Talia al Ghul studied the layout of Gotham City from her hotel suite, maps and surveillance photos spread across the antique desk. She had arrived just hours ago, the private jet landing at a discreet airstrip outside the city limits. Seven years had passed since Bruce had walked away from the League, from her father's vision of a cleansed world, from her. Seven years without seeing him, though the League's intelligence network had kept her well-informed of Batman's activities.
From her window, she caught glimpses of Gotham's skyline through the morning fog—Gothic spires and ultramodern glass towers competing for dominance, much like the dual nature of the city itself. Wayne Tower stood prominently at the center, a monument to the family whose last son had chosen to become the city's shadow guardian. Even from this distance, she could sense the corruption her father had deemed terminal—a decay that ran through Gotham's foundations like rot through ancient wood. It was, in many ways, the perfect reflection of the man who had chosen to become its protector—beautiful in its complexity, damaged yet unyielding.
She breathed in the morning air, heavy with industrial pollutants and the coming rain. Surveillance reports from the League's Gotham assets had been crossing her desk with increasing frequency over the past weeks, each one more concerning than the last. Multiple assassins entering the city in quick succession, all converging on a single target: Batman. Her beloved. This was no coincidence.
Talia had arrived in Gotham eighteen hours ago, traveling under one of her many aliases, a ghost among the city's eight million souls. She'd established a safe house in the Diamond District, accessible yet invisible to the casual observer. Now, after hours of reconnaissance, she stood watching Batman's city—searching for signs of movement among its shadowed rooftops.
Her earpiece crackled with the voice of her field operative. "Thermal imaging confirms your suspicion, Mistress. The target is in the Bowery district. Moving east."
"Maintain distance," she instructed, voice calm despite the anticipation building within her. "Observe only. I will intercept."
The voice of the operative betrayed mild confusion. "Respectfully, Mistress, direct confrontation with Deathstroke is inadvisable without—"
"Your concern is noted," Talia interrupted, the subtle steel in her tone silencing further protest. "Continue surveillance of the secondary targets. Report any movement from the Falcone operation. Particularly regarding their pharmaceutical acquisitions."
"As you command."
Talia ended the communication with a touch to her earpiece, allowing herself a moment of private contemplation before action became necessary. Her father had not expressly sanctioned this operation. Indeed, should Ra's al Ghul learn that his daughter had deployed League resources to warn Batman about the convergence of threats against him, his disappointment would be... considerable.
And yet here she stood, guided by instincts her father had spent decades honing, but using them for purposes he might consider sentimental. Weakness, he would call it. Attachment clouding judgment. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps.
She reached into the pouch at her side, fingers closing around the small vial containing diluted water from the Lazarus Pit. The luminescent green liquid captured even the dim city light, seeming to pulse with unnatural vitality. Ra's would consider this use of the sacred waters frivolous at best, treasonous at worst. The Pit's essence was not meant for outsiders—certainly not for one who had rejected the League's vision as thoroughly as Bruce Wayne had.
But Talia had long ago learned to navigate the complex currents between duty and desire. To serve the League's greater purpose while occasionally interpreting her father's will with subtle latitude. Bruce would need this protection if her intelligence was correct. The assassins targeting him were not operating independently—they formed a coordinated assault designed to gather combat data, probe defenses, and ultimately eliminate him with increasing efficiency.
Most concerning was Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. A name that had once been spoken with respect in the halls of Nanda Parbat.
Her mind drifted back to Slade Wilson's arrival at their hidden compound twelve years ago. Talia had been nineteen then—still perfecting her own training, still very much under her father's shadow though already an accomplished warrior in her own right. Unlike Bruce, who would come years later seeking knowledge from its source, Slade had arrived at Nanda Parbat already transformed—the military experiments had amplified his natural abilities to superhuman levels and left him psychologically adrift. He came to them enhanced, damaged, and ostensibly seeking the discipline to control his newfound powers.
She remembered the day clearly—standing at her father's right hand as the large American was brought before Ra's al Ghul. Even then, Slade had carried himself with that dangerous precision, his single eye evaluating everything with cold calculation. The other had been lost during his transformation, a sacrifice to power that seemed emblematic of the man himself.
"He seeks sanctuary and training, father," Ubu had announced, maintaining a careful distance from their unusual visitor.
