Three levels down in the construction site's skeletal framework, Talia had been locked in combat with Copperhead for several minutes. The serpentine assassin moved like smoke through the maze of steel beams and concrete barriers, her unnatural flexibility making her nearly impossible to pin down.
"Still running, daddy's little princess?" Copperhead taunted as she flowed around a support beam. "I thought the League taught you to face your enemies directly."
"The League taught me to choose my battles wisely," Talia replied, tracking Copperhead's movement while positioning herself near a concrete pillar. "Something you clearly never learned."
Copperhead's laugh was venomous as she launched herself from an overhead beam, claws extended toward Talia's throat. "Twenty-four hours in GCPD custody gave me plenty of time to plan your death!"
Talia spun, her curved blade deflecting the strike in a shower of sparks. But Copperhead was already flowing into her next attack, using her impossible flexibility to strike from behind while appearing to retreat forward.
The assault was more coordinated than their previous encounter. Copperhead had clearly analyzed their first fight, identifying weaknesses and patterns she could exploit. Her claws found their mark, tracing a thin line of blood across Talia's cheek before the League operative could fully evade.
"First blood to me," Copperhead purred, her yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"And your last mistake," Talia replied coldly.
The League's Daughter pressed her counterattack with increased aggression, her blade work becoming faster and more precise. But just as she began to gain the upper hand, Copperhead did something unexpected—she went low, her spine compressing impossibly as she swept Talia's legs while simultaneously striking upward with venomous claws.
The dual-vector attack caught Talia off-guard, sending her stumbling backward toward the concrete pillar. Copperhead pressed her advantage, flowing forward like liquid death, claws aimed directly at Talia's heart as she tried to regain her balance.
That's when Batman arrived.
He dropped through a gap in the floor above, cape spreading to control his descent as he landed directly between Copperhead and her target. His gauntleted fist caught the assassin in the midsection with devastating force, lifting her off her feet and sending her sliding across the concrete.
"Seemed like you could use some backup," Batman said, never taking his eyes off Copperhead as she flowed back to her feet.
"Your timing is impeccable," Talia acknowledged, immediately moving to flank their opponent.
Copperhead's expression twisted with rage as she assessed the new situation. "Perfect! Now I can kill both of you and rebuild my reputation in one night!"
She released a fine aerosol toxin into the air, filling the immediate area with a sickly sweet mist designed to disorient her opponents. But Talia was ready with a League countermeasure, her neutralizing device clearing the air around them before the toxin could take effect.
"Chemical advantages neutralized," Talia announced. "Standard engagement protocols."
With her primary weapon negated, Copperhead was forced to rely on pure physical combat. She launched herself at Batman with serpentine speed, her body compressing before exploding forward in a complex attack pattern that targeted multiple points simultaneously.
Batman's cape snapped out to deflect her claws while he pivoted away from her leg sweep. But Copperhead was already transitioning, using her momentum to flow toward Talia without ever touching the ground.
The coordination between Batman and Talia developed rapidly as they fought. Where he brought overwhelming power and intimidation, she contributed surgical precision and tactical flexibility. They began working as one unit, each attack creating openings for the other to exploit.
Copperhead found herself increasingly pressed as their teamwork improved. She flowed up a support beam to gain vertical advantage, launching herself at Batman from above, but he was ready for her.
He caught her mid-air, his enhanced strength allowing him to redirect her momentum into a controlled throw that sent her crashing into construction equipment. The impact would have shattered a normal person's bones, but Copperhead's enhanced physiology allowed her to roll with the damage.
"You're stronger than I expected," she admitted, wiping blood from her mouth as she regained her footing. "But I'm still faster than both of you."
To prove her point, she launched her most desperate gambit—attacking the space between them, forcing each to choose between personal defense and protecting their partner.
Batman's response redefined the engagement entirely. His grappling gun fired upward, yanking him out of Copperhead's strike zone while creating the exact opening Talia needed.
"Now!" Batman called from above.
Talia flowed into the gap with lethal precision, her blade finding the nerve cluster in Copperhead's shoulder that temporarily paralyzed her left side. The assassin's enhanced reflexes couldn't compensate for the sudden loss of coordination, leaving her vulnerable as Batman dropped from above.
