The late morning sun filtered through the windows of Wayne Manor's east-facing library, casting long shadows across the antique furniture. Bruce sat heavily in one of the leather armchairs, muscles protesting from the morning's intensive training session with Dick. Despite having been at the manor for just three days, the boy had shown remarkable aptitude, absorbing basic defensive techniques with a speed that surprised even Bruce.
He winced as he reached for the remote control. Alfred's specialized bruise ointment was working, but nothing could instantly heal the damage from his encounter with Taskmaster. Bruce clicked on the television mounted discreetly behind a sliding panel in the bookcase.
"—continuing our coverage of yesterday's shocking attack at the Monaco Grand Prix," the news anchor announced. "Amateur footage captured the moment Ivan Vanko, now identified as the son of a disgraced Soviet physicist, attacked billionaire Tony Stark with electrically charged whips capable of slicing through metal."
The screen showed chaotic footage of destroyed race cars, fleeing spectators, and at the center of it all, Tony Stark—without his Iron Man armor—dodging deadly electrical attacks on the racetrack.
Bruce shook his head, a mixture of concern and frustration crossing his features. Nearly two years after Tony's infamous "I am Iron Man" press conference, and he was still placing himself at the center of every crisis—an approach to heroism fundamentally at odds with Bruce's own carefully guarded methods.
The footage shifted to show Happy Hogan crashing a Rolls Royce onto the track, Pepper Potts in the passenger seat, bringing Tony his portable armor. Within seconds, Iron Man had subdued Vanko, but not before causing millions in property damage and endangering hundreds of spectators.
"Reckless," Bruce muttered under his breath. "Always has to make it a spectacle."
His mind drifted to their last collaboration—the Metallo incident in Metropolis. John Corben, enhanced with an experimental kryptonite-powered exoskeleton, had taken hostages at the LuthorCorp boardroom after his transformation. What had started as a personal vendetta against his ex-wife had escalated into a citywide catastrophe when his three radiation cores began destabilizing.
Bruce remembered Clark's desperate struggle against an opponent specifically designed to counter his Kryptonian biology. The specialized Kryptonian battle armor Clark eventually donned had barely been enough to contain the radiation when Metallo's cores went critical. Clark had made the sacrifice play—flying Metallo into the upper atmosphere where the explosion wouldn't harm the city below.
The image of the sky lighting up with that sickly green glow remained vivid in Bruce's memory—the moment he'd been certain they'd lost Clark forever. Only the advanced Kryptonian armor had made his survival possible, and even then, just barely. They'd found him half-conscious in a crater outside Metropolis hours later, having absorbed enough radiation to kill a small city.
The sound of quick, light footsteps at the doorway broke Bruce from his thoughts. He turned to see Dick Grayson hovering at the threshold, freshly showered after their morning training session. Despite the borrowed clothes still slightly too large for his frame, there was a natural athleticism in the way he carried himself.
"I thought I heard the TV," Dick said, his voice more confident than it had been during their first awkward meetings. His eyes went immediately to the screen where footage of Iron Man battling Vanko played. "That's from yesterday, isn't it? In Monaco?"
"Yes," Bruce replied, gesturing to the armchair beside his own. "Tony Stark seems to attract trouble wherever he goes."
Dick crossed the room with that natural grace Bruce had observed during training, taking the offered seat without the hesitation he might have shown days earlier. Since discovering the Batcave accidentally during his late-night exploration of the manor, Dick had shed some of his initial reserve around Bruce.
"He doesn't hide who he is," Dick observed, watching the footage with that calculating gaze Bruce was coming to recognize - the mind of a natural detective working behind those still-grieving eyes. "Everyone knows he's Iron Man."
"Tony made that choice two years ago," Bruce confirmed. "Against all advice to the contrary."
"Is that why the bad guy attacked him in public? Because he knows who Iron Man is?"
Bruce considered the question, impressed by the boy's insight. "It's certainly a factor. Tony believes transparency creates accountability, that operating in the open forces him to stand by his actions."
"But it puts other people in danger," Dick said, not a question but an observation.
"Yes," Bruce agreed. "It does."
They fell silent, watching as the news transitioned to panel discussions about the implications of the attack, experts debating the wisdom of Stark's public approach to heroism.
"You do it differently," Dick said after a moment, glancing sideways at Bruce. "Batman has to stay hidden. That's what you told me after I found the cave."
