Diamond District - Late Night
The Batcycle tore through Gotham's rain-slicked streets, its rider a small silhouette against the city's towering architecture. Dick leaned into each turn with the instinctive grace that had once made him the star of the Flying Graysons, the motorcycle responding to his slightest adjustments despite being designed for someone twice his size. His circus costume, royal blue with gold accents, caught brief flashes of streetlight as he navigated through the maze of alleys toward the Diamond District.
His mind raced even faster than the vehicle beneath him. Bruce lying unconscious in the cave, his veins glowing with that unnatural green liquid. Deathstroke and Copperhead working together. Judge Hargrove in danger. Every thought pushed him to drive faster, take corners tighter, racing against a clock only he could hear.
He almost missed the sleek black motorcycle that appeared in his peripheral vision, matching his pace with unsettling precision. When he did notice, his heart lurched – expecting Deathstroke, or worse. Instead, through the rain-streaked visor of his borrowed helmet, he recognized Talia al Ghul, her expression unreadable as she pulled alongside him.
She gestured to the side of the road – a command, not a request. Dick ignored her, accelerating instead. He knew Bruce's relationship with this woman was complicated at best, and despite her saving Bruce's life, he wasn't about to take orders from someone connected to the League of Assassins.
Talia's motorcycle surged forward, cutting across his path with such precise calculation that Dick had to brake or crash into her. The Batcycle skidded, its tires losing traction on the wet pavement. Only Dick's acrobatic reflexes saved him from a devastating crash, as he somehow managed to maintain control, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering stop against a brick wall.
Before he could restart the engine, Talia was there, her hand disabling the ignition with a precise movement that Dick couldn't quite follow.
"That was reckless," he spat, yanking off the helmet. "I could have crashed!"
"Yet you didn't," Talia observed coolly. "Your natural abilities compensated for your lack of experience. But ability without training is merely potential – and potential alone won't save you against Deathstroke."
Dick dismounted, fists clenched at his sides. "I don't need your help. I need to warn Gordon about the judge."
"And you think Gordon will listen to a child on a stolen motorcycle?" Talia stepped closer, her movement so fluid it seemed she glided rather than walked. "A child wearing a circus costume, carrying weapons he barely knows how to use?"
"I know how to use them," Dick shot back. "Bruce taught me."
"Three days of basic instruction is not training, Richard Grayson." Talia's voice remained calm, but carried an edge that made Dick bristle. "What you're attempting isn't bravery – it's suicide."
Rain plastered Dick's hair to his forehead, running down his face like tears he refused to shed. "Then what am I supposed to do? Wait at the manor while more people die? While Deathstroke gets away with killing my parents?"
"You're supposed to survive," Talia replied, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. "To learn. To grow strong enough that when you finally face your parents' killer, you have more than courage and acrobatics to rely on."
"You don't understand what it's like," Dick insisted, the words catching in his throat. "To see them fall. To know you could have done something, but didn't."
Something flickered across Talia's face – a shadow of old pain quickly masked. "I understand loss better than you know, child. I understand the burning need for vengeance that consumes rational thought. I've watched that same fire nearly destroy Bruce when he first came to us."
Dick started at this mention of Bruce's past. "What do you mean?"
"When Bruce came to the League, he was consumed by the same rage you carry now," Talia explained, studying Dick with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see through his defenses. "Raw, unfocused, willing to sacrifice everything – including himself – for revenge. My father saw potential in that rage, but also recognized its limitations."
"I'm not like Bruce," Dick insisted, though uncertainty crept into his voice.
"No," Talia agreed, surprising him. "You're younger. Your grief is fresher. Your training barely begun. Which makes you even more vulnerable than he was." She took another step closer. "Tell me, Richard – what exactly is your plan? To confront Deathstroke alone? To warn Gordon about an attack that may already be underway? Have you considered what happens if you arrive too late? Or if Copperhead is already there, waiting with toxins that could kill you with a single scratch?"
Each question landed like a precision strike, exposing the gaps in Dick's hastily formed plan. He wanted to argue, to defend his intentions, but found himself fumbling for answers he didn't have.
"I can't just do nothing," he said finally, his voice smaller.
"Then do something effective," Talia countered. "Come with me. Let me help you warn Gordon properly. Let me teach you how to approach the situation tactically rather than emotionally."
Dick hesitated, torn between stubborn independence and the growing realization that she was right. "Why do you even care? What am I to you?"
"You are important to Bruce," Talia replied simply. "And despite our... complicated history, that makes you worth protecting."
Dick studied her face, searching for deception and finding none. Only a strange, almost maternal concern beneath her formidable exterior.
"Fine," he said finally. "We warn Gordon together. But I'm not just going to stand back and watch if Deathstroke shows up."
"Your courage is admirable," Talia observed, something like respect entering her tone. "But courage without strategy is merely sacrifice. Remember that."
As Dick moved to remount the Batcycle, Talia placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I'll lead. You follow. And Richard—" her voice hardened slightly. "If you attempt to break away again, I will disable that motorcycle permanently. Understood?"
The command in her voice was so reminiscent of Bruce at his most Batman-like that Dick found himself nodding despite his lingering rebellion. "Understood."
They rode in tense silence through Gotham's labyrinthine streets, Talia leading them on a circuitous route that avoided main thoroughfares and known GCPD patrol patterns. Dick followed closely, studying her movements, the way she navigated with both precision and intuition – reading the city's rhythm in a way that reminded him of Bruce.
