his stance still combat-ready despite the obvious pain from his aggravated injuries. The white lenses of his cowl revealed nothing of his thoughts, but his body language suggested a man calculating odds and reassessing strategy.
"This first encounter has been instructive," Kraven continued, sheathing his knife in a deliberate show of de-escalation. "The best hunts are those conducted over time, where predator and prey learn each other's ways. A single chase that ends too quickly... that is no challenge at all."
Batman's voice was a low growl when he finally spoke. "This isn't a game, Kraven. People's lives are at stake."
"On the contrary," Kraven replied, "for men like us, it is the ultimate game. The test of skill, of will, of strategy. But fear not—our contest has only just begun. When next we meet, I will have studied you more thoroughly, understood your patterns more completely." He backed toward the edge of the clearing. "The greatest respect a hunter can show his prey is thorough preparation."
"You're not leaving," Batman stated, tensing to pursue.
Kraven smiled, almost sadly. "For tonight, I am. But I leave you a gift—knowledge that the owls you seek to protect still live. All but one, which I required for study. They nest in the old quarry at the northern edge of the preserve—a place your conservationists haven't yet discovered."
With that cryptic offering, Kraven triggered a smoke grenade of his own—a specialized compound that would temporarily overwhelm even Batman's filtered breathing apparatus. In the moment of confusion, he disappeared into the forest with the silent efficiency that had made him the world's deadliest hunter.
As he moved away from the clearing, Kraven considered the encounter with professional satisfaction. Batman had proven himself a worthy adversary indeed—skilled, resourceful, and possessed of that rare quality Kraven respected above all others: adaptability. Despite his injuries, despite being taken by surprise, the Dark Knight had fought Kraven to a virtual standstill.
The hunter hadn't expected to capture Batman in their first encounter. That would have been too easy, too unsatisfying. This was merely the opening move in what promised to be his greatest hunt—a worthy challenge that would test even Kraven's legendary skills.
As for the owls, he had indeed found their nesting site, but unlike what he'd told Batman, he had not yet harmed any of them. That would come later, after he'd captured the Bat. Every hunter knew that patience was the most essential virtue. And Sergei Kravinoff had patience in abundance.
The Batcave, Late Night
Bruce collapsed into the medical chair, each breath sending spikes of pain through his ribcage. What had started as bruising from Deadshot now felt like genuine damage—possibly fractures—thanks to Kraven's powerful blows. The hunter had been unlike any opponent he'd faced before: a perfect fusion of primal instinct and tactical brilliance.
"Master Bruce!" Alfred hurried over, medical kit already in hand. "Good heavens."
"I'm fine," Bruce grunted, though the blood seeping through his torn suit suggested otherwise.
Alfred's expression turned stern as he began cutting away the damaged sections of the batsuit. "Of course you are. And I suppose the trail of blood from the Batmobile to this chair is merely a new decorative choice for the cave."
Bruce attempted a smile that morphed into a grimace as Alfred probed a particularly deep gash along his side. "Kraven's better than I anticipated. Enhanced strength, reflexes, possibly senses too. He tracked me through the preserve like I was leaving a neon trail."
"And yet you decided to engage him regardless," Alfred observed, cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency.
"I didn't have much choice. He'd already killed one of the endangered owls for study. If I hadn't intervened, the entire nesting population would be gone by morning." Bruce hissed as Alfred applied antiseptic. "The owls are just collateral in Alberto Falcone's plan. The real goal is eliminating obstacles to his development project—both environmental and human."
Alfred worked in silence for several moments, stitching the worst of the lacerations. "Did you at least determine where the remaining owls might be found?"
"Northern quarry section of the preserve, according to Kraven. Whether that's true or a trap remains to be seen." Bruce winced as Alfred tightened a bandage around his torso. "I need to get back out there."