Ra's had studied Wilson with that penetrating gaze that had evaluated warriors for centuries. "Why should the League of Shadows accept a weapon forged by lesser minds for lesser purposes?" he had asked, his voice carrying that unique blend of ancient wisdom and deadly authority.
Slade's answer had been characteristically direct. "Because your enemies are numerous, and I can help eliminate them. Because your techniques can perfect what science began. Because even you, with all your resources, recognize the value of what stands before you."
The audacity had impressed Ra's, though he'd shown nothing in his expression. Talia, however, had sensed something in Slade that troubled her immediately—a darkness beyond the usual shadows that brought men to the League. Not the righteous darkness of vengeance that could be channeled toward justice, nor the philosophical darkness of those who had seen too much of humanity's failures. This was something colder, more fundamental—ambition without conscience, strength without purpose beyond self-aggrandizement.
"Watch him closely, daughter," Ra's had instructed her later, as they prepared to begin Slade's integration into the League. "Observe how he absorbs our teachings, how he applies them. He is dangerous—perhaps too dangerous to remain among us long. Yet his abilities are...intriguing."
Talia had watched, dutiful as always. In the training grounds, Slade had proven himself immediately exceptional. Where other initiates struggled with the League's demanding physical regimen, his enhanced body simply absorbed the punishment and adapted. Where others took months to master basic forms, Slade replicated them perfectly after a single demonstration. His enhanced reflexes, accelerated healing, and cognitive function operating beyond normal human capacity made him a student unlike any the League had seen in generations.
"He learns quickly," she had observed to her father after the first month, "but selectively."
Ra's had nodded, pleased by her perception. "He takes what serves his purposes and discards what challenges his assumptions. The mark of a dangerous mind."
It was true. While Slade mastered combat techniques with frightening efficiency, he showed minimal interest in the philosophical underpinnings of their training. During meditative sessions, his single eye would remain open, watching others rather than turning inward. When Ra's spoke of balance, of necessary destruction leading to rebirth, Slade would listen with that calculating gaze that evaluated concepts purely for tactical value rather than wisdom.
During those months, Talia had occasionally been assigned as his sparring partner—a deliberate choice by her father to test both Slade's control and her adaptability against a physically superior opponent. Their matches had been intense, educational for both parties, though in different ways. Slade learned that superior strength and speed could be countered by perfect technique. Talia learned that even enhanced reflexes had predictable patterns if one observed carefully enough.
"You fight well for someone born to privilege," he had told her once, after she had used his momentum to throw him—a rare victory against his overwhelming physical advantages.
"You assume privilege precludes struggle," she had replied, recognizing the attempt to provoke emotional response. "A dangerous misconception."
Something in his eye had shifted then—reassessment, perhaps even the faintest hint of respect. But beneath it remained that cold calculation that evaluated everything, everyone as potential asset or obstacle.
As months passed, Talia observed concerning patterns in Slade's integration with the League. Where most initiates gradually formed bonds with fellow students, Slade remained deliberately isolated. He watched training sessions he wasn't participating in with analytical detachment, studying weaknesses rather than seeking collaboration. When paired with others, he pushed just to the edge of inflicting serious injury, testing boundaries of acceptable force.
"He builds no loyalty," Talia had reported to her father privately. "He accumulates knowledge as one stockpiles weapons."
Ra's had considered this with characteristic patience. "Perhaps loyalty is not what we require from him. Perhaps he serves another purpose in our designs."
But Talia had sensed her father's growing reservations beneath his measured response. Ra's al Ghul had led the League for centuries by recognizing potential threats before they fully materialized. Slade Wilson, for all his valuable abilities, was revealing himself as precisely that—a threat germinating within their sanctuary.
Six months into Slade's training, the incident with Kirigi occurred. The ancient master, one of the League's most honored teachers of martial forms, had corrected Slade's execution of a particular technique—not for efficiency, which was flawless, but for philosophical alignment. The forms were not merely combat movements but expressions of the League's principles, physical manifestations of spiritual concepts.
Slade had responded with cold derision. "I came here to perfect practical skills, not participate in mystical posturing."
Kirigi, who had trained warriors since before America existed as a nation, had simply stared at Wilson with profound disappointment. "You learn nothing while believing you know everything."
