Wayne Manor - Morning After Taskmaster's Attack
"Again."
Dick Grayson pushed himself off the training mat with a frustrated grunt, perspiration beading on his forehead despite the cave's cool temperature. Three hours into their morning session, and Bruce had yet to offer a single word of approval. Only that same command, repeated each time Dick failed to execute the defensive maneuver perfectly.
"I almost had it that time," Dick protested, assuming the ready stance Bruce had taught him.
"Almost isn't good enough," Bruce replied, his voice carrying that edge of finality that Dick was quickly learning meant no further discussion. "In the field, 'almost' gets you killed. Or worse, gets someone else killed because they were counting on you."
The harsh assessment hung in the air between them. Less than twelve hours had passed since Rachel's rescue from Dixon Docks, and Bruce had intensified Dick's training to a punishing schedule. Part of it was necessity – with five assassins still active in Gotham and Alberto Falcone's operation expanding beyond their initial understanding, the need for Dick to develop basic defensive capabilities had become more urgent.
But another part, which neither of them acknowledged openly, was Bruce's way of channeling Dick's grief and rage into productive action. The boy's nightmares continued – Alfred had reported hearing him cry out for his parents in the pre-dawn hours – but during training, that raw emotion transformed into determination. A drive to master each technique, to prove himself worthy of the partnership Bruce still hadn't fully acknowledged.
"Let's break it down," Bruce said, his tone softening slightly as he recognized the frustration in Dick's eyes. "The counter needs to happen before your opponent's momentum is fully committed. You're waiting too long."
He demonstrated in slow motion, using Dick's smaller frame to his advantage rather than trying to match strength against a larger opponent. "Feel that pivot point? That's when you redirect, not after."
Dick nodded, absorbing the instruction with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. Bruce had quickly discovered that the boy processed physical movements differently than most students – he seemed to internalize techniques holistically rather than as sequential steps, his background in acrobatics giving him a natural understanding of how bodies moved through space.
"Okay, I think I get it," Dick said, resetting his stance. "One more time?"
Bruce nodded, and they began the sequence again. This time, as Bruce's attack came, Dick intercepted at precisely the right moment, using his opponent's momentum to send him off balance. The maneuver wasn't powerful enough to truly throw Bruce, but the technique itself was flawless – exactly what he'd been trying to teach Dick.
"Good," Bruce acknowledged, the single word of praise causing Dick's face to light up. "That's exactly right. The principle works regardless of your opponent's size advantage. Properly executed, it gives you the opening for either escape or counter-attack."
"Which would Batman choose?" Dick asked, the eagerness in his voice unmistakable.
Bruce considered the question seriously rather than dismissing it. "Depends on the objective. If the priority is gathering intelligence or protecting a civilian, creating distance might be the better choice. If neutralizing the threat is paramount, then follow through with a counter-attack to disable."
Dick nodded, filing away this tactical philosophy alongside the physical techniques. In the days since discovering Bruce's secret, he'd approached his training with a seriousness that sometimes made Bruce forget he was only ten years old. The trauma of witnessing his parents' murder had accelerated his maturation in ways Bruce recognized all too well.
"Master Bruce," Alfred's voice came through the cave's intercom system, "Dr. Thompkins has arrived for her scheduled examination of young Master Dick. And she's quite insistent about seeing you as well, despite your continued avoidance."
Bruce suppressed a sigh. "We'll be up shortly, Alfred."
Dick was already toweling off, his movements betraying lingering soreness from the intensive training. Bruce had been careful to moderate the physical demands based on the boy's age and development, but Dick consistently pushed himself beyond what was asked, driven by something deeper than mere obedience or desire to please.
"Does she know?" Dick asked suddenly, the question hanging between them as they headed toward the elevator that would return them to the manor proper.
Bruce understood immediately. "About Batman? Yes. She's known since the beginning. Treated my injuries when I first started, before Alfred had sufficient medical training." He paused, considering how much to share. "Leslie was a colleague of my father's. She's one of the few connections to my parents that remains."
Dick absorbed this information with quiet contemplation. "She seems nice. Scary, but nice."
The assessment drew a rare smile from Bruce. "That's an accurate description. Dr. Thompkins doesn't approve of my nightly activities, but she respects my choice enough to ensure I can continue them safely." As they entered the elevator, he added, "She'll want to check your physical recovery, especially after today's training."
"I'm fine," Dick insisted, unconsciously echoing Bruce's own standard response to inquiries about his wellbeing.
"Tell her that," Bruce replied dryly. "See how far it gets you."
