Upper East Side, Rachel Dawes' Apartment, Earlier That Evening
Rachel Dawes massaged her temples as she reviewed the financial evidence that would form the backbone of Carmine Falcone's prosecution. Spreadsheets and bank records covered her dining table, the patterns of money movement between shell companies forming a complex web that she'd spent months untangling.
"Follow the money," she murmured to herself, an investigative mantra that had served her well since joining the DA's office five years ago. And the money in this case led directly to Carmine Falcone, despite the elaborate structures designed to obscure its origins.
The case was solid—perhaps the strongest ever assembled against Gotham's most powerful crime lord. Yet doubt nagged at her. Too many witnesses had suddenly developed memory problems or disappeared altogether. Too many key documents had been mysteriously misplaced from evidence storage. Too many judges had recused themselves until the case landed with the notoriously Falcone-friendly Judge Ramos.
Her phone vibrated against the table, displaying Harvey Dent's name and a message asking if she was still working. Rachel smiled despite her exhaustion. Harvey understood her dedication because he shared it—the same relentless drive to bring justice to a city drowning in corruption. Their shared mission had been the foundation of their relationship, professional boundaries gradually blurring into something more personal over months of late nights and strategic planning sessions.
She typed a quick reply confirming that she was still reviewing the financial evidence, adding that she'd meet him for breakfast to discuss strategy before tomorrow's pretrial hearing. Harvey responded immediately with a reminder to get some sleep and a brief but sweet personal note that made her smile widen.
Rachel set the phone aside, turning back to the documents with renewed determination. Carmine Falcone had evaded justice for decades through a combination of violence, bribery, and political manipulation. This time would be different. This time, they had the evidence, the witnesses, and the public support needed to finally bring down Gotham's untouchable crime lord.
A faint scraping sound from the fire escape caught her attention. Rachel froze, instinctively reaching for the drawer where she kept her legally registered handgun. Living in Gotham—especially as a prosecutor targeting organized crime—had taught her the value of personal security measures.
Before she could reach the weapon, her living room window exploded inward, showering the room with glass fragments. A figure in tactical gear rolled through the opening with practiced efficiency, rising to a combat stance with a weapon trained directly at her.
Rachel raised her hands slowly, mind racing through possible scenarios and responses. The intruder wore no identifiable insignia, but the quality of their equipment and precision of movement suggested professional training rather than common criminal.
"Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes," the intruder stated, voice electronically distorted through their mask. "You're coming with me. No noise, no resistance, and you won't be harmed."
"You're making a mistake," Rachel replied, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "Kidnapping an officer of the court carries mandatory minimum sentencing far beyond standard assault charges."
The intruder seemed almost amused by her legal citation. "Always the prosecutor, even at gunpoint. Admirable professional dedication." They gestured toward the door with their weapon. "Your legal expertise won't be relevant for the next several days after Carmine Falcone's acquittal, you'll be released unharmed," the intruder continued, motioning Rachel toward the door. "Though your career may not recover from what's planned."
Rachel's mind raced through her options. Training from the DA's office on hostage situations emphasized compliance in the initial phase—stay alive, create opportunities later. She took a careful step forward, gauging the distance between herself and her attacker.
"Who sent you? Alberto?" she asked, stalling while searching for any advantage. "Or does Pierce have his own team now?"
The intruder's posture shifted slightly—surprise evident even through the tactical gear. "You know more than you should, Ms. Dawes. That information won't help you where you're going."
A second figure appeared at the shattered window, equally equipped and professional. "Perimeter's secure. Transport's waiting at the east alley access. Two minutes until GCPD response based on neighborhood call patterns."
Rachel measured her chances against two trained operatives. Slim at best, nonexistent at worst. She needed to leave evidence of her abduction—something that would tell Harvey or Batman what had happened. As she stepped across broken glass toward the door, she deliberately let her foot catch on a folder, scattering financial documents across the floor.