The tension had broken when Slade suddenly attacked—not in the controlled manner of training, but with lethal intention. Only Kirigi's extraordinary skill had saved him from serious injury, though even the ancient master had been briefly overwhelmed by Slade's enhanced speed. It had taken three senior League members to subdue Wilson, and even then, he had put two in the medical chambers before being restrained.
That night, Ra's had summoned Talia to his private study—a rare occurrence that signaled matters of significant importance.
"You sensed his nature before I fully acknowledged it," her father had admitted, a rare acknowledgment of oversight. "An error in judgment I shall not repeat."
"What will you do with him?" Talia had asked, maintaining formal distance despite the private setting. Even as his daughter, protocol remained essential in matters of League security.
"Observe further," Ra's had decided after contemplation. "His abilities remain valuable, and perhaps correction is possible. But containment measures will be implemented."
Those containment measures had included limiting Slade's access to certain League facilities, restricting his training to specific instructors, and—most significantly—assigning Talia as his primary handler. The decision had surprised her, though she had shown nothing.
"You question my choice?" Ra's had asked, perceiving her unspoken concern.
"I wonder at the wisdom of placing your daughter in proximity to one you consider potentially dangerous," she had replied carefully.
Ra's smile had held that ancient confidence that had guided the League for centuries. "Precisely because you are my daughter. He has shown restraint with you that he demonstrates with no others. Perhaps respect, perhaps calculation. Either serves our purpose. And should he reveal true threat..." Her father had left the implication unspoken, but clear.
She would be the trap should Slade prove irredeemable.
The following months had established an unusual dynamic between them. Talia maintained professional distance while serving as Slade's primary instructor in League techniques. He demonstrated remarkable focus and occasional flashes of what appeared to be genuine interest in League history—particularly regarding previous encounters with enhanced individuals throughout the centuries.
"Your father has faced others like me," Slade had observed once, during rare conversation that extended beyond training instruction.
"The League has existed for millennia," Talia had replied neutrally. "Many forms of enhancement have emerged, been studied, and ultimately balanced."
"Balanced," he had repeated, that single eye evaluating her with unsettling intensity. "An interesting choice of word. Not eliminated. Not controlled. Balanced."
It was one of the few times he had engaged with League philosophy rather than merely its combat applications. For a brief moment, Talia had wondered if perhaps her father's patience might prove justified—if Wilson might eventually integrate into the League's greater purpose rather than merely exploiting its resources.
That hope had proven tragically misplaced.
Nine months after his arrival, Slade had accumulated enough knowledge of their security systems, enough understanding of their hierarchical structure, and enough combat proficiency in their techniques to make his move. The attempt had been methodical, like everything Wilson did—eliminating key security positions first, neutralizing communication systems, isolating senior members for individual confrontation rather than allowing coordinated response.
What he hadn't accounted for was Ra's al Ghul's centuries of experience with betrayal. Contingencies had been established long before Slade made his move. League members thought eliminated had been strategically hidden. Communications believed disabled had secondary channels. And most significantly, Talia had been deliberately positioned as witness rather than target, allowing her to observe Slade's methodologies in live operation while remaining protected.
When Ra's had finally confronted Wilson directly, the battle had been brief but devastating. Slade's enhanced abilities had proven formidable, but against the Demon's Head himself—a warrior with centuries of combat experience and techniques Wilson had never been permitted to learn—they were insufficient. Ra's had subdued him with a precision that demonstrated exactly why he had led the League through generations of challengers.
"You lack balance," her father had observed, standing over Slade's defeated form. "Physical enhancement without spiritual discipline. Power without philosophical foundation. A weapon rather than a warrior."
When Ra's ordered Slade's excommunication from the League, the formal ceremony had been witnessed by all members—a demonstration of consequence for betraying their ancient order. Forced to kneel before the assembled League, Slade had shown neither remorse nor fear, only cold calculation even in defeat.
"You've made a powerful enemy today," he had told Ra's as he was escorted to exile, his single eye moving briefly to Talia as he spoke. "One with intimate knowledge of your operations, your techniques, your weaknesses. Remember that when you next hear my name."