The elevator doors opened to reveal Alfred waiting with perfect timing, as always. "Dr. Thompkins is in the east wing examination room, Master Dick. Perhaps you'd care to go first while I have a word with Master Bruce?"
Dick glanced between them, recognizing an adult conversation that didn't include him. "Sure. But I'm really okay, Alfred. Barely sore at all today."
"I'm certain the good doctor will be delighted to hear of your miraculous recovery," Alfred replied with that particular dry tone that made it impossible to determine whether he was being sarcastic. As Dick headed down the hallway, Alfred turned to Bruce with a more serious expression. "We've received the analysis from Mr. Fox regarding the data recovered from Dixon Docks."
Bruce's demeanor shifted immediately, professional focus replacing the more relaxed attitude he'd displayed with Dick. "And?"
"The files are quite illuminating regarding Alberto Falcone's operations. It seems our young Mr. Falcone has been conducting business that would disturb even his father." Alfred retrieved a tablet from his jacket pocket. "The records indicate regular payments to a pharmaceutical research group previously associated with military applications. Specifically, a team that specialized in neurotoxin development before their funding was officially terminated following ethical violations."
Bruce took the tablet, scanning through the data with practiced efficiency. "CopperTech Pharmaceuticals," he read aloud. "Formerly contracted by the Department of Defense for the Chimera Program. Officially disbanded after congressional hearings on unethical human testing."
"Unofficially continuing their research with private funding, it would appear," Alfred added. "Most recently, focusing on derivatives of compounds found in certain rare reptile species. The same compounds that bear striking similarity to—"
"Copperhead's toxins," Bruce finished, the connection immediately clear. "Alberto Falcone is providing her with custom-designed compounds for specific targets."
"Indeed, sir. The records suggest a substantial payment was processed to CopperTech just days before our encounter with Taskmaster. The timing would coincide with preparation for the next phase of their assassination schedule."
Bruce's expression darkened as he continued reviewing the data. "Judge Hargrove. She's presiding over Carmine Falcone's RICO trial. With Grogan eliminated and Rachel incapacitated, she'd be the logical next target."
"I've taken the liberty of alerting Commissioner Gordon to the potential threat," Alfred said. "He's arranging additional protection for the judge, though discretely, to avoid alerting Alberto's network."
Bruce nodded absently, his mind already calculating timelines and probabilities. "If we're right about the sequence, Copperhead would be assigned to Hargrove. Her toxins would allow for an apparent natural death – heart failure that would raise minimal suspicion given Hargrove's age and known hypertension."
"A convenient coincidence for the Falcones," Alfred observed dryly.
"There are no coincidences in Gotham, Alfred. Not when seven professional assassins enter the city within the same week." Bruce moved toward his study, where a secure Batcomputer terminal was concealed within the antique woodwork. "We need to track Copperhead's movements. Her enhanced physiology produces distinctive thermal patterns that standard security systems wouldn't detect, but—"
A sudden wave of dizziness interrupted his train of thought. Bruce steadied himself against the doorframe, a momentary weakness that didn't escape Alfred's notice.
"Sir?" Alfred was immediately at his side, professionalism briefly overcome by genuine concern.
"I'm fine," Bruce insisted, though the slight tremor in his hand contradicted his words. "Just need coffee. Haven't slept."
Alfred's expression made it clear he wasn't convinced. "When was the last time you conducted a full medical scan, Master Bruce? After your confrontation with Taskmaster, there could be complications we haven't identified."
Bruce straightened, deliberately mastering the momentary weakness through sheer force of will. "No time for that now. Judge Hargrove remains at risk, and we still haven't located Deathstroke. The boy's parents deserve justice."
"The boy also deserves a protector who hasn't collapsed from exhaustion or undiagnosed injuries," Alfred countered, his tone sharpening slightly. "Your capacity to help others diminishes considerably if you're incapacitated, sir."
Bruce recognized the logic in Alfred's argument, though he'd never admit it aloud. Instead, he made a minimal concession. "I'll run a diagnostic in the cave before going out tonight. For now, I need to prepare contingencies for Hargrove's protection and continue analyzing Alberto's network."
Alfred sighed, recognizing this was the most he'd get for now. "Very well. Though I must insist you at least attempt to consume something resembling nourishment before resuming your investigation." He gestured to a breakfast tray he'd prepared earlier. "Even the Batman requires calories to function, sir."
Bruce's response was interrupted by Dr. Leslie Thompkins' appearance in the doorway, her no-nonsense demeanor as formidable as ever despite her advancing years.
"I see some things never change," she observed with professional disapproval. "Still running yourself into the ground, Bruce?"