When they finally approached the Diamond District, Talia signaled for them to dismount several blocks from their destination. They concealed their vehicles in a narrow alley between abandoned buildings, continuing on foot through the shadows.
"The safe house will be under observation," Talia murmured as they moved. "Not just by GCPD, but potentially by Deathstroke as well. We approach indirectly, using rooftop access where possible."
Dick nodded, following her toward a fire escape that would take them to higher ground. As they climbed, he couldn't help but ask, "How do you know Bruce? Really know him, I mean."
Talia paused briefly, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "I trained beside him for years. Watched him transform from a vengeance-driven young man into something more disciplined, more focused." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Much as he's attempting to do with you, I suspect."
"He doesn't talk about his past much," Dick admitted as they continued upward.
"Bruce guards his history carefully," Talia replied. "But know this, Richard – the man who took you in understands your pain more completely than perhaps anyone else could. He recognizes in you the same potential my father once saw in him – raw talent shaped by tragedy into something potentially extraordinary."
They reached the rooftop, moving in low silhouettes against the night sky. Dick followed Talia's lead, mimicking her careful foot placement and balanced movements as they traversed the gap between buildings. Despite himself, he found himself impressed by her skill – the fluid grace with which she navigated obstacles, the economy of her movements, the absolute silence of her progress.
When they reached a vantage point overlooking their destination, Talia crouched behind a ventilation unit, gesturing for Dick to join her. From here, they could see the GCPD safe house – a nondescript brownstone that blended seamlessly with the upscale residences surrounding it.
"Look, but don't stare," Talia instructed softly. "Survey the scene in segments. Note patterns, anomalies, anything that doesn't belong."
Dick followed her guidance, scanning the street below with methodical attention. Two unmarked police cars across from the brownstone. Officers in plain clothes attempting to look casual while maintaining vigilance. Pedestrians giving the area wide berth without seeming to notice they were doing so – a subtle indication that the GCPD had established a soft perimeter.
"What do you see?" Talia asked.
"The police presence is light," Dick observed. "Too light for a high-value target. And they're all focusing on ground-level approaches."
Talia nodded, approval flickering in her eyes. "Good. What else?"
Dick continued his assessment, seeing the scene through new eyes. "The neighboring buildings have multiple access points that aren't being watched. And there's no visible monitoring of the rooftops or sewer access points."
"Precisely," Talia confirmed. "Standard protection protocols, but wholly inadequate against professionals of Deathstroke and Copperhead's caliber."
They made their way down to street level, approaching the safe house from the rear through service alleys that avoided direct sightlines. As they moved, Dick felt a strange calm settling over him – not the absence of fear, but its transformation into focused awareness. He was still afraid, still angry, but those emotions no longer controlled him completely.
The GCPD safe house was a nondescript brownstone nestled among the Diamond District's pricier residences—deliberately unassuming, with security features visible only to the trained eye. Two unmarked patrol cars were parked across the street, officers maintaining vigilant watch while trying to appear casual. Standard procedure for high-profile witnesses, though woefully inadequate against the caliber of assassins now targeting Judge Hargrove.
Talia brought her motorcycle to a stop two blocks away, pulling into a darkened alley that offered both concealment and a clear line of sight to the safe house's main entrance. She scanned the surrounding buildings, identifying three separate sniper positions, all currently unoccupied but tactically optimal. The assassin-turned-protector within her appreciated the angles even as she noted the deficiencies in the GCPD's perimeter defense.
"Rooftop, northeast corner," she said quietly, pointing to a building kitty-corner from the safe house. "That's where I would position a long-range shooter. The angle covers both the front entrance and the emergency exit on the eastern side."
Dick's eyes followed her gesture, his sharp acrobat's vision quickly identifying the tactical advantage of the position. He'd arrived ten minutes before her, having taken a more direct—and considerably more reckless—route through Gotham's notoriously treacherous traffic.
"So that's where Deathstroke will be," he concluded, his voice hardening at the name.
Talia turned to study him, assessing not just his physical readiness but his mental state. The boy's frame was tense, coiled like a spring, eyes scanning the perimeter with a mixture of tactical awareness and barely restrained emotion.
"Remember what we discussed," she said quietly. "Observation first. Action second."
Dick nodded, though his attention remained fixed on the building's entry points, cataloging them with surprising efficiency for one so young. "Three officers on rotation. Two-minute intervals. Sightlines compromised by the eastern alley."
"Good," Talia acknowledged, impressed despite herself. The boy's observational skills were sharper than she'd initially credited. "What would be your approach?"
"I wouldn't use the roof," Dick replied, his voice steadier now that he was focused on tactics rather than emotion. "Too exposed. The utility access in the alley provides better cover and puts us behind their security perimeter."
"An astute assessment." Talia's praise was measured but genuine. "Now, what is our objective?"
"Warn Gordon. Secure the judge. Evacuate through the tunnels before Deathstroke arrives." Dick recited their plan, though something flickered in his eyes at the assassin's name.
Talia caught it immediately. "Your self-control is improving, but your eyes still betray you when you speak his name."
Dick's jaw tightened. "I can handle it."
"Handling your emotions and mastering them are different skills," Talia corrected, her tone gentle but firm. "The former merely contains; the latter transforms rage into precision."
"Like Bruce did?" Dick asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his defensive posture.
"Eventually," Talia acknowledged. "Though his journey was neither quick nor easy. He resisted the discipline at first, much as you do now."
Dick seemed to absorb this, his gaze drifting back to the safe house with new consideration. "Was he as angry as I am? After his parents..."