"Careful," the first intruder warned, gesturing with the weapon. "No evidence games. We know all the tricks prosecutors play."
Rachel straightened, keeping her hands visible. "Just clumsy when someone's pointing a gun at me."
"Bag her," the second intruder instructed. "Clock's ticking."
The first operative produced a black hood from their tactical vest. "Nothing personal, Ms. Dawes. Just business."
As they approached with the hood, Rachel made her move—not to escape, which was impossible, but to leave a message. She lunged toward her desk, grabbing a framed photo of herself with Harvey at last year's Justice Day gala. The operatives reacted instantly, the first tackling her while the second secured her arms.
"Nice try," the lead operative muttered, forcing the hood over her head. "Falcone said you'd be trouble."
In the darkness of the hood, Rachel felt zip ties tightening around her wrists. The photo had slipped from her grasp during the struggle, the glass cracking—but she'd managed what she needed. Her pinky finger had smeared blood from a glass cut across the back frame where she kept an emergency contact card. The blood would draw attention to the card, which contained a number only Batman, Gordon, and Harvey knew.
A sharp prick in her neck sent warmth flooding through her veins. A sedative, fast-acting from the immediate heaviness in her limbs.
"Sweet dreams, counselor," came the muffled voice through her hood. "You've got a week of forced vacation ahead."
Rachel's last conscious thought before the darkness claimed her was of Batman. Find me, Bruce. Please find me.
—
Wayne Manor, Night
The grandfather clock in the study slid aside, revealing Bruce Wayne ascending from the cave below. Blood seeped through hastily applied bandages visible beneath his torn clothing, evidence of his failed confrontation with Taskmaster. Pain etched lines around his eyes that weren't entirely physical—Taskmaster's revelation about Rachel's abduction had struck deeper than any physical blow.
Alfred met him at the top of the stairs, medical kit already in hand. "Master Bruce, Detective Gordon called on the secure line. Ms. Dawes has been—"
"Kidnapped," Bruce finished, his voice hollow. "I know. Taskmaster told me. It was a diversion—keep me occupied at Wayne Enterprises while his team took Rachel."
"Master Dick is already analyzing possible locations based on known Falcone properties," Alfred reported, helping Bruce to a chair. "He's showing remarkable aptitude for correlating property records with power consumption patterns."
Bruce winced as Alfred began examining his wounds. "I should have anticipated this. Alberto's strategy is becoming clear—eliminate witnesses, intimidate prosecutors, compromise evidence. Rachel was building the financial case against Carmine."
"You cannot anticipate every move in a game with so many players, sir," Alfred reminded him, cleaning a deep laceration on Bruce's shoulder. "Ms. Dawes knew the risks of prosecuting the Falcones."
"That doesn't make it acceptable," Bruce snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. "I'm sorry, Alfred. It's just—it's Rachel."
Alfred's eyes softened with understanding. "I'm well aware of what Ms. Dawes means to you, sir. All the more reason to approach this methodically rather than emotionally."
The study door burst open as Dick Grayson entered, tablet in hand and excitement evident despite the late hour. "Bruce! I think I found something—" He stopped short at the sight of Bruce's injuries. "Whoa. Taskmaster really did a number on you."
"I'll heal," Bruce said, gesturing for Dick to continue. "What did you find?"
Dick approached, tablet extended to show a complex map of Gotham with various properties highlighted. "I cross-referenced all Falcone-owned properties with locations that would be suitable for holding a kidnapping victim. Eliminated anything too public, too small, or without the right security profile." His finger traced a pattern on the screen. "That left seventeen possibilities, but then I looked at electrical usage patterns from Gotham Power's grid monitoring."
Alfred paused in his medical ministrations, impressed despite himself. "And how exactly did you access Gotham Power's secure monitoring systems, Master Dick?"
The boy had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Um... I may have used one of the backdoor access codes I found in the Batcomputer's utility folder."
"We'll discuss proper authorization protocols later," Bruce interjected, examining the tablet. "Go on."