"What you need is rest," Alfred countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "These ribs are at minimum severely bruised, possibly fractured. The lacerations require time to—"
"I don't have time, Alfred," Bruce cut in, his voice hardening. "Kraven won't stop hunting. The owls are in danger, and he'll use them as bait to draw me out again. Now that he's studied my fighting style, the next encounter will be even more dangerous."
"All the more reason to approach with caution rather than rushing back half-healed." Alfred finished securing the bandage and stepped back, studying Bruce with a critical eye. "At least allow me to administer a local analgesic before you insist on further self-destruction."
Bruce nodded reluctantly, knowing this was the most concession he'd get from Alfred. As the butler prepared the injection, Bruce pulled up the cave's computer interface from the medical bay terminal, reviewing the data he'd gathered on Kraven.
"Sergei Kravinoff," he muttered, scanning the file. "Former Russian aristocrat turned big game hunter. Wanted in twelve countries for poaching endangered species. Known for hunting with primitive weapons despite access to modern technology. Rumors of enhanced physical abilities possibly stemming from consumption of rare herbs and animal products."
"A most charming individual," Alfred remarked dryly, returning with the prepared syringe. "Professional credentials include annihilating the last members of several endangered species. One assumes the Gotham spotted owl will make a fine addition to his résumé."
"Not if I can help it," Bruce replied, barely registering the injection as Alfred administered it. "He doesn't just hunt for trophies—he adheres to some twisted code of honor. Claims to respect his prey, use every part of what he kills. He seemed genuinely offended when I suggested he killed for sport."
"A philosophical distinction that I imagine brings little comfort to his victims," Alfred noted, disposing of the syringe and returning to examine Bruce's other injuries.
"True, but it might give me an edge. His code includes studying prey before the kill, learning patterns and weaknesses. He'll want to draw out our next encounter, make it a worthy challenge." Bruce rotated his shoulder experimentally, feeling the analgesic beginning to take effect. "I need to use that against him."
Alfred finished tending to the facial cuts and stepped back, his expression grave. "And what of Master Dick? Did you happen to mention to him that you'd be arriving home with fresh injuries that precisely match those Batman received fighting an assassin tonight?"
Bruce's silence was answer enough.
"I see," Alfred sighed. "And how precisely do you intend to explain this to a highly observant child who has already demonstrated exceptional deductive reasoning for his age?"
"Bruce Wayne was mugged leaving a charity event," Bruce replied, the cover story evidently prepared in advance. "Embarrassing enough that playboy Bruce would naturally try to hide the injuries behind makeup and excuses about clumsiness."
Alfred's eyebrow rose a fraction. "A plausible fabrication, I suppose. Though I wonder how many such 'muggings' you anticipate requiring during the boy's stay?"
The question hung in the air, underlining the fundamental challenge of maintaining Batman's secret identity while sheltering a traumatized child within the same household. Bruce had managed the deception successfully for years, but those efforts had been focused on people who saw what they expected to see—socialites, business associates, the occasional overnight guest who never stayed long enough to notice patterns.
A child living under his roof presented entirely different security concerns.
"It's temporary, Alfred," Bruce reminded him, though the words sounded less convincing each time he repeated them. "Just until we capture Deathstroke and ensure Dick is no longer a target."
"Of course, sir." Alfred's tone conveyed his skepticism without requiring actual words. "And on the subject of Master Dick, he waited until quite late for your return before finally retiring to bed. I believe he was hoping for an update on the investigation."
Guilt flickered across Bruce's features. He'd promised the boy regular updates, only to be immediately pulled into a confrontation with the very assassins threatening his safety. The irony wasn't lost on him.
"I'll speak with him in the morning," Bruce decided, rising from the medical chair with a suppressed grimace. "For now, I need to analyze the information we gathered on Kraven and cross-reference it with what we know about the remaining assassins."
Bruce moved toward the main computer console, each step calculated to minimize aggravating his injuries. Alfred watched him with a mixture of exasperation and resignation, knowing from years of experience that further argument would be futile.