"Perhaps more so," Talia replied, allowing a rare glimpse into Bruce's past. "His anger had years to harden, to become the foundation of his identity. Yours is still raw, fluid. There is opportunity in that."
"Opportunity for what?"
"To choose a different path." Talia's voice softened imperceptibly. "To honor your parents without becoming defined solely by their absence."
A complex emotion passed across Dick's face – something between resistance and recognition. "Is that why you're helping me? To steer me away from becoming like him?"
"I'm helping you because you matter to him," Talia answered, her gaze returning to the safe house. "And because I recognize potential worth nurturing, not sacrificing in a foolish confrontation."
Dick fell silent, processing her words with surprising maturity for his age. Finally, he asked, "If we do encounter Deathstroke, what should I expect?"
The question revealed a shift in his thinking – from reckless determination to tactical preparation. Talia recognized the progress, small but significant.
"Expect precision. Economy of movement. No wasted energy or unnecessary flourish," she explained. "Deathstroke's enhancement gives him speed and strength beyond normal human capacity, but his true weapon is calculation. He analyzes opponents, identifies patterns, exploits weaknesses."
"So unpredictability is an advantage," Dick concluded, his acrobatic background informing his tactical thinking.
Talia nodded. "But unpredictability without purpose is merely chaos. Your circus training gives you movement patterns unusual enough to momentarily confuse conventional opponents. Against someone like Deathstroke, they become data points in his analysis."
"Then how do you beat someone who can predict everything you do?"
"You don't fight his battle," Talia replied simply. "You define different victory conditions. Tonight, victory isn't defeating Deathstroke – it's ensuring Judge Hargrove's safety."
Dick considered this, visibly working through the implications. The strategic reframing seemed to settle something in him, his breathing steadying as his posture became more centered.
"I can do that," he said with newfound clarity. "Focus on the judge, not vengeance."
"Good." Talia allowed a hint of approval to show in her expression. "Now, our approach. I'll make first contact as discussed. Your role is to remain undetected until I've established our credibility with Gordon."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Then we adapt," Talia replied. "But remember our agreement. No engagement with Deathstroke without my explicit command. Your word, Richard."
Something in her tone – perhaps the use of his formal name, perhaps the implicit trust in asking for his oath – reached through Dick's remaining defenses. He straightened slightly, meeting her gaze directly.
"You have my word," he said, the promise carrying weight beyond his years.
Talia studied him for a moment longer, searching for any hint of deception or reservation. Finding none, she nodded once, accepting his commitment.
"Let's proceed. Stay three steps behind me, left flank, silent movement as I showed you earlier."
They moved toward the safe house with synchronized purpose, Talia's fluid grace matched by Dick's natural agility. The transformation in the boy over just these few hours was remarkable – his movements now containing purpose beyond mere speed, his awareness extending beyond immediate threats to encompass the complete tactical environment.
Bruce had chosen well in taking this child under his protection, Talia reflected. Raw talent shaped by tragedy, tempered by discipline. The parallels were unmistakable, though the differences equally significant. Where Bruce's journey had been solitary, forged in isolation, this boy had guidance from the beginning – first from his parents, now from Bruce, and temporarily from her.
Perhaps that difference would prove crucial in determining whether Richard Grayson followed Batman's path exactly, or forged something uniquely his own.
"The rear entrance will have two guards minimum," Talia murmured as they neared the building. She paused, reaching into her bag to extract a small bundle of fabric. "Here. Put these on."
Dick unfolded the items—a dark blue domino mask and a hooded cloak that matched the color of his circus costume.
"The mask will conceal your identity, and the hood will obscure your features further," Talia explained, helping him adjust the mask over his eyes. "Even if someone recognizes your acrobat suit, they won't immediately connect it to Richard Grayson."
Dick nodded, grateful for the disguise. The domino mask was surprisingly comfortable, adhering to his skin with some kind of adhesive that felt secure without pulling. The hood cast his face in shadow, giving him an anonymity that felt both foreign and strangely empowering.
"I will identify myself as Batman's associate with urgent information regarding the judge's protection," Talia continued. "You will remain in shadow until I signal that it's safe. Keep the hood up and your face angled downward—let them see only what you choose to reveal."
Dick nodded again, settling the hood more securely over his head, feeling a new confidence in his concealment. They reached the building's rear entrance, a nondescript door with reinforced hinges and a modern security pad that looked distinctly more sophisticated than the building's aging facade would suggest.
As predicted, two officers stood guard—one visibly at the door, another partially concealed in the shadows of a recessed doorway across the alley. Talia approached openly, hands visible at her sides in the universal signal of non-hostile intent.
"Officer," she called softly, her accent deliberately modulated to sound more American than it naturally was. "I have urgent information regarding an imminent threat to Judge Hargrove. I need to speak with Commissioner Gordon immediately."
The visible guard's hand moved instinctively toward his holstered weapon. "Ma'am, you need to step back. This is a restricted area."
"I understand," Talia replied calmly. "But matters of life and death rarely respect jurisdictional boundaries. I'm here on behalf of Batman, with information directly relevant to the assassins targeting the judge."
The mention of Batman's name caused the officer to hesitate. "Wait here," he ordered, keying his radio to request verification while maintaining visual contact with Talia.
Within minutes, the door opened to reveal Jim Gordon himself, his expression a mixture of wariness and exhaustion as he assessed the unexpected visitor.
"Miss...?" he began, clearly expecting an introduction.