"Most properties show consistent power usage patterns or commercial fluctuations that match their cover businesses," Dick explained, his confidence returning. "But three locations show unusual spikes in the past forty-eight hours." He zoomed in on one location at the docks. "This one's particularly interesting—the Dixon Dock cold storage facility. On paper, it's a seafood processing operation, but power consumption spiked last night in a pattern consistent with security system activation and climate control adjustments."
Bruce studied the data, his tactical mind already forming a plan. "Good work, Dick. Very good work." He stood, ignoring Alfred's disapproving look at the interrupted treatment. "The Falcones use that facility for special 'storage' needs—usually people they want to keep on ice without killing. It's the most likely location."
"Master Bruce," Alfred cautioned, "your injuries are substantial. Rushing into a Falcone stronghold without proper preparation would be—"
"Suicidal," Bruce finished. "I know. But every hour Rachel remains in their custody increases the risk." He turned to Dick. "I need you to continue monitoring the other potential locations while I prepare. If there's any change in power consumption or activity, it could indicate they're moving her."
Dick nodded eagerly. "I can set up automated alerts for unusual patterns. And I can help you prepare—maybe some of those acrobatic moves that confused Taskmaster. He'll probably be guarding Rachel."
"You're not coming with me," Bruce stated firmly, though with less conviction than he might have days earlier. "This is a direct infiltration of a Falcone facility, likely heavily guarded with experienced killers. Your training has just begun."
"I'm not asking to come along," Dick clarified. "But I can still help you get ready. The moves I showed you earlier—they worked against Taskmaster until he started adapting. I've got more variations that would be even harder to predict."
Bruce exchanged a glance with Alfred, who gave a subtle nod of approval. "Alright. Training room, fifteen minutes. Show me what you've got. But understand this—under no circumstances are you to leave the cave tonight. Clear?"
"Crystal," Dick replied, though something in his expression suggested wheels turning behind his eyes. "I'll head down and set up. Fifteen minutes."
As Dick left, Alfred resumed treating Bruce's wounds with practiced efficiency. "The boy shows remarkable aptitude for this work," he observed quietly. "Rather concerning, considering his age."
"You said the same about me," Bruce reminded him.
"Indeed I did, sir. And my concerns proved entirely justified, as your current state amply demonstrates." Alfred secured the final bandage with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "Ms. Dawes is resourceful. And Mr. Dent will have the entire district attorney's office looking for her."
"They won't find her," Bruce said grimly. "Not where Alberto has taken her. This kind of operation is designed to be invisible to official channels—that's why the Falcones are using assassins and mercenaries rather than their regular enforcers. No connections that could be traced back if something goes wrong."
"And Taskmaster himself?" Alfred inquired. "Will he be at this facility?"
Bruce frowned, considering. "Unlikely. His contract was specifically for Wayne Enterprises technology and providing the diversion during Rachel's abduction. He's a professional—he'll move on to his next objective rather than babysitting a prisoner." He rose, testing his mobility with a careful stretch. "But whoever is guarding her will be dangerous enough."
Alfred gathered his medical supplies, expression grave. "I have prepared the Batmobile with additional medical equipment, sir. Including field trauma kits suitable for civilian extraction." He hesitated before adding, "Ms. Dawes may not be in optimal condition when you find her."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "I know." He moved toward the grandfather clock, purpose hardening his features into the mask he wore even without the cowl. "But I will find her, Alfred. Tonight."
—
The Batcave, Thirty Minutes Later
The training area echoed with the controlled sounds of combat as Bruce tested the modified techniques Dick had developed. Despite his injuries, Bruce moved with fluid precision, incorporating the boy's acrobatic principles into his own formidable style. The result was something neither purely Batman nor purely Flying Grayson—a hybrid approach that maintained Batman's power while adding unpredictable transitions that would confuse even opponents familiar with his standard techniques.
"That's it!" Dick called from the sidelines, his enthusiasm infectious. "The key is the mid-air directional change—conventional fighters expect momentum to carry in predictable arcs, but circus acrobatics defy those expectations."