"Leslie," he acknowledged with resigned politeness. "I assume Dick passed your examination?"
"Physically, yes. He's remarkably resilient for his age. The bruising from the circus incident is healing well, and his overall condition is excellent despite the trauma." Her expression softened slightly. "Emotionally is another matter. He's processing, but grief takes time. Something you never gave yourself."
The gentle rebuke hit its mark, though Bruce maintained his composed exterior. "We're taking it day by day. The training gives him focus, purpose."
"It also gives him your unhealthy coping mechanisms," Leslie countered, setting her medical bag on a nearby table. "Alfred tells me you nearly collapsed just now. Let me examine you."
Bruce shot Alfred a betrayed look, which the butler met with unrepentant professionalism. "It was momentary dizziness. Nothing more."
"I'll be the judge of that," Leslie replied, already preparing a medical scanner. "Shirt off. Now."
Recognizing further argument was futile, Bruce complied, revealing the patchwork of bruises and partially healed wounds that told the story of his recent encounters with Gotham's newest threats. Leslie's expression remained clinical, but her disapproval was evident in the tightening around her eyes.
"The stitches from Deadshot's grazing shot are healing well," she noted, examining the wound on his upper arm. "But these contusions along your ribs from Taskmaster should have been properly treated, not just wrapped." Her scanner passed over his torso, the digital readout causing her frown to deepen. "Elevated white blood cell count. Low-grade fever. Something's not right."
Bruce remained impassive as she continued her examination, though internally he cataloged her observations against his own assessment. The persistent fatigue and occasional dizzy spells had begun after his confrontation with Kraven in the botanical gardens – nothing that prevented him from functioning, but noticeable enough that he'd intended to investigate once more pressing matters were addressed.
"When did the symptoms start?" Leslie asked, drawing a blood sample despite Bruce's reflexive attempt to evade the needle.
"A few nights ago. After the fight with Kraven at the botanical gardens."
Leslie's eyebrows rose. "Kraven? The enhanced hunter with a history of using exotic compounds? And you didn't think this warranted immediate medical attention?"
"There was no direct exposure to any substances," Bruce defended. "Physical combat only."
"Which means nothing given his known association with chemical enhancement," Leslie countered, already preparing the blood sample for analysis. "Kraven's entire hunting methodology involves specialized toxins and compounds. Even secondary exposure through a scratch or saliva could introduce trace elements into your system."
Alfred had returned with a fresh cup of coffee, which he handed to Bruce with pointed emphasis. "Perhaps Dr. Thompkins' hypothesis explains the anomalous readings the Batsuit's sensors detected during that encounter. The ones you dismissed as environmental interference."
Bruce accepted the coffee with a reluctant nod. "Run a full analysis on the blood sample. Compare against known toxins in Kraven's arsenal. We know Alberto Falcone has been financing pharmaceutical research – there could be a connection."
"I'll need a few hours," Leslie replied, securing the sample in her medical kit. "In the meantime, basic antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, plenty of fluids, and – though I know it's futile to suggest – rest."
Bruce was already pulling his shirt back on, his mind shifting from personal health concerns to tactical planning. "Alfred, contact Gordon. I want to see the security arrangements for Judge Hargrove personally. If Copperhead is next in their sequence, we need to ensure—"
"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted, concern evident in his voice. "Young Master Dick is requesting your presence in the east library. He says it's urgent."
The change in Alfred's tone immediately alerted Bruce that something was wrong. He moved with purpose toward the east wing, Leslie and Alfred following close behind. When they reached the library, they found Dick standing before the large television screen, remote control clutched in his hand, his expression a mixture of anger and anguished recognition.
"It's him," Dick said without preamble, pointing at the news report displaying security camera footage from a Gotham First Bank branch. "The man with the eyepatch. The one who was at the circus before—" His voice caught, unable to complete the sentence.
Bruce focused on the grainy footage, which showed a white-haired man with an eyepatch calmly conducting a transaction at a teller window. The quality was poor, but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for.
"Deathstroke," Bruce confirmed, his voice hardening. "Where was this taken?"
"Downtown branch, this morning," Dick replied, his small frame tense with barely controlled emotion. "They're saying he's wanted for questioning about something else, but it's him, Bruce. He's the one who killed my parents. I recognized him the moment they showed his face."
Bruce placed a steadying hand on Dick's shoulder, feeling the tremors of rage and grief running through the boy. "We'll find him, Dick. I promise."
"When?" The single word carried all the raw anguish and impatience of a child whose world had been shattered. "He's out there right now. Walking around Gotham like nothing happened. Like my mom and dad were nothing!"