"Al Ghul," Talia supplied. "Talia al Ghul. I believe we have a mutual friend who is currently indisposed due to an encounter with one of the assassins targeting Judge Hargrove."
Understanding flickered in Gordon's eyes. "Inside," he said tersely, stepping back to allow her entry. "Just you."
"I'm afraid I have a young companion who is also involved in this situation," Talia replied smoothly. "A child with relevant information about these assassins."
Gordon's brow furrowed, his gaze shifting to the hooded figure lurking in the shadows. Dick kept his face angled downward as Talia had instructed, the domino mask and hood combining to obscure his features effectively.
Before Gordon could object, Dick stepped forward, his small form somehow commanding presence despite his youth. The hood framed his masked face, leaving his identity a mystery while still allowing him to speak clearly.
"Commissioner," he greeted with a maturity that seemed at odds with his age. "Batman sent us to warn you. Deathstroke and Copperhead are coming for Judge Hargrove tonight. We don't have much time."
Gordon's eyes narrowed, studying the disguised child with professional suspicion. "And you are?"
"Someone who's seen what these assassins can do," Dick replied, careful to keep his voice steady. "Someone who wants to prevent more deaths."
Talia intervened smoothly. "The assassins have formed a temporary alliance—forty million for Batman, additional payment for eliminating or capturing the judge. They'll be here within the hour, if they're not already watching the building."
The urgency in her tone convinced Gordon where words alone might not have. He ushered them inside, leading them through a narrow corridor to a secure room where Detective Montoya and another officer stood guard outside a closed door—presumably Judge Hargrove's temporary quarters.
"Talk," Gordon ordered once they were inside, his voice pitched low to avoid alarming the others. "And make it fast. Why should I believe anything either of you is saying?"
"Because Batman is currently incapacitated by a neurotoxin specifically designed to counter his enhanced immune system," Talia replied without hesitation. "Because Alberto Falcone has systematically been gathering biological data from every confrontation with Batman to create targeted countermeasures. And because the Bat-signal has been active for twenty minutes with no response—something that hasn't happened in the three years since he began operating in Gotham."
This last piece of information visibly shook Gordon. "How badly is he hurt?" he asked, momentarily forgetting his professional distance.
"He will recover," Talia assured him. "But he is in no condition to protect Judge Hargrove tonight. Which is why we need to move her immediately, through the prohibition-era tunnels beneath this building that connect to the old Diamond Exchange three blocks east."
Gordon's eyebrows rose. "Those tunnels aren't on any official blueprint. How did you—"
"The same way I know that your current security perimeter has at least four exploitable vulnerabilities, two of which would be child's play for assassins of Deathstroke and Copperhead's caliber." Talia's tone brooked no argument. "Commissioner, I respect your authority in this jurisdiction, but we are wasting precious time. Judge Hargrove needs to be moved now."
Gordon studied her for a long moment, then turned to Dick, whose features remained shadowed beneath his hood, the domino mask catching what little light penetrated the shadows. "And you? What's your role in all this?"
Dick straightened, struggling to project confidence through his disguise. "I'm here to help. I know these assassins, their methods. I was there when Deathstroke killed people I cared about."
Something in the boy's voice—pain barely contained beneath controlled words—seemed to decide something for Gordon. He nodded once, then moved to the door, speaking quietly to Montoya and the other officer. Moments later, a woman in her sixties emerged—Judge Maria Hargrove, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, her expression suggesting she was more annoyed than frightened by the interruption.
"Commissioner, I was told this safe house was secure," she began, only to fall silent as she registered the presence of a masked child and an unknown woman in what should have been a highly restricted area.
"Change of plans, Your Honor," Gordon said tersely. "We have credible intelligence suggesting this location has been compromised. We're moving you through an alternate route."
"I see," Hargrove replied, her shrewd gaze moving between Talia and the hooded figure with open curiosity. "And these individuals are...?"
Before Gordon could respond, a distant crack echoed from above—glass breaking somewhere on the building's upper floors. Talia's posture shifted instantly, all pretense of casual visitor vanishing as she moved to a defensive position.
"They're here," she said quietly. "Earlier than anticipated."
Gordon was already reaching for his service weapon, issuing rapid-fire orders to Montoya and the other officers. "Secure the judge. Fall back to extraction point B. Radio for backup—silent approach, no sirens."
"There's no time," Talia cut in, her voice sharper. "Copperhead moves faster than your officers can react. The tunnels are our only option now."
As if summoned by her words, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the floor above, followed by a heavy thud—the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. Moments later, the building's lights flickered and died, emergency systems engaging with a low, persistent hum.
"They've cut the main power," Gordon observed grimly, drawing his weapon. "Montoya, take point. Martinez, rear guard. We move now."
Talia had already moved to the room's single window, peering through the blinds with calculated caution. "Dick," she called softly, "to me."
The boy approached, every muscle tense with anticipation beneath his hooded cloak. Outside, the street appeared normal—too normal, with no movement from the officers who should have been visible in the patrol cars.
"Stay with Gordon and the judge," Talia instructed, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "Guide them to the tunnels. I will delay our visitors."
"But you said—" Dick began to protest, his masked face turning up toward her from beneath the shadowed hood. The domino mask concealed his identity but couldn't hide the determination in his eyes.
"Circumstances have changed," she cut him off. "This is not about your vendetta. This is about ensuring Judge Hargrove's survival while I neutralize the threats. Understood?"