The direct reference to their shared secret still felt new. Bruce had been initially alarmed when he'd discovered Dick had stumbled upon the Batcave entrance hidden behind the grandfather clock, but the boy's remarkable discretion afterward had surprised him. After the initial shock and excitement, Dick had approached the revelation with a maturity beyond his years.
"Batman's effectiveness depends on anonymity," Bruce replied simply. "Fear works best from the shadows."
Dick nodded, absorbing this as he had absorbed everything since arriving - with that intense focus that reminded Bruce so much of himself at that age. "And Superman? He doesn't wear a mask, but people don't know who he really is either."
"Clark's approach is... different," Bruce acknowledged. "He stands in the light, but as a symbol more than a man."
"You know him?" Dick asked, eyes widening slightly. "Superman?"
Bruce realized his slip—using Clark's first name so casually—and weighed how much to share with the boy. Since discovering Bruce's identity, Dick had shown remarkable discretion, but trust between them was still developing.
"We've worked together," Bruce said finally. "The Metallo incident in Metropolis two years ago."
Dick leaned forward, the excitement of a ten-year-old momentarily breaking through the grief he usually kept carefully contained. "With Iron Man too? The three of you fought together?"
"Yes."
"What was it like?" Dick asked, then immediately seemed to check himself, as if he'd remembered he was supposed to be more serious. "I mean, if you don't mind talking about it."
Bruce studied the boy—this child whose world had been shattered just days ago, yet who still found moments of genuine curiosity amid overwhelming grief. The resilience reminded Bruce painfully of himself at that age, grasping for anything to distract from the void where family had been.
"It was... complicated," Bruce found himself answering. "We have very different methods. Clark leads with compassion, Tony with innovation. I—"
"Focus on what could go wrong," Dick finished for him, a hint of a smile touching his lips before quickly fading. It wasn't the first time he'd completed one of Bruce's thoughts accurately since their training had begun.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Alfred's been talking, I see."
"He said you plan for every possibility, even the unlikely ones," Dick shrugged, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve. "Makes sense to me. My dad always triple-checked our equipment before performances." His voice caught slightly on the word 'dad,' the casual reference opening the still-fresh wound.
A moment of silence settled between them, broken only by the television's continued coverage of the Monaco incident.
"When Metallo's power cores went critical," Bruce said, deliberately steering the conversation back to safer territory, "Clark fought through the radiation damage to get him high enough into the atmosphere where the explosion wouldn't harm the city."
Dick looked up, engaged despite himself. "But he survived."
"Barely," Bruce confirmed. "The explosion damaged his suit and sent him plummeting back to Earth. Tony and I had to intercept his fall and found him half-conscious. Even with his Kryptonian physiology and that advanced armor, he'd absorbed enough radiation to kill a small city."
"That's what heroes do, right?" Dick said quietly. "Make the sacrifice play."
The simple statement carried a weight beyond the boy's years, a perspective shaped by his own recent tragedy. Bruce studied him thoughtfully, seeing glimpses of remarkable resilience beneath the raw grief.
"Sometimes," Bruce acknowledged. "Though a hero's first responsibility is to live to fight another day. Sacrifices should always be last resorts, never first options."
Dick nodded slowly, processing this. His eyes drifted back to the television, where footage now showed Tony at a post-Monaco press conference, his characteristic confidence undiminished by the attack.
"He doesn't seem afraid," Dick observed. "Even after someone just tried to kill him."
"Tony's never been afraid of the spotlight," Bruce replied. "Even before Iron Man, he craved attention, validation."
"And you don't?"
The direct question caught Bruce slightly off-guard. "Batman's work requires anonymity. Bruce Wayne's public persona serves a different purpose."
"Like a mask," Dick said softly, understanding dawning. "The real you is neither of them."
The perception was startlingly accurate, especially coming from someone who had known him for only three days. Bruce found himself momentarily at a loss for words, uncertain how to respond to being so casually seen through by a ten-year-old.
"Sorry," Dick backpedaled, misinterpreting Bruce's silence. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business."
"No," Bruce assured him. "You're just... observant."
A faint blush colored Dick's cheeks. "My mom said I noticed too much for my own good sometimes." The memory brought a flicker of pain across his features, quickly suppressed - that same brave face he'd been putting on since arriving at the manor, determined not to break down again after that first night.