His boots connected with her shoulders at the exact moment Talia's follow-up strike targeted her remaining functional arm. The coordinated assault overwhelmed Copperhead's enhanced physiology completely.
She collapsed, finally defeated by opponents who had learned to fight as a single, coordinated force.
"Specialized restraints," Talia said, producing League equipment designed for enhanced individuals as she secured the unconscious assassin. "These should hold her until proper containment can be arranged."
In the aftermath of combat, they found themselves standing close together, adrenaline still coursing through their systems. The successful coordination had awakened something beyond mere professional respect—a recognition of the connection that had always existed between them.
"We make a good team," Talia observed quietly, her usual formal distance softening slightly.
"We always did," Batman replied, his voice carrying warmth that rarely surfaced through the cowl.
For a moment, years of separation and complicated history seemed to dissolve. Talia stepped closer, her hand reaching up to touch the side of his cowl with surprising tenderness.
"Bruce," she said softly, using his real name in a way that bridged their past and present.
Their lips met in a brief kiss that carried the intensity of shared combat transformed into something deeply personal. It lasted only seconds, but those moments contained acknowledgment of feelings that had never truly died despite time and circumstance.
They separated as the sound of escalating combat from above penetrated their awareness—Dick's voice calling out challenges, Deathstroke's answering taunts carrying through the construction site's framework with ominous clarity.
"Dick," Batman said, the name snapping him back to immediate priorities. "He's fighting Deathstroke alone."
"Go," Talia urged, understanding immediately. "I'll coordinate with my father on securing the remaining targets."
Batman was already in motion, his grappling gun firing toward the upper levels where his young partner was engaging one of the world's most dangerous assassins.
Meanwhile, the larger battle continued to rage throughout the construction site. Talia moved through the chaos with lethal grace, her curved blades finding gaps in opponents' defenses while she coordinated League operative positions through subtle hand signals that her father's soldiers recognized instantly.
Twenty floors above the ground level carnage, Nyssa al Ghul stalked through the skeletal framework of what would have been luxury apartments, her footsteps silent on the exposed steel beams despite the hundred-foot drop yawning beneath her. She'd been tracking Kraven the Hunter for the past ten minutes, following the subtle signs only another apex predator would recognize—a scuff mark on concrete dust, the faintest scent of exotic compounds that enhanced his already formidable abilities.
The hunter was good. Better than good, actually. Nyssa had spent her life studying predators, learning from the best killers across six continents, and Kraven represented something uniquely dangerous—a fusion of primal instinct and tactical brilliance that few humans could achieve.
But Nyssa al Ghul wasn't most humans.
She paused at the edge of a concrete platform, her enhanced senses picking up the subtle change in air currents that indicated movement above. Her father had trained her to hunt the hunters, to become the thing that even apex predators feared in their most primal nightmares.
A shadow detached from the steel framework overhead—Kraven dropping with feline grace, his lion's mane vest flowing around him like a predator's coat. He landed thirty feet away, immediately recognizing her as the threat she represented.
"Daughter of the Demon," Kraven acknowledged, his Russian accent thick with appreciation. "I wondered when Ra's would send his best student to test herself against me."
"Test myself?" Nyssa tilted her head, genuine amusement in her voice. "You misunderstand your position here, hunter. You're not the predator in this scenario."
Kraven smiled, the expression all teeth and anticipation. "We shall see."
The first exchange came with explosive violence. Kraven launched himself forward with inhuman speed, his enhanced physiology propelling his muscular frame across the gap between them faster than normal human reflexes could track. His claws—modified fingernails hardened through chemical treatment—slashed toward Nyssa's throat in a killing strike that had felled dozens of prey animals across the world.
Nyssa wasn't there.
She flowed around his attack like smoke, her body bending in ways that seemed to defy vertebrate anatomy. Where Kraven was power and straightforward aggression, she was fluid precision—every movement economical, purposeful, designed to waste no energy while creating maximum effect.
Her curved dagger found the gap between Kraven's ribs, sliding between the bones with surgical precision. Not deep enough to puncture vital organs—that would end the fight too quickly—but sufficient to draw first blood and establish that his enhanced durability meant nothing against superior technique.