The grim prophecy had hung in the air long after his departure, a promissory note of violence that all present understood would eventually come due. Talia had watched him go, recognizing that Slade Wilson would indeed resurface, likely stronger for the League training he had acquired despite their belated recognition of his true nature.
In the years since, reports of Deathstroke's activities had periodically crossed her desk—high-profile assassinations, military operations with impossible success rates, eliminations of targets previously considered untouchable. Each report confirmed what she had observed during his time with the League—technical perfection without moral foundation, lethal efficiency without purpose beyond contract fulfillment.
When Bruce arrived at the League years later, the contrast had been immediately apparent. Where Slade had viewed their training as merely means to personal power, Bruce sought knowledge to serve justice. Where Wilson had rejected philosophical underpinnings as irrelevant, Wayne had engaged with them directly, challenging assumptions rather than dismissing them outright. The darkness both men carried manifested in fundamentally different ways—one as cold ambition, the other as driven purpose.
Now that falcon had come to Gotham, contracted by Alberto Falcone for purposes that intersected dangerously with League interests. Talia needed to understand what Slade knew, what he had been hired to do beyond the obvious assassination attempts. And most importantly, why the Falcone family's operation had attracted Alexander Pierce's attention.
The rain began to fall, gentle at first but rapidly increasing to the downpour typical of Gotham's autumn weather. Talia welcomed it. Rain provided additional cover, complicated electronic surveillance, and quite literally washed away evidence. Perfect conditions for what needed to be done.
She fired her grapnel toward the adjacent building, the specialized design allowing nearly silent deployment. As she swung through the mroning air, her mind continued processing the complex web of motivations surrounding Batman's current predicament.
Bruce would have questions when they inevitably met. Why she had come, what the League's interest was in the Falcone operation, whether Ra's had sanctioned her presence in his city. She would answer some truthfully, others with careful omission. Their relationship had always balanced on the knife's edge between honesty and necessary deception—both understanding that complete transparency was impossible given their respective loyalties.
Still, the anticipation of seeing him again after seven years sent an unwelcome flutter through her normally disciplined emotions. She had followed his career as Batman with professional interest masking personal concern—observing from a distance as he transformed from novice vigilante to the shadow that haunted Gotham's criminal element. His technique had evolved considerably, incorporating elements from their time together while discarding others that violated his rigid ethical boundaries.
Her father continued to consider Bruce's departure the League's greatest missed opportunity. "Imagine what he might have accomplished with our resources," Ra's would sometimes say during strategy discussions, the rare hint of regret coloring his voice. "A mind like his, guided by appropriate philosophy, could have reshaped continents."
What Ra's never acknowledged was how thoroughly Bruce had reshaped him during his brief time with the League. The American had questioned traditions thousands of years old, challenged assumptions Ra's had held for centuries, and forced philosophical reassessment in ways no one else had dared. Even now, certain League protocols bore Bruce's influence—modifications Ra's had implemented after Bruce's departure, though he would never admit their origin.
Talia landed on a decrepit rooftop in the Bowery, her movement so fluid that not even the puddles rippled to mark her arrival. According to her intelligence, Deathstroke had established a temporary operational base in this district—close enough to Wayne Enterprises to monitor its security, far enough from the financial district to avoid GCPD's more sophisticated surveillance.
The irony wasn't lost on her that she now tracked a man her father had once considered worth molding into something greater. Slade Wilson, like Bruce Wayne, had ultimately proven unsuitable for Ra's vision, though for entirely different reasons. Bruce's morality had been too rigid, his compassion too limiting. Slade's enhancement had made him unstable, his methodology too mercenary rather than philosophical.
Two potential heirs, both lost to the League. Both now in Gotham, their paths inevitably intersecting.
Talia moved across the rain-slicked rooftops with practiced ease, each step precisely placed despite the treacherous footing. Seven buildings away, thermal imaging had detected a heat signature consistent with Slade's enhanced metabolism—slightly higher than normal human temperature, maintaining remarkable consistency despite environmental conditions.
As she drew closer, Talia extracted a specialized device from her equipment harness—a passive signal interceptor designed to capture any electronic communications within fifty meters. If Deathstroke was coordinating with the other assassins or receiving instructions from Alberto Falcone, this would detect it.