The mention of Mary Grayson created an opening that Bruce had been considering since their training session that morning. "Your mother was right. Your observational skills are exceptional. It's part of why your training is progressing so quickly."
Dick straightened slightly. "Really?"
"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "Your background as a performer gives you advantages most trainees lack—spatial awareness, body control, the ability to read movement patterns."
"My dad said the same thing," Dick said, a complicated mixture of pride and sorrow crossing his features. "He said acrobats see things from perspectives most people never experience."
Bruce nodded. "He was right." He paused, then added carefully, "Those skills could be valuable in more than just defense training."
Dick's attention sharpened instantly. "You mean with finding Deathstroke?" The name was spoken with quiet intensity, the first time Dick had directly referenced his parents' killer since arriving at the manor.
"Eventually," Bruce hedged, not wanting to encourage vengeful thinking. "But in the shorter term, there are other ways you could contribute."
"Like what?"
Bruce considered his words carefully. In the days since Dick had discovered the Batcave, the boy had spent hours studying the computer systems and case files with remarkable comprehension. His analytical abilities complemented his physical talents, creating potential Bruce hadn't expected to find in someone so young.
"Alfred and I have been monitoring potential targets from Wilson's client list," Bruce explained. "Judge Hargrove, who's presiding over Carmine Falcone's RICO trial, is likely next in the sequence."
Dick leaned forward, fully engaged now. "You're going after her attacker tonight?"
"I'm going to ensure her protection," Bruce corrected gently. "And we could use an extra set of eyes on the communication systems."
"From the cave," Dick clarified, quick to understand the implied limitation. Since finding the Batcave, he'd been eager to explore its capabilities, though Bruce had maintained strict boundaries about access.
"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "Monitoring police bands, coordinating with Alfred on security bypasses for the judge's building. Technical support only, not field work."
For a brief moment, disappointment flickered across Dick's face, but it was quickly replaced by determined focus. "I can do that."
"I know," Bruce said simply.
Something shifted in the air between them—not quite trust, not yet, but a tentative bridge across the chasm of their separate tragedies. For the first time since Dick's arrival at the manor, Bruce felt the faint possibility that their arrangement might evolve into something more than temporary protection for a traumatized witness.
The moment was interrupted by Alfred's arrival, the butler clearing his throat discreetly from the doorway. "Master Bruce, I've completed the analysis of the information you requested regarding Judge Hargrove's security detail."
Bruce straightened, immediately alert. "Any vulnerabilities?"
"Several, I'm afraid," Alfred replied. "The protection team has been reduced due to budget constraints, and the judge has scheduled a public appearance this evening at the Gotham Bar Association that wasn't included in her official security briefing."
Bruce nodded, mind already calculating scenarios and countermeasures. "Have Fox prepare the new suit components. We'll need everything operational by nightfall."
"Very good, sir." Alfred's gaze shifted to Dick, his expression softening slightly. "Perhaps Master Dick would care to join me for lunch before I show him the communication systems? Basic operational knowledge would be beneficial for this evening's activities."
The invitation represented a significant vote of confidence from Alfred, who had initially been wary of involving the boy in anything related to Batman's operations. Bruce caught the subtle nod of approval his guardian directed his way.
"I'd like that," Dick said, glancing at Bruce for confirmation.
"Communications only," Bruce specified. "No field involvement."
"Understood," Dick agreed solemnly, though Bruce didn't miss the excited gleam in the boy's eyes. Three days had transformed initial shock and grief into determined purpose - a transformation Bruce recognized all too well from his own experience.
Alfred gestured toward the hallway. "Shall we proceed to the kitchen, then? I believe I promised to teach you the proper way to make those chocolate chip cookies you mentioned yesterday."
Dick's expression brightened momentarily—a glimpse of the child beneath the grief. "You remembered."
"I rarely forget culinary matters of importance, Master Dick," Alfred replied with gentle humor. "Particularly where chocolate is concerned."
As Dick followed Alfred into the hallway, he paused at the threshold, looking back at Bruce. "Thank you," he said simply. "For letting me help."
Bruce nodded once, acknowledging the gratitude without making it into something more significant than it was. As the door closed behind them, he turned his attention back to the television, where images of Monaco were giving way to international news. The world was changing rapidly, new threats emerging alongside new protectors. Bruce couldn't help but wonder what role young Dick Grayson might eventually play in that evolving landscape. For now, though, his priority remained clear—keep the boy safe, give him purpose beyond grief, and ensure that Batman was ready for whatever Gotham threw at him next.