Before Dick could respond, the door to their secure room burst inward, wood splintering as something—someone—crashed through it with inhuman force. Copperhead's sinuous form uncoiled from her landing position, toxic claws already extended toward the nearest target—Judge Hargrove herself. Her unnatural flexibility made the movement seem fluid yet wrong, like watching a predator from another evolutionary branch entirely.
Gordon's service weapon discharged three times in rapid succession, each shot precise but ultimately futile as Copperhead twisted in ways that defied human anatomy, the bullets passing harmlessly through the space where she should have been. Her body curved impossibly, vertebrae shifting visibly beneath scaled skin as she evaded with serpentine grace.
"¡Qué decepción!" ["What a disappointment!"] she hissed, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim emergency lighting. The vertical pupils contracted to thin slits as she assessed her opponents. "I expected more challenge than this."
Talia moved with liquid grace, intercepting Copperhead before she could reach the judge. Her movements carried the deadly precision of decades of League training—no wasted motion, no telegraphed intent. "You'll find challenge enough in me," she promised, her stance shifting to the distinctive opening form of the League's most lethal combat discipline. Her hands formed precise angles, feet positioning for perfect balance even as her weight remained ready to shift in any direction.
Copperhead's eyes widened with recognition, then narrowed with predatory anticipation. Her tongue flickered out, tasting the air with an uncanny resemblance to the reptile she was named for. "The Daughter of the Demon. Twice in one night. What an unexpected pleasure."
"Get the judge out," Talia ordered, never taking her eyes off Copperhead as the two circled each other in the confined space. Her peripheral awareness tracked Gordon's movement while maintaining absolute focus on the immediate threat. "The tunnels. Now!"
Gordon didn't waste time arguing, already maneuvering Hargrove toward the far corner of the room where a concealed access point presumably lay. Montoya and Martinez provided cover, weapons trained on the destroyed doorway to prevent additional incursions. Dick stood frozen for a heartbeat, torn between following Talia's instructions and his desperate need to confront his parents' killer.
The air between Talia and Copperhead seemed to crackle with lethal potential. Copperhead's fighting style was unpredictable, her enhanced physiology allowing movements no traditional combat training could anticipate. She feinted left, her body coiling like a spring before launching into a blindingly fast combination—claws slashing toward Talia's neck and torso simultaneously from seemingly impossible angles.
Talia responded with the fluid precision of League techniques refined over centuries. Where Copperhead relied on unnatural flexibility and toxic weaponry, Talia countered with calculated anticipation and perfect economy of movement. She seemed to flow around the assassin's attacks, never meeting force with force but redirecting and exploiting openings that appeared for microseconds.
"Your speed is impressive," Talia acknowledged, deflecting a particularly vicious swipe that would have opened her throat. "But predictable to those trained to see patterns in chaos."
Copperhead's response was a venomous hiss as she redoubled her assault, her body twisting in ways that made Dick's stomach turn just watching. The seams of her costume strained as her skeletal structure reconfigured itself to attack from multiple vectors simultaneously.
But as they reached the far wall, a new figure appeared in the shattered doorframe—massive, armored, the gleam of an orange and black mask visible even in the dim emergency lighting. Deathstroke stood motionless for a heartbeat, his single eye surveying the room with calculated precision, cataloging threats and targets with professional detachment. The moonlight from the window caught the edge of his armor, giving him an almost spectral quality against the darkened hallway behind him.
Dick felt his heart stutter, then race uncontrollably. Through the eye slits of his domino mask, he stared at the assassin who had destroyed his world with such casual indifference. His parents' murderer, standing mere feet away, radiating lethal competence and absolute control. The air in Dick's lungs seemed to crystallize, making each breath painful.
"Sloppy, Copperhead," Deathstroke observed, voice modulated through his mask's filter system. The clinical disapproval carried clearly despite the mechanical distortion. "Alerting the targets before proper containment was established."
"Cállate," ["Shut up,"] she snapped back, her concentration on Talia momentarily broken by the criticism. Her yellow eyes flashed with genuine anger. "The situation became fluid. I adapted."
"Evidently," Deathstroke replied dryly, his gaze shifting to Judge Hargrove who was now partially concealed behind Gordon's protective stance. The assassin's posture betrayed no tension despite the chaotic scene—merely professional assessment and tactical calculation. "Judge Maria Hargrove. My contract specifies your delivery alive and unharmed. I suggest you come willingly to avoid unnecessary complications."
"Go to hell," Hargrove responded with surprising ferocity for a woman in her sixties. The judge's spine straightened, her chin lifting with dignified defiance.
"Not on tonight's itinerary, Your Honor," Deathstroke replied, almost conversational as he began moving into the room with measured steps. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, not yet drawing it but making the threat implicitly clear. "Though accommodation can be arranged if you insist on resistance."
It was then that Dick, who had been positioned behind Gordon, did the one thing Talia had explicitly forbidden. The sight of Deathstroke's casual confidence broke something inside him—the fragile restraint he'd been clinging to since recognizing the assassin. With a feral cry that contained all the rage and grief of his parents' murder, he launched himself directly at Deathstroke, the telescoping staff he'd taken from the Batcave already extended and aimed at the assassin's head.
His hooded cloak billowed behind him as he moved, the domino mask concealing his identity but not the raw fury driving his attack. The staff whistled through the air as he brought it down in a perfectly executed strike that combined the athletic precision of his circus training with the combat techniques Bruce had begun teaching him.
The attack was flawless—a textbook combination of circus acrobatics and the basic combat forms Bruce had taught him. In any other circumstance, against any other opponent, it might even have been effective. The angle, the velocity, the tactical approach to an opponent's blind side—all executed with impressive skill for one so young.