Bruce executed a spinning leap that transitioned suddenly into a lateral roll before becoming an upward strike—a movement pattern that seemed to violate basic physics. "The energy expenditure is higher," he noted, controlling his breathing to hide the pain from his ribs. "Not sustainable for extended combat."
"It's not meant to be," Dick explained, demonstrating a simplified version of the move. "These are finishing techniques—you use them in bursts to create openings, then capitalize with conventional attacks. My dad called it 'misdirection momentum'—the audience's eyes follow where physics says you should go, but you go somewhere else entirely."
Bruce nodded, integrating the concept into his tactical framework. "Taskmaster's photographic reflexes work by anticipating movement patterns based on what he's observed. These transitions would force him to react rather than anticipate."
"Exactly!" Dick beamed, proud his contribution was being taken seriously. "And I'm betting whoever's guarding Rachel won't have Taskmaster's abilities, so they'll be even more confused."
Bruce checked the time—nearly midnight. "Enough practice. I need to move." He approached the equipment area, where the Batsuit stood ready on its display. "Keep monitoring those other locations. If there's any change, contact me immediately."
Dick watched as Bruce began the methodical process of becoming Batman, each piece of the armor transforming him further from billionaire to vigilante. "Bruce... bring her back safely, okay? I know she means a lot to you."
Bruce paused, surprised by the perceptiveness. "How did you—"
"The way you talk about her is different," Dick said simply. "Your voice changes. It's how my dad sounded when he talked about my mom."
Something complex passed across Bruce's features—vulnerability quickly masked by determination. "I'll bring her back," he promised, reaching for the cowl. "And Dick... thank you. Your help tonight has been invaluable."
The cowl slid into place, Bruce Wayne disappearing beneath Batman's visage. The transformation complete, he moved toward the Batmobile with singular purpose, cape flowing behind him like living shadow.
Dick watched him go, conflict evident in his young face. Once the vehicle roared out of the cave, he turned to the computer console where his monitoring program continued scanning for patterns at the other potential locations. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, conscience warring with the urge to do more.
"He said to stay in the cave," he murmured to himself. "But he didn't say which part of the cave..."
—
Dixon Docks, 1:30 AM
The cold storage facility loomed against Gotham's night sky, its weathered exterior belying the sophisticated security measures Batman's cowl detected as he surveyed the building from a neighboring warehouse roof. Thermal imaging revealed at least twelve guards patrolling in regular patterns—too organized for standard Falcone enforcers, suggesting professional mercenaries or special security teams.
More concerning was the cold spot in the center of the facility—an area showing significantly lower temperatures than the surrounding spaces. Cold enough to induce hypothermia if someone were kept there long enough.
"Alfred, I've confirmed activity at the Dixon Docks facility," Batman subvocalized into his comm. "Thermal imaging shows approximately twelve hostiles with military-grade weapons and movement patterns. Central area showing temperatures below fifty degrees Fahrenheit."
"Rather cold for comfort, sir," Alfred's voice replied in his ear. "Though one imagines that's precisely the point. Are you detecting Ms. Dawes' presence?"
"Negative. The cold area is shielded from detailed thermal scanning. Could be specialized insulation or signal jamming." Batman shifted position, analyzing entry points. "Three primary access routes: loading bay, office entrance, and roof ventilation. Loading bay has the heaviest guard presence, office has electronic surveillance, roof has motion sensors."
"The path of least resistance would appear to be none of the above, sir."
Batman's lips tightened in grim acknowledgment. "I'm going in through the office. Less manpower to neutralize, and I can disable the electronic systems more easily than avoiding motion detection in my current condition."
"Very good, sir. Master Dick reports no significant changes at the other potential locations, suggesting your target remains at Dixon Docks."
"Tell him to keep monitoring. I'm moving in." Batman fired his grapnel toward the facility, the line going taut as he swung in a low arc that would deposit him in the camera blind spot his cowl had identified near the office entrance.