Kraven spun with remarkable speed for someone his size, his backhand catching empty air as Nyssa had already repositioned. He touched the blood seeping through his vest, bringing his fingers to his lips to taste it with an expression of genuine surprise.
"Impressive," he acknowledged, circling her with predatory caution. "Few have ever drawn my blood in the opening exchange."
"Your enhanced senses make you overconfident," Nyssa observed, matching his movements with fluid grace. "You rely too heavily on detecting your prey's location. Against an opponent who understands how to mask their presence, those abilities become weaknesses."
She demonstrated by seemingly vanishing from his sight, not through any supernatural ability but through perfect understanding of blind spots, shadow patterns, and the psychological tricks that made observers look where they expected to see movement rather than where it actually occurred.
Kraven's head whipped around, his enhanced hearing struggling to locate her among the ambient noise of the ongoing battle below. His nostrils flared, seeking her scent, but Nyssa had spent years learning to control her body's chemical signatures—breathing techniques that minimized pheromone production, dietary modifications that altered her natural scent profile.
The attack came from directly behind him—a whisper of steel that would have severed his spine if his combat instincts hadn't triggered a desperate roll to the side. The blade carved a line across his shoulder blade instead, adding a second wound to complement the first.
"You fight like a ghost," Kraven admitted, landing in a crouch that showcased his enhanced flexibility. "But ghosts can be tracked by those who know the proper techniques."
He withdrew a small pouch from his belt, sprinkling a fine powder into the air around him. The particles caught what little light filtered through the construction site, creating a brief shimmer that revealed air currents and disturbances invisible to the naked eye.
"Clever," Nyssa said, her voice seeming to come from multiple directions as she moved through the steel framework. "But predictable. Did you think the League of Shadows hasn't encountered such methods before?"
What Kraven hadn't anticipated was that the powder worked both ways. While it revealed Nyssa's position, it also showed his own air displacement—the telltale signs of someone preparing to attack, the subtle shift in weight distribution that preceded explosive movement.
When he lunged toward where he thought she was hiding, Nyssa was already moving to intercept. Her blade traced a pattern through the air that seemed almost artistic—precise arcs that found every gap in his defenses, every moment of vulnerability created by his own enhanced aggression.
Steel met enhanced flesh in a symphony of controlled violence. Kraven's strength was phenomenal, his speed beyond human norms, but Nyssa had trained under her father's tutelage for decades—learning not just how to fight enhanced opponents, but how to systematically dismantle their advantages.
"Your enhancement compounds," she observed between exchanges, her blade work never pausing as she spoke. "Derived from African hunting traditions, refined through modern chemistry. They increase your physical capabilities but also accelerate your metabolism. How long before the energy cost becomes prohibitive?"
Kraven's eyes narrowed at the accurate assessment. "Long enough to add your skull to my collection."
He produced his compound bow with fluid motion, nocking an arrow tipped with paralytic compounds that would incapacitate even enhanced humans. The shot was perfect—trajectory calculated to account for wind resistance, target movement, and the structural obstacles between them.
Nyssa caught the arrow mid-flight.
Not deflected it, not dodged it—caught it between two fingers with casual precision that spoke to reflexes honed beyond human limits through decades of training with the world's greatest martial artists.
"My father taught me to catch falling leaves during thunderstorms," she explained conversationally, examining the arrow's tip with professional interest. "Aluminum shaft, synthetic fletching, paralytic compound derived from South American tree frogs. Effective against most targets." She snapped the arrow in half with a casual gesture. "Insufficient against those who have built immunity to such toxins."
Kraven's expression showed the first hint of genuine concern. He'd encountered skilled opponents before—warriors whose technique rivaled his own enhanced abilities—but Nyssa represented something different. She fought like someone who had studied every possible advantage an opponent might possess and developed specific counters for each one.
"You speak of your father's training," Kraven said, drawing his ceremonial hunting knife—the same weapon he'd used to threaten Batman's captured cowl collection. "Ra's al Ghul is indeed legendary. But legends can die like any other men."
"Yes," Nyssa agreed, her own blade shifting to a reverse grip that suggested she was preparing to end this engagement. "They can. The question is whether you'll live long enough to test that theory."