But this was Deathstroke, enhanced reflexes already responding before Dick had completed his leap. The assassin's combat awareness operated on a different level entirely—processing information and initiating responses faster than ordinary human physiology allowed.
The assassin sidestepped with unnatural speed, one gauntleted hand reaching out to pluck Dick from mid-air as effortlessly as catching a softball. The movement was almost casual, yet precise enough to avoid the staff's trajectory while simultaneously securing the attacking child.
"Curious," Deathstroke observed, genuine surprise evident even through his mask's filter as he recognized the distinctive blue and gold costume beneath the hooded cloak. The domino mask concealed the boy's identity, but the unique acrobatic approach and costume were distinctive enough to register recognition in the assassin's analytical mind. "The contract specified no interference from masked children playing hero."
Dick thrashed in Deathstroke's grip, rage overwhelming technique as he struck out with fists, feet, anything that might connect with his parents' murderer. His hood fell back, fully revealing the domino mask that concealed his identity while leaving his fury plainly visible. "You killed them!" he screamed, voice cracking with the force of his fury. "You watched them fall! You just stood there and watched!"
Deathstroke held the boy at arm's length, seemingly unaffected by the assault. His armor absorbed the impacts of Dick's desperate strikes while his enhanced strength made containing the struggling child effortless. "Contract parameters," he replied simply. "Nothing personal, kid."
"It was personal to ME!" Dick twisted violently, breaking Deathstroke's grip through sheer determination rather than technique. He dropped to the floor in a controlled crouch, immediately launching into another attack sequence—wilder now, less precise, but fueled by a hatred so pure it gave his movements unnatural strength.
Across the room, Talia and Copperhead were engaged in their own deadly dance—Talia's precision against Copperhead's inhuman flexibility. The assassin's toxic claws slashed through the air, missing Talia by millimeters as she wove between attacks with the fluid grace of decades of training. Each exchange increased in speed and intensity, both combatants testing boundaries and exploiting momentary weaknesses.
Copperhead's frustration grew visible with each failed combination. Where her unnatural abilities usually granted overwhelming advantage, against Talia's League-trained responses they merely achieved stalemate. Her strikes became increasingly reckless, sacrificing control for potential impact.
"¡Quédate quieta, perra!" ["Stay still, bitch!"] Copperhead hissed in frustration, her attacks becoming increasingly wild as Talia continued to evade without apparent effort. The assassin's toxic claws left faint green trails in the air, marking paths of potential death that never found their target.
"Your technique degrades when frustrated," Talia observed clinically, landing a precise strike to Copperhead's solar plexus that briefly disrupted the assassin's breathing. The blow connected at exactly the moment Copperhead extended for another attack, maximizing impact while minimizing her ability to absorb or redirect the force. "A weakness my father would have eliminated through proper discipline."
Meanwhile, Gordon and Montoya had managed to activate the concealed entrance to the tunnels—a section of wall sliding aside to reveal a narrow passageway. The mechanism responded to hidden pressure points, revealing an opening barely large enough for a single person to pass through. Martinez was already guiding Judge Hargrove into the opening, the judge's earlier defiance now tempered by the practical reality of professional assassins in close quarters.
"Fall back!" Gordon called to the masked boy still attacking Deathstroke with futile determination. His tone carried genuine concern despite not knowing the child's identity. "Now!"
But Dick was beyond hearing, beyond rational thought. His world had narrowed to the man before him—the white-haired, one-eyed killer who had destroyed his family, his future, everything that had once made sense in his young life. Each blow he landed (and there were precious few, despite his considerable natural talent) was a fraction of the justice he sought. Each time Deathstroke casually deflected his attacks only fueled his rage further.
The masked boy threw himself into increasingly reckless combinations, abandoning the disciplined techniques Bruce had taught him in favor of raw, emotional assault. His cloak whipped around him as he moved, occasionally obscuring his own vision but never dampening his relentless attacks.
"You've got spirit, kid," Deathstroke acknowledged, blocking a particularly vicious strike from Dick's staff without apparent effort. He didn't counter, merely neutralized, his defensive posture communicating professional assessment rather than genuine combat intention. "Raw talent, too. Reminds me of another protégé I once trained."
"I'm nothing like you!" Dick spat, launching into another combination—a spinning attack that incorporated elements of his aerial training, momentarily catching Deathstroke off-guard enough to land a glancing blow to the assassin's shoulder. The impact was minimal against the armored plating, but the fact that it connected at all represented remarkable achievement against an opponent of Deathstroke's caliber.
"More than you realize," Deathstroke countered, his response now taking on a teacher's evaluative quality rather than a combatant's defensive posture. "The anger, the drive, the natural aptitude—I recognize the pattern. Your circus training provides foundation most warriors spend decades developing. With proper guidance, you could become something exceptional."
"Shut up!" Dick's next attack was wild, uncoordinated—emotion completely overwhelming technique as he threw himself bodily at his parents' killer. The disciplined approach that had allowed his one successful strike vanished, replaced by blind rage that telegraphed every intention.
This time, Deathstroke didn't simply deflect. He countered, a precise strike that sent Dick crashing into the wall with enough force to stun but not seriously injure. The blow was calibrated with surgical precision—sufficient to neutralize without causing permanent damage. The boy crumpled to the floor, momentarily disoriented but already struggling to regain his feet, blood trickling from a split lip beneath his mask.