The safe house came into view—a seemingly abandoned tenement building whose dilapidated exterior concealed recently upgraded security measures. Talia's trained eye immediately identified the subtle indicators: new hinges on weathered doors, microscopically small cameras positioned at optimal coverage angles, infrared tripwires across potential access points. Professional work, though not quite at League standards.
She settled into an observation position on the adjacent rooftop, protected from the rain by a small outcropping. The signal interceptor began collecting data immediately, its display showing encrypted communications being transmitted from within the building. Talia's decryption algorithms would need time to process, but the frequency patterns were already revealing—military-grade encryption, not typical criminal organization standard.
Her instincts had been correct. Deathstroke wasn't working directly for the Falcones, despite appearances. Someone with significantly more resources and sophistication was coordinating this operation.
Movement near the building's rear exit caught her attention. A figure emerged, physically impressive even beneath civilian clothing, white hair unmistakable despite the rain. Slade Wilson, moving with the controlled precision that had once impressed even Ra's al Ghul.
Talia hesitated momentarily. Direct confrontation with Deathstroke carried significant risk, even for someone with her training. His enhancements made him a formidable opponent—perhaps the deadliest individual operative currently active in the global theater. But information was needed, and opportunities to catch him away from his base were rare.
Decision made, she followed, maintaining optimal distance for surveillance while preparing for potential engagement. The rain masked sound effectively, allowing closer approach than would normally be prudent.
Slade moved through Gotham's back alleys with a familiarity that suggested previous operations in the city. His route appeared randomized to casual observation, but Talia recognized the counter-surveillance patterns—regular direction changes, doubling back, pausing at locations that offered reflection views of potential pursuit. League techniques, modified for urban environment.
After twenty minutes of methodical movement, his destination became clear—the Gotham First Bank's Downtown Branch. Closed for hours, the financial institution's security systems should have rendered it inaccessible until morning. Yet Slade approached with the confidence of someone with authorized access, producing what appeared to be legitimate credentials that deactivated external alarms.
Interesting. Financial institutions were not typical assassination staging grounds. This suggested something beyond the obvious hit contract on Batman.
Talia positioned herself for optimal observation, employing specialized optics to view the interior as Slade navigated the bank's darkened lobby. He moved directly to one of the teller stations, engaging the computer system with practiced efficiency. This was no improvised infiltration—he had specific access codes, security protocols, authenticated credentials.
The signal interceptor captured fragments of data transmission as Slade connected a specialized device to the bank's system. Talia's eyes narrowed as the partial decryption appeared on her display. Financial records being accessed belonged to accounts associated with offshore holdings linked to Pierce Consolidated—Alexander Pierce's private corporate structure, kept separate from his SHIELD responsibilities.
The picture was becoming clearer, though still frustratingly incomplete. Pierce, operating through Alberto Falcone, had deployed specific assassins against Batman while simultaneously accessing financial systems that would normally remain invisible to conventional investigation. This wasn't merely about eliminating a vigilante threat—it was about covering evidence of something larger.
Slade completed his task within seven minutes, disconnecting his device and wiping all evidence of system access. As he prepared to exit, Talia made her decision. This opportunity would not repeat itself. She needed direct information beyond what electronic surveillance could provide.
She moved to intercept him as he exited through the bank's service corridor, timing her approach to coincide with the momentary blind spot in the security camera coverage.
"Hello, Slade," she said, her voice carrying just enough volume to reach him without alerting potential observers. "It's been some time."
To his credit, Deathstroke showed no surprise at her appearance—merely a slight adjustment of posture that prepared him for potential combat while maintaining casual appearance. "Talia al Ghul," he acknowledged, his single eye assessing her with clinical precision. "Unexpected, but not entirely surprising. Your father still monitoring former students?"
"The League maintains awareness of potentially destabilizing factors," she replied, maintaining distance that provided both conversational privacy and tactical advantage. "Your current operation qualifies."
Slade's expression remained neutral, but the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed calculation—assessing threats, planning responses, considering implications of her presence. "This is contracted work. Nothing that should concern Ra's."
"Alexander Pierce's involvement makes it our concern," Talia corrected smoothly. "As does the targeting of someone with whom the League has... historical connection."
A hint of something—perhaps amusement—flickered across Slade's face. "Wayne. I wondered if that might draw your attention. Personal interest, Talia? Or official League business?"