"Very good, sir. Though perhaps a few hours of sleep might enhance your analytical capabilities. Even Batman requires rest occasionally."
Bruce acknowledged this wisdom with a nod, though they both knew he was unlikely to follow it. The compromised ribs made his usual sleep position impossible anyway, and the encounter with Kraven had left his mind too active for rest.
"I'll try to get some sleep before dawn," he conceded, which was as much as Alfred could reasonably hope for. "Wake me if Dick needs anything during the night. Nightmares are likely at this stage."
"Indeed. I've already placed a monitor in his room—the same system we used after your parents' passing." Alfred's expression softened at the memory. "Some patterns, unfortunately, remain consistent across generations."
As Alfred departed up the stairs to the manor proper, Bruce settled at the Batcomputer, ignoring the protest from his injured ribs. The screen illuminated his tired features as he pulled up files on Kraven and the other assassins Deadshot had named.
Seven assassins, seven targets, seven days. A systematic dismantling of the case against Carmine Falcone, with Batman's capture as the secondary objective. Two down—Deadshot neutralized, Kraven encountered but still at large. Five remained, each bringing their own unique threat profile to Gotham.
The bounty on Batman had increased to $15 million after Deadshot's failure. Bruce had no doubt it would continue to rise with each unsuccessful attempt. Alberto Falcone was making a statement—not just to Batman, but to Gotham at large. The message was clear: cross the Falcones, and the world's deadliest killers will hunt you down.
Bruce pulled up the satellite imagery of Robinson Park Nature Preserve, focusing on the northern quarry section where Kraven claimed the owls nested. The area showed evidence of recent activity—disturbances in the vegetation pattern visible even from space, suggesting someone had been systematically exploring the region.
If the owls were indeed there, relocating them would require resources Bruce didn't currently have at his disposal. The Preservation Department would need to be involved, but doing so might alert Alberto Falcone, who almost certainly had informants within the city government.
Bruce rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of compounding problems. Seven assassins. Endangered owls. A traumatized orphan upstairs. A crime family with tentacles reaching into every aspect of Gotham's infrastructure. And now evidence that a shadowy government official named Alexander Pierce was involved, using the Falcones to further his illegal super-soldier program.
The pieces were beginning to connect. John Grayson had witnessed unauthorized experiments while serving in the military—experiments involving Slade Wilson, who would become Deathstroke. Those experiments were part of Project Rebirth, Pierce's attempt to recreate the success of the original Captain America program without the ethical constraints. When Grayson threatened to expose the program, Pierce orchestrated his elimination through Alberto Falcone, who saw an opportunity to remove a witness against the family while simultaneously testing Deathstroke's effectiveness.
Bruce's fists clenched involuntarily. Dick's parents hadn't died randomly—they'd been targeted as part of a cold, calculated plan to protect powerful men from the consequences of their actions. The same pattern that had defined Gotham for generations, the same corruption that had claimed countless lives while the city's elite remained untouched.
The same pattern that had claimed Thomas and Martha Wayne in Crime Alley all those years ago.
As if summoned by the thought, a small sound from the cave's entrance jerked Bruce from his rumination—the faintest scrape of fabric against stone, almost imperceptible over the ambient noise of the cave's water systems and bat colony.
Almost imperceptible, but not quite.
Bruce tensed, years of training translating instantly into combat readiness despite his injuries. He reached subtly for a batarang concealed beneath the console, eyes scanning the shadows without turning his head.
A flash of movement caught his peripheral vision—a small figure ducking behind one of the cave's massive support columns. Too small to be an adult, the movement too controlled to be one of the bats.
Bruce's stomach dropped as realization hit him. Abandoning pretense, he turned toward the column.
"Dick," he called, his voice a careful neutral. "You can come out. I know you're there."
Several seconds of silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant drip of water and rustle of bat wings. Then, slowly, Dick Grayson emerged from behind the column, his expression a complex mixture of fear, awe, and accusation.