"Stay down," Deathstroke advised, his tone almost paternal in its stern command. "This isn't your fight."
"It became my fight when you killed my parents," Dick gasped, pushing himself upright through sheer willpower. His legs trembled beneath him, but his eyes remained focused through the mask, burning with an intensity that impressed even the veteran assassin. The hood of his cloak had fallen completely back, revealing his full masked face and the determination etched into every feature not covered by the domino mask.
Across the room, Talia had gained the upper hand against Copperhead, a series of precisely calculated strikes forcing the serpentine assassin into an increasingly defensive posture. Each exchange revealed the gap in their training—Copperhead's formidable abilities met and exceeded by techniques refined over centuries by the League of Shadows.
Talia's approach showed none of the emotional vulnerability Dick's did. Where the boy attacked from grief and rage, she moved with calculated purpose, each strike part of a larger strategic sequence designed to progressively limit her opponent's options. She had maneuvered Copperhead into a corner both literally and tactically, reducing available responses with each exchange.
"¡Maldita sea!" ["Damn it!"] Copperhead cursed as Talia landed another disabling strike, this one temporarily paralyzing her left arm. The precision blow had targeted a nerve cluster with such accuracy that even Copperhead's enhanced physiology couldn't compensate immediately. "What are you?"
"Beyond your comprehension," Talia replied simply, her next sequence of attacks driving Copperhead back toward the shattered doorway. Her expression remained composed throughout, revealing nothing of the considerable effort required to counter an opponent with such unnatural capabilities.
The sound of approaching sirens penetrated the room—GCPD backup finally arriving despite Gordon's orders for silent approach. The wailing rose and fell, growing steadily closer with each passing second. Deathstroke's head tilted slightly, the professional assassin instantly calculating changing variables.
"Time to conclude this operation," he announced, drawing his sword in a single fluid motion that sent light glinting along the blade. The weapon emerged with deceptive casualness, but its edge caught the emergency lighting with lethal promise. "Judge Hargrove has escaped containment. Secondary objectives now take priority."
Dick, still unsteady but undeterred, positioned himself between Deathstroke and the tunnel entrance where Gordon was extracting the judge. His small frame seemed impossibly fragile against the armored assassin, yet his stance communicated absolute determination. Blood from his split lip stained the lower edge of his mask, but his posture remained defiant. "You'll have to go through me," he declared, voice steady despite his obvious physical distress.
"Unnecessary," Deathstroke replied, turning away from Dick in dismissal. The casual rejection was perhaps more wounding than any physical strike had been. "The contract parameters have changed. Tactical withdrawal is now optimal."
The dismissal struck Dick more deeply than the previous physical blow. To be deemed not even worth engaging—to have his challenge so completely disregarded—provoked something primal in the boy. A wounded cry of thwarted vengeance escaped him as he launched himself at Deathstroke's back, staff raised for a desperate strike, his cloak billowing behind him like dark wings.
This time, Deathstroke didn't bother with evaluation or restraint. He pivoted with inhuman speed, his gauntleted fist connecting with Dick's midsection with carefully calculated force—enough to incapacitate without causing permanent damage. The boy doubled over, air driven from his lungs as he collapsed to his knees, the domino mask unable to conceal the shock and pain etched across his features.
"Courage without strategy is merely suicide," Deathstroke observed, standing over Dick's gasping form. "Remember that lesson, boy. It might serve you better than blind rage." He turned toward Copperhead, who was still struggling against Talia's relentless assault. "We're leaving. Now."
"Busy at the moment," Copperhead hissed, barely avoiding another of Talia's precisely targeted strikes. Her functional arm deflected a potentially disabling blow while her temporarily paralyzed limb hung uselessly at her side.
"Not a request," Deathstroke replied, already moving toward the window rather than the compromised main entrance where GCPD reinforcements would soon arrive. His tone carried absolute command rather than suggestion—the voice of someone accustomed to unquestioned authority.
Copperhead attempted to disengage, leaping backward with unnatural agility to create distance between herself and Talia. But the Daughter of the Demon pressed her advantage, refusing to allow the serpentine assassin the space she needed. Talia's next sequence—a lightning-fast combination of strikes targeting vital points—connected with devastating precision.
The final, devastating combination sent Copperhead crashing to the floor, momentarily stunned. The impact drove the breath from her lungs in a pained hiss, her enhanced body temporarily overwhelmed by the precision of Talia's assault.
"Our partnership is concluded," Deathstroke informed Copperhead, not bothering to assist his fallen ally as he prepared to exit through the window. His single eye assessed the tactical situation with cold efficiency, calculating risks and probable outcomes with machine-like precision. "Nothing personal."
"Bastardo traidor," ["Traitorous bastard,"] Copperhead spat, struggling to regain her feet as Talia moved to secure her. The temporary paralysis was beginning to fade, but not quickly enough to escape the specialized restraints Talia was already deploying.
Deathstroke paused at the window, his single eye finding Dick, who was still on his knees but glaring up at him with undiminished hatred from behind his mask. The boy's hood had fallen completely back, his dark hair disheveled from combat, but his determination remained unbroken despite his physical defeat.
"When you're ready for real training, kid, look me up," Deathstroke said, his voice carrying a strange mixture of professional respect and genuine interest. "That anger could be channeled into something useful with the right guidance."
With that parting offer, he was gone—a shadow melting into Gotham's night, leaving Copperhead to her fate as GCPD officers began pouring into the building, shouts and pounding feet announcing their arrival moments before they burst into the room, weapons drawn.