The final exchange came with breathtaking speed. Kraven charged with everything he had—enhanced strength, chemical augmentation, and a lifetime of hunting experience combined into one desperate assault. His knife traced patterns through the air that would have disemboweled most opponents, each strike flowing into the next with the fluid precision of someone who had killed more living creatures than most armies.
Nyssa met him head-on, abandoning evasion for direct confrontation. Steel rang against steel as their blades locked, both fighters testing the other's strength and technique through pure contest of will.
For a moment they were frozen in tableau—the hunter who had never met his equal, and the daughter of the Demon's Head who had been trained from birth to surpass even her father's legendary abilities.
Then Nyssa smiled.
Her free hand struck with surgical precision, fingers finding the exact pressure point behind Kraven's ear that would temporarily shut down his enhanced nervous system. The technique was ancient, passed down through generations of League masters, requiring perfect timing and anatomical knowledge to execute successfully.
Kraven's eyes widened as his enhanced senses began failing him one by one. First his hearing, then his enhanced olfactory abilities, finally his artificially boosted reflexes. Without the chemical and training advantages that had made him legendary, he was simply a very skilled but ultimately human opponent.
"Sleep," Nyssa whispered as she applied the final pressure point sequence that would render him unconscious. "When you wake, you'll have stories to tell about the night you hunted the League of Shadows."
Kraven collapsed, his massive frame crashing onto the concrete platform with finality. Nyssa secured him with League restraints—specialized equipment designed to hold enhanced individuals—before activating her comm to report the successful capture.
"Father, the hunter is secure."
—
Forty floors below, Ra's al Ghul resumed his systematic dissection of Lady Shiva's legendary abilities, his blade work demonstrating the vast gulf between student and master. Each strike carried centuries of accumulated knowledge, techniques refined through countless wars and battles that had shaped the very foundations of the world.
"You disappoint me, Sandra," Ra's observed, his sword finding gaps in her defense that shouldn't have existed. "Once, you were my brightest student. Now you're merely another killer who has forgotten the difference between strength and excellence."
Shiva's response was a flurry of devastating techniques—pressure point strikes that could stop hearts, nerve attacks that could paralyze, bone-breaking combinations perfected through decades of lethal application. Ra's countered each one with minimal effort, his ancient sword weaving patterns that seemed to exist outside the normal flow of time.
"The boy humiliated you," Ra's continued remorselessly, his blade slicing through her combinations like they were performed in slow motion. "Five days of training, and he accomplished what seasoned warriors have failed to do for years—he made the great Lady Shiva bleed, made her lose control, made her look... human."
The psychological assault was as methodical as the physical one. Ra's understood that Shiva's greatest weakness wasn't her technique—it was her pride, her need to be perceived as perfect, untouchable. Dick Grayson had shattered that illusion, and Ra's intended to grind the fragments to dust.
"Your technique remains flawless," Ra's acknowledged, deflecting a series of strikes that would have killed most opponents instantly. "But technique without wisdom is merely elaborate suicide. You fight for reputation now, not purpose. For fear of appearing weak rather than to accomplish something meaningful."
His blade work evolved beyond mere swordplay, becoming a display of absolute mastery that spoke to understanding refined across centuries. Where Shiva relied on perfected movements, Ra's demonstrated transcendent skill—the difference between someone who had learned from the best and someone who had taught them.
"I created you to be a force for necessary change in this world," Ra's said, driving her back with combinations that seemed to anticipate her responses before she made them. "Instead, you became a cautionary tale about the corruption that comes with unearned praise and unchallenged dominance."
Shiva found herself pressed against the construction site's concrete barriers, her legendary speed and precision neutralized by an opponent who seemed to exist several moves ahead of her thoughts. Every desperate gambit she attempted, Ra's had already prepared counters for.
"Do you know why the child succeeded where you failed?" Ra's asked, his ancient eyes holding hers as their weapons clashed in brief stalemate. "Because he fought for something beyond himself. He had purpose, conviction, the willingness to sacrifice for others. When did you last possess such nobility of spirit?"
The question struck deeper than any blade. Shiva felt the foundations of her identity cracking under the weight of comparison to a ten-year-old boy who had faced her with nothing but determination and love for his guardian.