The question was deliberate provocation, testing boundaries of professional versus emotional response. Talia didn't allow herself to react visibly. "The distinction is irrelevant. What matters is understanding why Pierce is investing substantial resources in biological enhancement research while simultaneously deploying high-level assets against Batman."
"You know I can't discuss contract details," Slade replied, though his tone suggested potential flexibility. "Professional ethics."
"Professional ethics," Talia echoed, allowing the faintest hint of irony to color her voice. "Admirable. Though I wonder how those ethics apply to operations targeting children."
That got a reaction—slight but definite narrowing of his visible eye. "Explain."
"The Grayson boy," Talia said. "Orphaned by your actions at Haly's Circus, yet specifically spared according to contract parameters. Now in Wayne's custody, still under observation by Falcone's operation. Why the special interest in a child acrobat?"
Slade's expression remained controlled, but something shifted in his stance—subtle repositioning that only someone with Talia's training would recognize as defensive rather than aggressive. "The contract specified the parents only. The boy wasn't targeted."
"Not targeted, but specifically designated for survival," Talia pressed, recognizing the conversational opening. "Unusual specificity for standard elimination contract. Almost as if the boy himself holds particular value."
"I follow contract parameters," Slade replied, his voice neutral. "The 'why' isn't my concern."
Talia allowed silence to stretch between them momentarily, a calculated pause to suggest additional knowledge she might not actually possess. "Project Rebirth has evolved since your original enhancement, hasn't it? No longer focused on creating individual assets, but rather developing specific counters to potential opposition."
Again, that subtle tensing—confirmation that her speculation had struck close to truth. "You're well-informed for someone operating outside official channels," Slade observed, the statement itself revealing more than he likely intended.
"What makes you think this is unofficial?" Talia countered.
"Because Ra's doesn't waste League resources on personal attachments," Slade replied, the faintest hint of condescension entering his tone. "And your attachment to Wayne has always been your greatest tactical vulnerability."
The observation was deliberately provocative, designed to unbalance her emotional equilibrium. Seven years ago, it might have succeeded. Now, Talia merely offered a smile containing neither warmth nor humor.
"My attachments are my own concern," she said. "What should concern you is whether Pierce has been entirely forthcoming about the nature of your current contract."
That earned genuine attention. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the specialized toxin that Copperhead will deploy tonight against Batman contains compounds designed to affect enhanced physiologies like yours," Talia explained, watching carefully for reaction. "Pierce is gathering combat data on Batman while simultaneously testing delivery mechanisms for compounds that could neutralize assets he can't directly control."
Slade's expression didn't change, but the momentary stillness—the complete absence of even microexpressions—told Talia her information had hit its mark. He was processing implications, reassessing his contractual position, calculating potential betrayal.
"That's speculation," he said finally, though without conviction.
"Is it?" Talia removed a small data device from her belt, offering it with calculated casualness. "Chemical profiles extracted from CopperTech Pharmaceuticals' research division. The same facility manufacturing compounds based on Lazarus Pit principles—principles that could theoretically neutralize the enhancements that make you valuable."
Slade made no move to accept the device. "And you're sharing this from the goodness of your heart. Because we're old friends."
"I'm sharing this because destabilized assets create unpredictable outcomes," Talia corrected. "And because even my father, who considered both you and Wayne potential heirs before your respective departures, would not approve of Pierce's methods. There is no philosophy guiding his work—merely accumulation of power for its own sake."
For several heartbeats, Slade remained motionless, his enhanced mind calculating variables, probabilities, potential deception versus likely truth. Then, with deliberate precision, he accepted the data device.
"This changes nothing regarding my current contract," he stated.
"Of course not," Talia agreed smoothly. "Professional ethics, as you said."
The ghost of a smile—genuine, this time—touched Slade's features. "You always were the most dangerous of Ra's operatives. The intellect of your father with none of his mystical distractions." He pocketed the device. "I'll consider your information."
"That's all I ask," Talia replied. "Though you might also consider why Alberto Falcone specifically selected assassins with demonstrated history against Batman. Deadshot, who nearly killed him two years ago. Kraven, whose specialized toxins might provide comparative data. Taskmaster, whose photographic reflexes allow detailed combat analysis."