—
The mid-afternoon sun filtered weakly through Gotham's perpetual cloud cover, casting the city in that familiar grimy half-light that seemed to define the metropolis. Slade Wilson moved through the Diamond District with practiced anonymity, his white hair concealed beneath a nondescript cap, his eyepatch replaced with a dark lens that gave the appearance of a simple glass eye. To casual observers, he was just another aging professional navigating the city's streets – not one of the deadliest assassins in the world.
His encrypted phone vibrated once in his pocket. A message from Larissa Diaz – Copperhead. The text contained only an address in Gotham's fashion district, with a timestamp – 16:00. An invitation, or perhaps a trap. With Copperhead, the line between the two was often razor-thin.
Slade considered ignoring it. His encounter with Talia al Ghul earlier had been... unsettling. Not that he would admit that, even to himself. Talia was one of the few individuals on the planet whose skills and resources genuinely concerned him. If she was monitoring Alberto Falcone's operation, the variables had shifted considerably. Her warning about Pierce's potential betrayal carried weight – she wouldn't fabricate such intelligence merely to manipulate him.
And then there was the news about Taskmaster. The morning broadcasts had been filled with reports of his capture after some confrontation with Batman at Wayne Enterprises. The details were sketchy – official GCPD statements mentioned only "an attempted theft of proprietary technology" – but the underworld channels were buzzing with more specific information. Batman had not only prevented the theft but had somehow countered Taskmaster's photographic reflexes, delivering him to Gordon's people with what witnesses described as "unusual injuries."
That development was... significant. Taskmaster was among the handful of operatives Slade considered genuine competition. Their paths had crossed on multiple occasions, most memorably in Singapore three years ago when both had been contracted by opposing factions in a corporate espionage war. The resulting confrontation had leveled half a floor in the Marina Bay Sands hotel and ended in a stalemate that neither man had acknowledged publicly.
If Batman had managed to not just defeat but capture Taskmaster, it suggested the vigilante had developed new tactics since their last indirect encounters. Something worth investigating, particularly if Talia's warnings about Pierce proved accurate.
Decision made, Slade altered his route. If Copperhead had information worth sharing, he'd hear it. If she had other motives – which seemed likely given their previous interactions – he would handle those as well. Professional detachment was his trademark, after all.
The address led to a converted warehouse now functioning as a high-end boutique residential building – the kind of place where Gotham's fashion industry elites maintained expensive pieds-à-terre for seasonal use. Security was sophisticated but primarily designed to keep out ordinary intruders, not someone with Slade's particular skill set. He bypassed the main entrance entirely, accessing the building through a service entrance after temporarily disabling its electronic locks.
Apartment 12B was at the far end of a minimalist hallway decorated with abstract art pieces that probably cost more than most Gotham residents made in a year. Slade approached with measured caution, thermal scanning showing only a single occupant within – Copperhead's unique heat signature, slightly elevated compared to normal humans due to her enhanced metabolism.
He pressed the buzzer once, standing slightly to the side of the door – a habit born from decades of operational caution.
"It's open," called a voice from within, the slight accent more pronounced than during their meeting at the Iceberg Lounge.
Slade entered with practiced efficiency, scanning the apartment in seconds. High ceilings, open floor plan, minimalist furniture in blacks and rich greens. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an impressive view of Gotham's skyline, though blackout curtains could be drawn for privacy. The space was impeccably decorated yet somewhat impersonal – clearly a temporary residence rather than a home.
Copperhead lounged on a sleek black leather couch, her costume exchanged for a simple silk robe in emerald that complemented the faint green undertone of her skin. The garment was deliberately provocative, falling open just enough to suggest rather than reveal. Her unnaturally green eyes, with their vertical pupils, tracked his movement with predatory interest.
"Right on time," she observed, her tongue briefly flicking out to taste the air – an unconscious habit that betrayed her reptilian modifications. "So professional, Slade. I've always admired that about you."
"This isn't a social call," he replied, remaining standing near the door. "You indicated you had information worth sharing."
She laughed, the sound both musical and slightly unnerving. "Always business first. Fine." She gestured to a sleek tablet on the glass coffee table. "The bounty has increased. Forty million now, not seven. Alberto's getting desperate after Taskmaster's failure and the complications with the Dent woman."