Landing silently despite his injuries, Batman immediately pressed against the wall, waiting as a guard passed just feet away. The facility's security was impressive—overlapping patrol routes, minimal blind spots, regular radio checks. Alberto had clearly spared no expense for this operation, further confirming Rachel's importance to his plans.
The office door featured both electronic key card access and a mechanical tumbler lock—standard corporate security layered over the original industrial hardware. Batman retrieved a device from his utility belt that would bypass the electronic system, while his other hand produced specialized lock picks for the mechanical component.
Working swiftly but methodically, he defeated both security measures within forty seconds. The door opened with a barely audible click, revealing a darkened office space beyond. Batman slipped inside, easing the door closed behind him.
The office level contained standard administrative spaces—desks, filing cabinets, a small break room—all seemingly legitimate for a seafood processing business. But Batman's trained eye immediately noted inconsistencies: the computer terminals were significantly more advanced than necessary for inventory management, the security monitors displayed areas no food facility would need to observe so closely, and the safe embedded in the wall was military-grade rather than commercial.
Moving silently through the space, Batman accessed a computer terminal, connecting a device from his utility belt to bypass its security. Files flashed across the screen as the device extracted data—shipping manifests, personnel records, security protocols. Batman's eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for: a facility layout showing a sublevel not included in the building's official blueprints.
The access point was concealed behind a supply cabinet in the manager's office—a secondary space off the main office area. Batman moved toward it, detecting electronic security measures embedded in the cabinet itself. These were more sophisticated than the exterior systems, suggesting whatever lay beyond was significantly more valuable than the legitimate business facade.
Disabling these advanced measures required specialized equipment from his belt—technology developed by Wayne Enterprises for military applications but never distributed. The irony wasn't lost on Batman as he used Lucius Fox's designs to counter security likely purchased from corporate rivals like LexCorp or Hammer Industries.
The cabinet slid aside silently, revealing a reinforced door with biometric security—handprint scanner, retinal verification, and voice recognition. A direct approach wouldn't work here. Batman attached a different device to the control panel, this one designed specifically for biometric systems. It would project stored credentials harvested from the computer system, essentially spoofing authorized access.
As the device worked, Batman's comm activated. "Sir," Alfred's voice contained controlled urgency, "Master Dick reports unusual activity at the shipyard location—power consumption spiking in patterns suggesting preparation for transport."
Batman frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, sir, that they may be preparing to move Ms. Dawes to a secondary location. Perhaps they anticipated your eventual arrival at Dixon Docks."
The biometric device completed its cycle, the reinforced door sliding open with a pressurized hiss. Beyond lay a sterile corridor reminiscent of a medical facility rather than a storage warehouse—white walls, recessed lighting, temperature control monitors at regular intervals.
"I've breached the sublevel," Batman reported. "Proceeding to locate Rachel. Have Dick continue monitoring the shipyard location but maintain focus on Dixon Docks. This could be misdirection."
"Understood, sir. Do exercise caution. The thermal signatures suggest the majority of security personnel remain on your level or above."
Batman moved down the corridor, cowl scanning for additional security measures. The temperature dropped noticeably with each step, confirming his theory about the cold area identified from outside. At the corridor's end stood another reinforced door, this one simpler—a mechanical lock with electronic monitoring. Batman made short work of both.
The room beyond stole his breath, not from its security but its purpose. Clinical and coldly efficient, it was clearly designed for prisoner processing—medical examination equipment, restraint chairs, monitoring systems, and most disturbingly, a series of cell-like enclosures along the back wall. Most were empty, their transparent doors standing open, but one at the far end was closed and frosted over—the cold cell, kept at temperatures just above freezing.
Batman approached it cautiously, scanning for traps or surveillance. Through the frosted transparent door, he could make out a huddled figure on a narrow cot—female, wearing what appeared to be standard prisoner attire, unmoving but alive based on the thermal signature.