"And me?" Slade questioned. "What's my specialization in this theoretical data-gathering operation?"
"You're the control variable," Talia answered simply. "The enhanced human whose capabilities serve as baseline for desired outcomes. The prototype against which all countermeasures must ultimately succeed."
The implication hung in the rain-soaked air between them. Slade's expression revealed nothing, but his silence acknowledged the logical consistency of her assessment.
"Interesting theory," he said finally. "Now, is this conversation concluded? I have a schedule to maintain."
Talia inclined her head slightly. "For now. Though I would suggest avoiding the Dixon Docks facility for the next seventy-two hours. League operations might intersect with your contracted activities in ways that could prove... professionally awkward."
The warning was both genuine and calculated—providing actionable intelligence that would establish credibility while simultaneously creating strategic advantage by removing Deathstroke from a location she intended to investigate personally.
"Noted," Slade replied, his tone suggesting neither commitment nor dismissal. "Give my regards to your father when next you report. Tell him his instruction regarding peripheral awareness in urban environments remains valuable."
With that oddly respectful acknowledgment of their shared history, he turned and disappeared into the rain-drenched alley, moving with the efficient grace that had once impressed even Ra's most demanding combat instructors.
Talia remained motionless until certain of his departure, then retrieved her signal interceptor, confirming it had captured the complete data transmission from the bank's systems. Limited intelligence, but potentially valuable when combined with what she'd learned during their conversation.
As she prepared to continue her morning's investigation, her thoughts returned inevitably to Bruce. Seven years since she'd last seen him. Seven years of reports crossing her desk, detailing Batman's activities, his evolving methodology, his unwavering commitment to a city that seemed determined to reject salvation. Seven years of wondering whether she had made the right choice in remaining with her father when Bruce left the League.
Duty had demanded her loyalty to Ra's vision. The centuries of planning, the generations of preparation, the fundamental mission of the League of Shadows—all had required her continued service as the Daughter of the Demon. And yet, in rare moments of private honesty, she acknowledged the emptiness that had settled within her after Bruce's departure. The recognition that something irreplaceable had been lost when he chose Gotham over the League. Over her.
Her father would call such feelings weakness. Attachment clouding judgment, emotion undermining purpose. Perhaps he was right. And yet, as she moved through Gotham's shadows toward her next objective, Talia found herself anticipating the inevitable reunion with a mixture of professional calculation and something far more personal.
Bruce would need the Lazarus water she carried. Copperhead's toxins, especially those enhanced by Alberto's pharmaceutical division, would be specifically calibrated to bypass Batman's countermeasures. Without the diluted essence of the Pit, even his remarkable constitution might not survive.
Her father would not approve of this use of their sacred resource. But then, Ra's al Ghul's approval had always been impossible to fully secure—a constantly moving target that had shaped Talia's existence since childhood. She had learned long ago to balance dutiful service with subtle independence, to serve the League's greater purpose while occasionally interpreting its implementation through her own judgment.
Tonight, that judgment told her that Bruce Wayne's survival remained essential—not merely for personal reasons, but for the greater strategic balance that even her father's vision sometimes overlooked. Batman represented something unique in a world of increasingly enhanced individuals and shadowy organizations. His methods might differ from the League's, his morality might frustrate Ra's ambitions, but his existence provided necessary counterweight to operations like Pierce's.
Equilibrium, after all, required opposing forces of comparable strength. And despite their philosophical differences, Bruce had always been Ra's' most promising student—the one whose potential had most closely matched the Demon Head's ancient ambition.
As Talia approached the CopperTech facility where Copperhead would soon procure her customized toxins, she allowed herself a rare moment of anticipation. Seven years without seeing him. Seven years of League operations, global travel, and dutiful service to her father's vision. Seven years of monitoring Batman's activities while maintaining appropriate distance.
Tonight, that distance would close. And while duty would always guide her actions, Talia permitted herself the private acknowledgment that seeing Bruce again—even under these circumstances—awakened emotions she had carefully contained since their separation.
Professional considerations would remain paramount, of course. But as she prepared to infiltrate the facility, the vial of Lazarus water was secure against her side, Talia al Ghul admitted what she would never voice aloud: she had missed him. And regardless of what circumstances followed their reunion, that simple truth would remain unchanged.