Slade didn't move to examine the tablet, his single eye studying Copperhead instead. "Forty million is significant escalation. Why?"
"The field has narrowed," she said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Deadshot failed spectacularly, Kraven is in custody at GCPD, and now Taskmaster has joined him after last night's... unfortunate encounter at Wayne Enterprises." She rose with fluid grace, her movements carrying that unnatural quality that marked her as something beyond human. "Down to just four of us now. You, me, Shiva, and Bane. The odds improve by the hour."
"Convenient for those still in play," Slade observed. "Almost as if someone wanted to thin the competition."
Copperhead's smile widened, revealing teeth just slightly too sharp to be fully human. "Suspicious as always. Though I can't say I mourned Taskmaster's capture. The man was... unpleasant."
"You had history," Slade stated rather than asked. It wasn't a question – intelligence gathering was part of standard operational procedure whenever working in proximity to other high-level operatives.
She shrugged one shoulder, the movement carrying serpentine fluidity. "Budapest, three years ago. Competing contracts on a government minister. He attempted to... poach my target." Her expression darkened momentarily. "I don't appreciate interference."
The incident had been notorious in certain circles – a Hungarian cabinet member found dead from what appeared to be natural causes, though rumors suggested toxins had been involved. More notably, Taskmaster had been hospitalized shortly afterward with symptoms suggesting neurotoxin exposure. He'd survived, but his photographic reflexes had been reportedly compromised for weeks afterward.
"And you?" she asked, moving toward the small bar concealed within a sleek cabinet. "I heard Singapore was... memorable."
Slade's expression remained neutral, though internal calculations adjusted slightly. Copperhead's intelligence network was apparently more comprehensive than he'd initially assessed. The Singapore incident had been deliberately kept quiet by both parties involved.
"Professional disagreement," he replied simply.
She laughed, the sound genuinely amused. "Is that what we're calling it? The damage reports suggested something more... intense." She poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, not offering him one – she already knew his answer would be negative. "Fifty-seven rounds of ammunition expended, three support columns compromised, damages exceeding four million USD." She sipped her drink, watching him over the rim. "Professional disagreement indeed."
The precision of her information was... concerning. Singapore had been two years and seven months ago, a mid-priority contract that should have been routine. Taskmaster's unexpected presence had complicated things – the first time they'd directly crossed paths after years of operating in adjacent spheres. The encounter had been educational for both of them.
"Ancient history," Slade dismissed, though he filed away her knowledge for future consideration. "What's your interest in sharing current contract developments with me specifically?"
Copperhead moved closer, her movements carrying deliberate sensuality. "I'm proposing a partnership. Temporary, of course." She gestured to the tablet again. "Judge Hargrove is my primary target tonight – a simple elimination disguised as natural causes. But Batman will inevitably attempt to interfere."
She stopped just short of invading his personal space, her scent reaching him – something exotic and slightly chemical beneath expensive perfume. "With Taskmaster in custody, you're the most formidable operative remaining. Help me secure Hargrove and Batman, and I'll split the bounty with you. Twenty million each."
Slade maintained his neutral expression, though internally he was calculating variables. A partnership with Copperhead carried risks – her loyalty extended only as far as her immediate interests, and her enhanced physiology made her unpredictable even to someone with his tactical experience. Their previous encounters had been limited but informative.
Cairo, seven years ago – both pursuing separate contracts that had temporarily aligned. A brief, efficient cooperation that had ended amicably by professional standards.
Rio, five years ago – competing contracts that had resulted in a three-day cat-and-mouse game ending with mutual withdrawal when the target was evacuated by a third party.
Minsk, two years ago – another momentary alignment of interests that had included an unanticipated night in a safe house during a blizzard. That encounter had established certain... parameters beyond strictly professional interaction.
Each encounter had added layers to his assessment of Larissa Diaz – not just Copperhead the assassin, but the woman beneath the enhanced physiology. Dangerous, unpredictable, but also methodical and surprisingly intellectual. A rare combination that made her both a valuable temporary ally and a concerning potential adversary.
"You've already collected your initial fee for the Grayson contract," she continued when he didn't immediately respond. "This would be supplementary income for minimal additional risk."
"Why me?" he asked, though he already suspected multiple answers. "Lady Shiva would seem the more logical partner given her combat capabilities against Batman."