"You're him," the boy said simply. Not a question—a statement of fact.
Bruce considered denial, weighed his options in the split-second pause that followed. But looking at Dick's face—the keen intelligence in those eyes that had already seen too much—he knew lies would only compound the breach of trust.
"Yes," he acknowledged, the single syllable changing everything between them.
Dick moved closer, studying the Batsuit components still scattered around the medical area, the computer displays showing Batman's recent patrol route, the bandages visible beneath Bruce's compression shirt. His gaze was methodical, piecing together a puzzle whose solution he'd already suspected.
"That's why you knew so much about the investigation," he said. "You weren't getting reports from Batman. You are Batman."
Bruce nodded. "How did you find the cave?"
"I followed you," Dick explained with a hint of pride. "Tonight, when you thought I was asleep. I saw you going to the study but not coming out. There had to be a hidden entrance." He gestured toward the stairs. "The old grandfather clock. The hands were set to 10:48. That's when your parents died, isn't it?"
Bruce couldn't suppress a flicker of admiration. Even in his emotionally compromised state, the boy had managed to track him, deduce the entrance mechanism, and navigate the cave's security—all without alerting either him or Alfred.
"You have remarkable observational skills," Bruce said. "And yes, that's when they died."
Dick approached the computer console, his eyes fixed on the image of Kraven currently displayed on one of the screens. "That's the hunter you fought tonight. The one who hurt you."
Again, not a question. Bruce nodded.
"And you're going after him again," Dick continued. "Even though you're injured."
"I have to. He's hunting endangered owls as part of his contract with the Falcones. If I don't stop him, they'll be extinct by morning."
Dick studied Bruce, his young face unnervingly perceptive. "And if he kills you instead?"
The directness of the question caught Bruce off-guard. Most adults in his life avoided acknowledging Batman's mortality so bluntly—even Alfred couched his concerns in sarcasm and oblique references. But Dick had cut straight to the heart of the matter with the unfiltered honesty of youth.
"That's a risk I accept every night," Bruce answered, matching the boy's directness. "Not just with Kraven, but with every patrol."
"Is that why you didn't tell me? Because you didn't want me to worry?"
Bruce considered this. "Partly. But mostly because the more people who know Batman's identity, the more dangerous it becomes—for them and for me."
Dick stepped closer, close enough that Bruce could see the barely-controlled emotion in his eyes. "So you were just going to lie to me? Make up stories about getting mugged while you're out there fighting the people who killed my parents?"
The accusation stung, not least because it was justified. Bruce had indeed planned to maintain the deception indefinitely, feeding Dick carefully curated information while keeping him at arm's length from the reality of his crusade.
"I was trying to protect you," Bruce said, knowing even as the words left his mouth how hollow they sounded.
"I don't need protection!" Dick's voice cracked with sudden ferocity. "I need the truth! My parents were murdered right in front of me. I'm not some little kid who can't handle reality!"
Bruce recognized the anger, the desperate need to be taken seriously—to be seen as more than a child to be sheltered. He'd felt the same burning indignation when adults had tried to shield him from the harsh truth after his own parents' deaths.
"You're right," he acknowledged, holding Dick's gaze. "You deserved the truth. I apologize for underestimating you."
The simple admission seemed to catch Dick off-guard, deflating some of his righteous anger. He blinked, clearly having expected more resistance.
"So what happens now?" he asked, his voice smaller. "Are you going to make me forget? Send me away?"
"No," Bruce said firmly. "Neither of those things. But we do need to talk about what this means—for both of us."
Dick glanced again at the Batsuit components, the medical supplies, the computer showing patrol routes and assassin profiles. "You're going after them all, aren't you? The assassins. Deathstroke. The Falcones. Everyone involved."
"Yes."
"Then I want to help," Dick said, a new determination hardening his features. "Teach me. Let me help you find the people who killed my parents."