The outburst hung in the air, Dick's chest heaving with emotion he'd been struggling to contain during their training sessions. Bruce crouched to eye level with the boy, his grip on Dick's shoulders firm but gentle.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of Batman without the intimidating growl. "Deathstroke is not nothing. He's dangerous – one of the most lethal individuals on the planet. Going after him without proper preparation isn't justice; it's suicide."
"But—"
"No," Bruce cut him off firmly. "Your parents deserve justice, not a reckless vendetta that gets you killed. We will find him, Dick. But we'll do it right."
The boy's eyes, so much like Bruce's own at that age – filled with the same desperate need for something to make sense of senseless tragedy – searched his face for any sign of hesitation or deception.
"You promise?" Dick asked finally, the question weighted with more than just the simple words.
"I promise," Bruce affirmed. "Batman promises."
Something in Bruce's tone seemed to satisfy Dick, the tension in his small frame easing slightly. "Okay. But I want to help. Not just train – actually help find him."
Bruce straightened, considering the request seriously. The boy had already demonstrated remarkable analytical abilities, identifying patterns in the Falcone operation that even Batman had initially overlooked. Channeling that intelligence toward tracking Deathstroke might satisfy Dick's need for involvement while keeping him safely away from direct confrontation.
"Investigative work only," Bruce specified after a moment's consideration. "And under Alfred's direct supervision. No field activities whatsoever."
Dick nodded eagerly, relief at being given a constructive outlet visible in his expression. "I can do that. I'm good at patterns, connections. That's what you said yesterday."
"Indeed you are, Master Dick," Alfred interjected smoothly. "Perhaps we might begin by analyzing Mr. Wilson's known financial activities. The bank appearance suggests he's accessing resources."
As Alfred guided Dick toward the secure computer terminal in the corner of the library, Leslie pulled Bruce aside, her expression troubled.
"You're encouraging this?" she asked quietly. "Involving a traumatized child in a manhunt?"
"I'm channeling his natural abilities in a controlled environment," Bruce corrected. "The alternative is him sneaking out to pursue Deathstroke on his own – which he would do, Leslie. I recognize the signs."
The unspoken "because I did exactly that" hung between them. Leslie's expression softened slightly with reluctant understanding.
"Just be careful, Bruce. That boy sees you as more than just a guardian or mentor. The way he looks at you – it's how a son looks at his father."
The observation struck Bruce deeply, though he maintained his composed exterior. "I'm doing what I can for him, Leslie. What I wish someone had done for me."
She nodded once, accepting his explanation without further challenge. "I'll analyze the blood sample immediately. If there is a toxic compound in your system from Kraven, we need to identify and neutralize it before attempting to confront any more of these assassins."
As Leslie departed, Bruce turned his attention back to Dick and Alfred, who were already immersed in financial analysis of the bank transaction. The boy's natural intelligence combined with Alfred's methodical approach made them an effective investigative team – one that could continue functioning while Batman focused on the more immediate threat to Judge Hargrove.
"Alfred," Bruce said, decision made. "We need to accelerate our timeline. If Deathstroke is moving openly in Gotham, the other assassins won't be far behind. Hargrove needs protection tonight, not tomorrow."
"Indeed, sir. I shall make the necessary arrangements while you prepare." Alfred's gaze shifted meaningfully toward Dick, who was too absorbed in the data to notice their exchange. "And the young master?"
"Continues his investigation here, under Thomas' supervision once he arrives for security rotation." Bruce had arranged for one of his most trusted Wayne Enterprises security personnel to assist with the manor's protection when both he and Alfred were occupied elsewhere. "Full lockdown protocols until I return."
Alfred nodded his understanding. "Very good, sir. Though I must insist you take Dr. Thompkins' recommendations seriously. If your system has indeed been compromised by a compound from Kraven, confronting someone with Copperhead's specific talents could prove particularly hazardous."
Bruce acknowledged the warning with a slight nod, but his mind was already shifting to tactical preparations. Copperhead's enhanced physiology and specialized toxins made her one of the most dangerous assassins in the sequence – especially if Alberto Falcone was providing her with custom compounds designed specifically for particular targets.
As he headed toward the cave to prepare, Bruce glanced back at Dick, who was completely focused on tracking Deathstroke's financial movements. The boy's determination reminded Bruce painfully of himself at that age – the same drive to make sense of such tragedy, to find order within chaos, to transform grief into purpose.
It was a dangerous path; one Bruce had walked alone. He was determined that Dick would not have to do the same.