Copperhead's smile took on a knowing quality. "Shiva works alone. Always. And Bane..." She waved a dismissive hand. "Too unpredictable. The Venom makes him volatile." Her eyes held his with predatory focus. "You and I have worked well together before. Cairo proved that. Rio taught us to respect each other's capabilities. And Minsk..."
She let the implication hang between them, the reference to their previous encounter deliberate and provocative.
"Besides," she continued, moving to the windows to gaze out at Gotham's skyline, "the boy complicates things. He's been positively identified as being in Wayne's custody. And he recognized you from the security footage at Gotham First Bank." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Alberto is concerned the connection might be made between the 'accident' at the circus and Batman's newest... project."
"New project?" Slade repeated, though his mind was already calculating implications.
"You haven't heard?" Copperhead's smile widened. "Batman has been seen with a smaller shadow recently. Nothing confirmed, but Gotham's underworld is buzzing with rumors of a... protégé." She turned to face him fully. "Quite the coincidence, don't you think? Wayne takes in a circus orphan, and days later Batman acquires an apprentice."
Slade's expression revealed nothing, though this information added significant variables to his existing calculations. Bruce Wayne's connection to Batman had been speculated on for years – the timing of his return to Gotham after extended absence, the billions in unexplained R expenditures, the convenient alibis. Nothing conclusive, but enough to create patterns worth monitoring.
If Wayne was Batman – a theory Slade had neither dismissed nor confirmed in his own analysis – then the Grayson boy's placement was far from random. And if Batman was training him...
"Interesting speculation," he said neutrally. "But hardly relevant to tonight's operation."
"Perhaps not directly," she conceded, moving away from the window. "But it does explain the increased bounty. If the boy can connect you to his parents' deaths, and if he's under Batman's protection..." She let the implication hang between them.
Slade moved to the tablet, finally examining its contents. The screen displayed Alberto Falcone's updated contract terms, along with surveillance photos of Wayne Manor – specifically, Dick Grayson being escorted inside by Bruce Wayne himself. Additional images showed what appeared to be the boy training in one of the manor's exterior gardens, performing acrobatic maneuvers that would be challenging for someone three times his age.
"So," Copperhead said, moving to stand beside him, close enough that her scent enveloped him again. "Partners for tonight's operation? Twenty million each seems fair compensation."
Slade considered the variables carefully. Batman operating with a protégé – even one in early training – changed tactical considerations. The vigilante's movements would be more conservative, his approach more cautious with responsibility for another life. It created exploitable vulnerabilities, but also unpredictable reactions if the boy were threatened, directly or indirectly.
"The professional arrangement has merit," he acknowledged. "Twenty million is worth temporary cooperation."
Her smile widened, satisfaction evident in her expression. "Excellent. I've already identified Hargrove's vulnerabilities. The judge has a public appearance scheduled tonight at the Gotham Bar Association. Security will be minimal – budget cuts affecting even high-profile targets."
She returned to the tablet, bringing up detailed schematics as Slade joined her in reviewing the tactical overview. "My approach will be subtle – a specially formulated toxin designed to mimic natural heart failure, delivered through minimal skin contact." She expanded a section of the building plans. "The judge's known hypertension makes this the perfect cover. By the time anyone realizes something is wrong, we'll be long gone."
Slade studied the building layout with professional interest. "And when Batman inevitably appears?"
"That's where you come in," she replied, highlighting several potential entry points. "He'll use one of these access routes once he detects my presence. Your role is interception and engagement – keep him occupied long enough for me to complete my primary objective."
"He'll prioritize Hargrove's protection over combat," Slade observed, already identifying tactical positions. "We'll need to separate them."
Copperhead's smile turned predatory. "Already planned for. I'll have a decoy in place – someone appearing to be me approaching from the south entrance. You'll intercept Batman at the east service corridor while I access Hargrove's position from below."
The plan had merit, though Slade immediately identified several variables that could complicate execution. "Batman rarely operates alone now. Gordon has coordinated with him more openly since the Metallo incident. GCPD response times to Batman-related incidents have decreased significantly."
"Also accounted for," she assured him, switching screens to show police patrol routes. "Alberto has arranged a gang incident in the East End that will draw GCPD resources away from the downtown area. Response time should be delayed by at least fifteen minutes."
Slade nodded, genuine professional appreciation in the gesture. Copperhead's reputation for methodical planning was apparently well-earned. "Extraction?"