And there it was—the request Bruce had feared from the moment he recognized the reflection of his own trauma in Dick's eyes. The same dangerous hunger for justice that had driven Bruce across the world, through years of punishing training, and ultimately into the cowl.
"Dick," he began carefully, "what I do is dangerous. It requires years of training, specialized equipment—"
"I've been performing death-defying stunts since I was six," Dick cut in. "I can already do things most adults can't even imagine. I'm not asking to put on a costume and fight assassins tonight. I'm asking you to teach me."
Bruce studied the boy, seeing beyond the small stature to the extraordinary potential beneath. Dick's acrobatic background had given him a foundation most martial artists would envy—perfect balance, spatial awareness, flexibility, core strength. With the right training, he could indeed become something remarkable.
But at what cost?
"Why?" Bruce asked, though he already knew the answer. "Why do you want this?"
"Because they have to pay," Dick said, his voice low and intense. "Deathstroke. The Falcones. All of them. They killed my parents like it was nothing—like their lives meant nothing. I can't just sit in your mansion doing nothing while you fight them alone."
The words echoed Bruce's own thoughts from decades earlier—the same righteous fury, the same need for meaning in the face of senseless loss. But where Bruce had embraced that fury, allowed it to consume him until vengeance became his only purpose, he now recognized the danger of that path.
"Vengeance isn't justice," Bruce said quietly. "I learned that distinction too late, and it nearly destroyed me. If I train you, it won't be to help you get revenge."
"Then what would it be for?" Dick challenged.
"To help you channel your pain into something constructive. To ensure that what happened to your parents doesn't happen to someone else's. To give you the tools to protect rather than just avenge." Bruce leaned forward, holding Dick's gaze. "Revenge is a fire that consumes everything, Dick. It won't bring your parents back, and it won't give you peace."
Dick's jaw clenched, clearly wrestling with emotions too complex for his young mind to fully process. "So what am I supposed to do? Just forget them? Move on like nothing happened?"
"No. Never that." Bruce's voice softened. "You honor them by living as they would want you to live. By becoming someone they would be proud of."
"They'd want justice," Dick insisted, though some of the fire had gone out of his tone.
"Justice and vengeance aren't the same," Bruce repeated. "Justice seeks to restore balance. Vengeance only creates more pain."
Dick fell silent, absorbing this distinction. Bruce watched the internal struggle play across his expressive features—the need for retribution warring with the deeper desire to honor his parents' memory with something better than bloodshed.
Finally, the boy looked up again. "Will you at least consider training me? Not just to fight, but to do what you do—to investigate, to protect people."
Bruce had never imagined taking on a protégé. Batman had always been a solitary crusade, born from his personal demons and sustained by his singular focus. The idea of bringing someone else—especially a child—into that darkness went against every protective instinct he possessed.
And yet, looking at Dick, he recognized something he'd never seen in his own reflection: the potential for a different path. Where Bruce had embraced the darkness, becoming a creature of shadow and fear, Dick might bring something else to the mission—a perspective unclouded by decades of bitterness and isolation.
"I'll consider it," Bruce said finally. "But there would be conditions. Strict ones."
Hope flickered in Dick's eyes. "Like what?"
"Training comes first—not just physical, but mental. You'd need to excel in both. School remains a priority. No unnecessary risks. Complete honesty between us. And most importantly—" Bruce fixed him with a stern look, "you accept that this is about justice, not revenge. The moment I see you crossing that line, the training stops."
Dick nodded solemnly. "I can agree to that."
"We'll discuss it further," Bruce said, neither committing nor refusing outright. "But right now, I need to prepare for Kraven. He's still out there, and those owls are still in danger."
Dick's expression shifted from contemplative to concerned. "You can barely stand. How are you going to fight someone who almost killed you the first time?"
"By changing the terms of engagement," Bruce replied, turning back to the computer. "Kraven hunts by understanding his prey's patterns. I need to become unpredictable."