Rachel.
Working quickly, Batman bypassed the cell's electronic lock while continuously scanning the room for threats. Something felt wrong—the security outside had been substantial, yet this critical area containing their high-value prisoner had no guards present. Either Alberto was overconfident, or—
"It's a trap," Batman realized aloud, just as the main door slid shut behind him with a definitive thunk.
"Indeed it is," came a familiar voice from hidden speakers. "Though 'trap' implies malicious intent. I prefer to think of it as an anticipated response to stimulus."
Taskmaster. Batman's eyes narrowed as he continued working on the cell door, refusing to abandon Rachel despite the obvious danger.
"You're wondering about the absence of guards," Taskmaster's voice continued conversationally. "Cost efficiency, primarily. Why waste manpower when environmental controls work just as well? The room you're in is about to become rather inhospitable."
A hissing sound emanated from vents near the ceiling as a pale gas began to fill the room. Batman immediately activated his cowl's filtration system, but he recognized the compound from its molecular structure displayed in his lenses—a specialized paralytic agent that could be absorbed through skin contact as well as inhalation.
The cell door finally yielded, sliding open to reveal Rachel Dawes. She was semiconscious, shivering violently from extended exposure to the cold, but alive. Her eyes widened in recognition as Batman entered the cell.
"B-Bruce," she whispered, voice barely audible. "Knew you'd c-come."
"Save your strength," he urged, wrapping her in his cape as he lifted her from the cot. The paralytic gas was beginning to affect his exposed skin—a creeping numbness that would eventually render him immobile if he remained too long.
Rachel clutched at his armor weakly. "Trap," she managed. "They wanted you h-here."
"I know," Batman assured her, carrying her back to the main room where the gas concentration was highest. The door remained sealed, and his initial assessment showed no alternative exits. He'd need to create one.
Moving to the wall perpendicular to the main entrance, Batman shifted Rachel to a one-armed carry while retrieving an explosive charge from his utility belt. The numbness was spreading up his arms, making precise movements increasingly difficult.
"Put her down, Batman," Taskmaster's voice instructed. "You won't make it to the wall before the paralytic takes full effect. And the explosive charge in this environment would likely injure Ms. Dawes further."
"Always one step ahead," Batman growled, placing the explosive regardless. His movements were indeed slowing, the paralytic agent working through his system despite the cowl's countermeasures.
"I study my opponents thoroughly," Taskmaster replied, a hint of professional pride in his voice. "Your rescue attempt was predictable down to the minute—I estimated a 1:45 AM arrival, and you appeared at 1:38. Impressive efficiency despite your injuries."
Batman triggered the explosive, the charge activating with a soft beep as it adhered to the wall. "You're working with Alberto against his father's wishes," he stated, buying time for the explosive to complete its countdown. "Carmine would never risk capturing an Assistant DA—too much heat from federal agencies."
"Very good," Taskmaster acknowledged. "Alberto sees opportunities his father doesn't—alliances that could propel the Falcone empire beyond mere organized crime into something far more sophisticated. His partnership with Pierce is just the beginning."
Rachel stirred in Batman's arms, consciousness returning as her body warmed against his. "Pierce," she mumbled. "Alexander Pierce. SHIELD."
"You've been busy with your investigation, Ms. Dawes," Taskmaster commented. "Though I'm afraid that knowledge makes your eventual release considerably less likely. Alberto's plans have evolved."
The explosive charge completed its countdown, detonating with a controlled burst that fractured the wall rather than destroying it entirely—a precision charge designed for breaching without collateral damage. Cold air rushed in through the newly created opening, temporarily dispersing some of the paralytic gas.
Batman immediately moved toward the breach, fighting against his increasingly unresponsive limbs. Rachel clung to him weakly, her own exposure to the cold having ironically protected her somewhat from the gas's effects due to reduced circulation.
As they reached the opening, a figure appeared on the other side—Taskmaster, shield raised and sword at the ready. "Predictable," he stated simply. "Though I confess I expected you to target the ceiling rather than the exterior wall. An interesting variation."