"Separate routes, converging at a secondary location near Dixon Docks," she replied, highlighting the pathways on the city map. "If either of us secures Batman, we transport him immediately to the designated facility. If not, we regroup and reassess."
"And if one of us is compromised?" The question was necessary, despite the temporary alliance. In their profession, contingencies for betrayal were standard protocol.
Her expression showed no offense at the implication. "We each proceed independently. The contract remains in effect – forty million to whoever delivers Batman." She closed the distance between them again, her hand rising to trace the edge of his jaw. "Though I'd prefer we succeed together. Twenty million each seems fair compensation for tonight's work."
The touch was deliberately provocative – a call back to their encounter in Minsk, where professional cooperation had evolved into something more primal during a blizzard that had trapped them in a safe house for forty-eight hours. That incident had established certain parameters between them – an understanding that physical release could be separated from operational concerns, a temporary indulgence without emotional complications.
"But enough business for now," she continued, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw with deliberate sensuality. "We have hours before we need to be in position. And I find myself... remembering Minsk quite vividly."
Slade caught her wrist, though not roughly. "Professional considerations take priority."
"Always so focused," she observed, not pulling away from his grip. "One of your many admirable qualities. Though I seem to recall you being capable of... multitasking."
The memory hung between them – two days of enforced proximity during what had become known as the Belarusian Blackout, when temperatures had dropped to lethal levels and Minsk had lost power for nearly seventy-two hours. They'd found themselves in the same safe house, both there for separate operations that had become temporarily impossible.
Professional respect had evolved into wary cooperation, then pragmatic alliance as resources dwindled. And eventually, as the blizzard had intensified outside, into something more primal – two predators finding momentary release in the only warmth available.
"Minsk was circumstantial," Slade replied, though he didn't immediately release her wrist. "This is operational."
Her smile widened, revealing those slightly-too-sharp teeth. "Circumstances can be recreated, Slade. And tonight's operation will be more effective if certain... tensions are resolved beforehand."
There was tactical merit to her suggestion, Slade acknowledged privately. Physical release did improve operational efficiency in certain contexts – a fact military research had confirmed decades ago. His enhanced physiology didn't eliminate basic human needs, merely modulated them into manageable parameters.
"Perhaps," he conceded, releasing her wrist. "After operational details are fully established."
Copperhead's smile turned triumphant, recognizing the concession for what it was. "Of course. Business first." She moved away, returning to the tactical overview with professional focus that matched his own. "I have dossiers on the remaining competition as well. Lady Shiva's movements have been tracked to Chinatown – she appears to be establishing perimeter surveillance around the courthouse where Falcone's case will be heard."
"And Bane?" Slade asked, accepting the shift back to operational matters.
"More concerning," she admitted, bringing up satellite thermal imagery showing an unusually large heat signature moving through Gotham's warehouse district. "Intel suggests he's establishing a secondary base of operations there. His approach is less subtle – direct confrontation seems to be his preferred methodology."
"Predictable," Slade observed. "The Venom makes long-term strategic planning difficult. He operates on shorter tactical horizons."
"Which makes him dangerous but manageable," Copperhead agreed. "Lady Shiva, however..." She pulled up a file containing sparse information on the martial artist. "Her objectives remain unclear. She's met with Gordon twice in the past twenty-four hours, which suggests possible complications."
This was genuinely useful intelligence. Lady Shiva's operational methodologies were notorious for their adaptability – she had been known to shift allegiances mid-contract if circumstances warranted. If she was communicating with GCPD, it suggested potential strategic realignment.
"Surveillance confirmation?" Slade asked, examining the limited documentation.
"Verified through three independent sources," Copperhead confirmed. "She's planning something outside the original contract parameters."
Slade processed this information alongside Talia's earlier warning. The variables were shifting rapidly, suggesting larger patterns beyond Alberto Falcone's immediate concerns. If Pierce was indeed gathering combat data rather than simply eliminating Batman, Lady Shiva's apparent realignment took on additional significance.
"This changes operational priorities," he noted. "Batman remains the primary objective, but Shiva now represents a potential complication."
"My thoughts exactly," Copperhead agreed, her professional assessment aligning with his own. "Which is another reason partnership tonight makes tactical sense. Two against one improves our odds considerably, especially against Batman. And if Shiva intervenes..."
"We adapt accordingly," Slade finished, mapping potential scenarios mentally.