Talia had already subdued Copperhead fully, specialized restraints securing the assassin's toxic claws and unnaturally flexible limbs. The League-designed bindings could adapt to her contortionist abilities, preventing the escape techniques that would have rendered conventional restraints useless. Gordon emerged from the tunnel entrance, having ensured Judge Hargrove's safe extraction through the underground passage, his expression grim as he surveyed the aftermath of the confrontation.
"Secure the prisoner," he ordered as officers moved to take custody of the captured assassin. His voice carried the authority of decades of command, brooking no argument from even the most experienced officers. "Full biohazard protocols—those claws are coated with neurotoxin."
Copperhead laughed, the sound more serpentine hiss than human amusement. Her yellow eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction despite her capture. "Demasiado tarde, Comisionado," ["Too late, Commissioner,"] she taunted. "The toxin I designed for Batman is already in production. Next time, he won't survive the dose."
Gordon ignored her, turning his attention to Dick, who remained on his knees, still struggling to regain his breath after Deathstroke's precisely calculated blow. The commissioner's expression softened with genuine concern as he approached the masked boy. "Are you hurt?" he asked, professional demeanor momentarily giving way to paternal worry.
"I'm fine," Dick managed, though the tremor in his voice suggested otherwise. He adjusted his mask slightly, ensuring it remained securely in place despite the combat. The rage that had sustained him was ebbing, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that threatened to consume him. His hands shook slightly as he pulled his hood back up, seeking its concealing shadow.
Talia moved to his side, her earlier sternness replaced by something almost gentle as she helped him to his feet. Her hand steadied him with surprising tenderness, supporting without diminishing his dignity. "You fought with courage, if not wisdom," she observed quietly. "But he was right about one thing—strategy must temper emotion, or you will never survive battles like these."
Dick looked up at her, his masked eyes revealing something shifting in his expression—not surrender of his anger, but perhaps the first fragile recognition that there might be more effective channels for it than blind assault. The lesson had been painful but not without value.
"We need to leave," Talia continued, her attention shifting to Gordon who was supervising Copperhead's transfer to a secure GCPD transport vehicle. "Before questions become more difficult to answer."
Gordon approached, his expression a complex mixture of professional duty and personal concern. "I need statements from both of you," he began, though his tone suggested he already knew the response he would receive. His gaze lingered on Dick's masked face, questions evident but unasked.
"What you need, Commissioner, is to secure Judge Hargrove and process your prisoner," Talia replied smoothly. "We were never here—a fictional detail in the confusion of a chaotic night. For the boy's protection, if nothing else." Her hand remained protectively on Dick's shoulder, a subtle but clear statement of guardianship.
Gordon's gaze shifted to Dick, who stood slightly straighter under the scrutiny, trying to project a composure he didn't fully feel behind his mask. Though the domino concealed his identity, the commissioner's shrewd eyes seemed to see through the disguise to the exhausted child beneath. "Batman sent a child into this?"
"Batman is currently incapacitated by the very toxin your prisoner was bragging about," Talia answered before Dick could speak. "We acted in his absence to ensure Judge Hargrove's safety. The details are irrelevant to your official report."
Something in Gordon's expression suggested he understood more than he was willing to verbalize—connections forming behind the shrewd eyes that had made him Gotham's most effective police commissioner in decades. The pieces were aligning, though he seemed deliberately reluctant to assemble the complete picture.
"Get him home," he said finally, the instruction clearly directed at Talia rather than Dick. "And tell your mutual friend that we need to talk when he's recovered."
Talia inclined her head in acknowledgment, her hand remaining supportively on Dick's shoulder as she guided him toward a side exit, away from the growing number of officers processing the scene. She adjusted his hood as they moved, ensuring his disguise remained secure despite their departure.
"Will he be okay?" Dick asked quietly as they moved through the shadows toward where Talia had hidden her vehicle. He reached up to touch his mask, confirming it was still in place. "Batman, I mean. Will he recover completely?"
"Yes," Talia assured him, her confident tone brooking no argument. "His body is already healing, though his mind may take longer to fully clear the toxin's effects."
Dick nodded, absorbing this with the same serious consideration he applied to everything. "And Deathstroke? He'll try again, won't he?"
Talia studied him, noting the change in his tone—the raw, blind rage now tempered by something more thoughtful, more strategic. The mask concealed his eyes, but his voice revealed a shift in perspective that no disguise could hide. "Yes. But when he does, you'll be better prepared. We both will."
As they reached their vehicles, Dick paused, looking back toward the safe house where police lights now painted the night in alternating red and blue. "I couldn't stop him," he said quietly, the admission clearly painful. "I tried everything I knew, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't even close."
"No, it wasn't," Talia agreed, her honesty brutal but necessary. "But that doesn't mean it never will be." She knelt to his level, meeting his masked gaze directly. "You have potential, Richard Grayson. More than most I've encountered in decades of evaluating warriors. But potential without discipline, without proper guidance, is merely wasted opportunity."
Dick absorbed this, something resolving in his expression—determination replacing despair, purpose crystallizing from chaos. "I want to learn," he said simply. "Really learn. Not just Bruce's defensive techniques, but everything. How to fight. How to think. How to beat him."
Talia rose, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts as she considered the implications of the boy's request. "That is a conversation for another time," she said finally. "When Bruce has recovered and can participate in the decision."
They traveled back to Wayne Manor in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as Gotham's midnight landscape blurred past. In the east, the faintest hint of dawn was beginning to lighten the sky.