Batman set Rachel down gently against the wall, positioning himself between her and Taskmaster. The paralytic had affected perhaps forty percent of his mobility, and his earlier injuries from their first encounter remained significant limitations. This fight would be even more unbalanced than the last.
"You could surrender," Taskmaster suggested reasonably. "Your current physical state gives you perhaps a twelve percent chance of victory—not odds I would accept were I in your position."
"Fortunately," Batman replied, shifting into a combat stance modified to accommodate his compromised mobility, "I'm not you."
Instead of the direct approach Taskmaster would expect, Batman incorporated the unpredictable movements Dick had taught him—starting with a feigned lunge that transitioned mid-motion into a spinning leap that seemed to defy conventional physics. The maneuver caught Taskmaster off-guard, his shield raising to block an attack that came from an entirely different angle than anticipated.
Batman's strike connected solidly with Taskmaster's shoulder, sending the assassin staggering back. "The circus techniques again," Taskmaster observed, recovering quickly. "But modified further—less orthodox, more improvisational. Interesting adaptation."
"You're not the only one who can learn," Batman replied, pressing his momentary advantage with another sequence of unconventional movements—each flowing into the next without the transitional tells a trained fighter would expect.
Taskmaster defended admirably, his photographic reflexes allowing him to adjust to the new patterns with remarkable speed. But unlike their previous encounter, Batman wasn't fighting to wear down his opponent. He was fighting for time—just enough to get Rachel to safety.
The paralytic continued spreading through Batman's system, each movement becoming more difficult than the last. Taskmaster noticed the degradation in Batman's performance, his attacks becoming more aggressive as he sensed victory approaching.
"Your window is closing," Taskmaster remarked, deflecting a strike that lacked the power of earlier blows. "The paralytic reaches full effectiveness within approximately three minutes of exposure. You've been exposed for two minutes, forty seconds."
Batman knew he was right—his limbs were growing heavier, responses sluggish. He needed to end this quickly. Drawing on reserves of strength and will, he launched into the most complex sequence Dick had taught him—a combination of movements derived from three different aerial acts the Flying Graysons had perfected.
The sequence began with conventional movements Taskmaster would recognize, lulling him into anticipating standard counters. Then, at the critical moment, Batman shattered the pattern entirely—his body moving in ways that seemed to ignore momentum, gravity, and the limitations of human physiology.
The effect was precisely as Dick had predicted. Taskmaster's reflexes, calibrated to mirror orthodox combat movements, couldn't process the sudden violation of expected patterns. His defense faltered for less than a second—but it was enough.
Batman's strike connected precisely at the nerve cluster where neck met shoulder, momentarily disrupting Taskmaster's neural pathways. The assassin dropped to one knee, his sword and shield suddenly unwieldy in numbed hands.
"Remarkable," Taskmaster managed, genuine appreciation in his voice despite his compromised position. "Who taught you that sequence? It's unlike anything in my catalog."
Batman didn't respond, using the opening to retrieve Rachel and move toward freedom. They'd barely made it ten steps when Taskmaster called after them.
"This changes nothing in the larger scheme," he said, already regaining control of his limbs. "Alberto's plans are in motion. The Falcone trial begins in three days—plenty of time for contingencies to be implemented."
Batman paused, looking back at the assassin who was now rising to his feet. "You're wrong," he stated with absolute conviction. "This changes everything. Now I know where to look."
"Where to—" Taskmaster began, then understanding dawned. "Ah. The computer system. You weren't just looking for access to Ms. Dawes. You were harvesting data."
A slight nod was Batman's only confirmation before he disappeared into the night, Rachel secure in his arms. The device he'd connected to the facility's computer system had indeed extracted far more than just building schematics—it had downloaded the entire operational database, including communications between Alberto and his partners.
The evidence that would bring down not just the Falcones, but potentially Alexander Pierce himself.