They spent the next hour reviewing contingencies, escape routes, and tactical approaches. Despite their different methodologies, Slade found Copperhead's strategic thinking complemented his own in unexpected ways. Where his approach favored direct precision, hers incorporated elements of misdirection and psychological manipulation. The combination had potential, particularly against an opponent as adaptable as Batman.
As they finalized the operational plan, Copperhead moved to refill her drink, her movements carrying deliberate sensuality that was partly natural to her enhanced physiology and partly calculated to provoke response.
"All business concluded," she observed, sipping her refreshed drink. "Operational details established, contingencies in place, extraction protocols confirmed." She set the glass down, her tongue briefly flicking out to taste the air – analyzing his physiological responses with her enhanced senses. "And nearly three hours before we need to be in position."
The invitation was clear, if not explicitly stated. Slade considered it with the same tactical assessment he applied to all variables. Physical release before a high-risk operation had documented benefits – reduced stress hormones, improved focus, optimized cardiovascular response. His enhanced healing would ensure no physical aftereffects that might compromise performance.
"Your proposal has merit," he acknowledged, allowing a rare, slight smile to touch his lips. "Both professionally and... otherwise."
Copperhead's expression turned triumphant as she closed the distance between them, her robe falling open with calculated precision rather than accidental exposure. The scaled patterns across her otherwise human skin caught the afternoon light filtering through the windows, creating an exotic effect that even Slade's disciplined mind registered as aesthetically striking.
"I was hoping you'd see the tactical advantages," she murmured, her hands rising to frame his face. "After all, we've established successful parameters before."
What followed was not lovemaking in any conventional sense. It was two predators engaged in temporary mutual satisfaction – a physical chess match where each sought to dominate while simultaneously extracting maximum pleasure. Copperhead's enhanced flexibility allowed for positions that would be impossible for normal humans, while Slade's strength and stamina made him a rare partner capable of matching her inhuman endurance.
Throughout, a part of Slade's mind remained detached, analyzing even as his body responded. This was tactical as much as physical – understanding an ally who could easily become an opponent tomorrow. Learning vulnerabilities, patterns, preferences that might prove relevant if circumstances changed.
Her toxins remained fully controlled – one of the few genuine advantages of engaging with someone of Copperhead's unique physiology. Unlike some enhanced individuals whose abilities manifested involuntarily during moments of intense emotion, Larissa maintained perfect command of her biochemistry. Her venoms were deployed with surgical precision only when deliberately activated through specialized glands. It made intimate contact possible without risk of accidental exposure – a rarity among those with toxic-based enhancements.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the silk sheets of her bed, neither cuddling nor entirely separate. Professional respect maintained even in this most intimate of contexts.
"You've improved since Minsk," she remarked, tracing a finger along one of his many scars – a knife wound from a mission in Jakarta years earlier. "More... creative."
"Adaptation to circumstance," Slade replied simply, his eye tracking her movements with continued vigilance despite their temporary alliance. "A necessary skill in our profession."
She laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Always the tactician. I appreciate that about you, Slade. No false sentimentality, no emotional complications." Her fingers continued their exploration of his scarred torso. "Just mutual benefit when circumstances align."
"And divergent priorities when they don't," he added, a reminder of professional boundaries that underscored even this moment of physical connection.
"Of course," she agreed easily. "In Rio, I would have killed you without hesitation had circumstances required it."
"As I would have you," he confirmed, the exchange carrying an unusual honesty rarely found between operatives of their caliber.
Copperhead's smile widened, something almost affectionate in the expression. "This is why we work well together, however temporarily. Complete clarity about parameters."
Slade rose from the bed with efficient movements, retrieving his scattered clothing with military precision. "We should finalize preparations for tonight. Departure in ninety minutes would be optimal, allowing time for advance site reconnaissance."
She stretched languidly, her body moving with that unnatural fluidity that marked her as something beyond human. "So punctual. Very well." She rose as well, donning her robe with casual grace. "My specialized toxins are already prepared for Judge Hargrove. Delivery system calibrated to her specific biochemistry based on medical records Alberto provided."
As they returned to operational planning, Slade maintained his professional focus while privately considering the variables that Copperhead wasn't aware of – specifically, Talia al Ghul's warning about Pierce's potential betrayal. If her intelligence was accurate, this entire operation might be more about gathering combat data on Batman than actually capturing him.
Which raised the question: what data were they gathering on Deathstroke himself in the process?