Dick watched as Bruce pulled up schematics for several Bat-gadgets, his attention caught by designs for specialized smoke pellets and sonic emitters. "Those would mess with his enhanced senses," he observed.
Bruce glanced at him, mildly surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"
"It's what my dad would do with animals that got too close to the circus," Dick explained. "Change their environment so they get disoriented and leave on their own. No need to hurt them that way."
Bruce nodded, impressed despite himself. "That's exactly the approach. Kraven's advantages are his enhanced senses and his knowledge of the environment. If I can disrupt both, I might level the playing field despite my injuries."
"Where will you confront him?" Dick asked, studying the map now displayed on the screen.
"The botanical gardens adjacent to the preserve. It's a controlled environment where I can deploy countermeasures in advance." Bruce highlighted several points on the digital map. "I'll set up sonic emitters here, here, and here—subsonic frequencies that will interfere with his sense of hearing without affecting normal human range. Specialized smoke pellets to mask scent and reduce visibility."
Dick leaned closer, his natural tactical mind engaging with the problem. "What about thermals? If his senses are enhanced, he might be able to track heat signatures."
Bruce nodded. "Good point. The batsuit has limited thermal masking, but I'll need to use the environment as well—the gardens have several artificial springs that release steam periodically. I can use those to create thermal confusion."
For several minutes, they continued analyzing the approach, Dick offering surprisingly insightful suggestions based on his experience with animals and performance spaces. Bruce found himself including the boy in the planning almost naturally, their minds working in complementary patterns despite the vast difference in experience.
"I should go," Bruce said finally, checking the time. "The longer I wait, the more likely Kraven is to locate the owls."
Dick stepped back, watching as Bruce carefully began suiting up, mindful of his injuries. "Will you be okay?" he asked, the bravado momentarily giving way to genuine concern.
"I've fought through worse," Bruce assured him, though they both knew this was hardly reassuring.
"I could help," Dick offered, a tentative suggestion rather than a demand. "Not fighting," he added quickly, seeing Bruce's expression. "But maybe as lookout, or backup."
"Absolutely not," Bruce said firmly. "You've discovered my secret, and we've agreed to discuss training. That doesn't mean you're ready for field work of any kind—especially against someone like Kraven."
Disappointment flashed across Dick's face, but he nodded reluctantly. "Just be careful. I've already lost my parents. I don't want to lose..." He trailed off, seemingly embarrassed by the implicit admission of attachment.
Bruce paused in the midst of securing his utility belt, unexpectedly moved by the boy's concern. In the brief time since the tragedy at the circus, something had formed between them—a connection neither had anticipated but both increasingly valued.
"I'll come back," Bruce promised, the words emerging with surprising conviction. "Now, you should return to bed before Alfred discovers you've been exploring the cave. The entrance code from this side is your mother's birthday." He met Dick's startled gaze. "Yes, I did my research. The security system will recognize you now, but don't make a habit of coming down here alone—at least not until we've established proper protocols."
Dick nodded, tentatively backing toward the stairs. "You'll tell me everything when you get back? About Kraven, the owls, all of it?"
"Complete honesty," Bruce affirmed, referencing their earlier agreement. "Now go."
As Dick disappeared up the stairs, Bruce finished suiting up, each movement deliberate to avoid aggravating his injuries. The cowl slid into place last, transforming Bruce Wayne into the Batman—the symbol he'd created to channel his own trauma into something that might, eventually, heal Gotham itself.
Now, for the first time, he found himself considering whether that symbol might help heal Dick Grayson too—though in a way very different from what he'd originally intended.
The Batmobile's engine roared to life, echoing through the cavern as Batman set out to confront Kraven for the second time. But as he navigated the hidden tunnel toward Gotham, his thoughts weren't solely focused on the hunter and his prey. Part of him remained in the cave, with a boy whose path was beginning to parallel his own—for better or worse.