"You have become everything I despise," Ra's continued, his voice carrying the cold certainty of absolute judgment. "A warrior without vision, a killer without cause, a master without wisdom. You are the end result of skill divorced from meaning—impressive, feared, and ultimately worthless."
Shiva's desperate final assault came from wounded pride rather than tactical thinking. She abandoned the disciplined approach that had made her legendary, throwing everything into a wild combination that sought to overwhelm through pure aggression.
Ra's had been waiting for exactly this moment—the instant when emotion overrode discipline, when desperation superseded strategy. His response was devastatingly simple: he stepped aside and let her own momentum carry her past him, his blade trailing along her extended arm in a cut that was precise, controlled, and utterly humiliating.
"Sloppy," Ra's observed as Shiva stumbled, blood flowing from the wound. "The great Lady Shiva, reduced to flailing like an untrained child. How the mighty have fallen."
He followed with a series of strikes that weren't meant to kill but to demonstrate absolute dominance. Each cut was precise, deliberate—targeting nerve clusters that would weaken her without causing permanent damage. The message was unmistakable: he could end her at any moment but chose not to, not out of mercy but from sheer disdain.
"This is the difference between us," Ra's said as Shiva dropped to one knee, her body betraying her as the accumulated nerve damage took effect. "I fight for the future of human civilization. You fight for the temporary satisfaction of proving yourself superior to inferiors."
Lady Shiva collapsed fully, not from physical incapacitation but from the crushing weight of absolute defeat. She had been systematically dismantled by someone who had taught her everything she knew—and clearly hadn't taught her everything he knew.
"You could have been the instrument of necessary change," Ra's said, stepping over her fallen form without a second glance. "Instead, you became just another obstacle to be removed when convenient."
He didn't bother restraining her. The psychological defeat was so complete that physical bonds were unnecessary. Lady Shiva remained motionless among the construction debris, staring at nothing as she processed the devastating realization that she had never been as strong as she believed.
Ra's al Ghul moved on to coordinate his operatives, dismissing her from his thoughts as easily as one might discard a broken tool. The world's deadliest assassin had been reduced to an irrelevant footnote in a larger conflict.
Dick's staff cracked against Deathstroke's sword with a sound like breaking thunder, the impact sending vibrations up both their arms. The boy had been holding his own for the past few minutes, his circus-trained reflexes and Bruce's intensive instruction keeping him alive against one of the world's deadliest assassins. But it was clearly a defensive battle, Dick using his agility and the construction site's obstacles to avoid Deathstroke's more powerful strikes rather than pressing any kind of offensive.
"You've improved since our last dance, Flying Grayson," Deathstroke observed, his sword tracing lethal arcs through the air as Dick flipped backward over a gap in the flooring. "Five days of training with the Bat, and suddenly you think you can play in the major leagues."
"I'm not playing," Dick replied, his staff extending to full length as he landed in a perfect crouch thirty feet away. The distance between them was filled with exposed steel beams and concrete barriers, turning their confrontation into a three-dimensional chess match. "This stopped being a game the moment you murdered my parents."
Deathstroke's single eye tracked Dick's movement patterns, his enhanced reflexes analyzing the boy's fighting style for exploitable weaknesses. "Your technique has definitely evolved. Less rage, more precision. Batman's influence showing through the circus foundation."
The psychological assessment was accurate. Where the boy at the safe house had fought with desperate fury, throwing himself at Deathstroke with the reckless abandon of someone who had nothing left to lose, this Robin approached with tactical awareness that would have impressed even seasoned operators.
"Among other things," Dick said, using his staff to vault onto a horizontal beam that gave him height advantage over the assassin. "Turns out proper training beats whatever half-assed military education you got before becoming a professional murderer."
The insult was calculated, designed to goad Deathstroke into making mistakes. Dick had learned from watching Batman that enhanced operatives like Deathstroke responded to challenges to their professional pride, their need to be recognized as superior.
From his elevated position, Dick launched into a series of attacks that showcased the fusion of his circus background with Bruce's combat instruction. His staff work flowed like water, each strike building toward the next in combinations that used momentum and gravity as weapons. Where ordinary fighters would have been limited by the beam's narrow width, Dick moved with the confidence of someone who'd spent his life performing on high wires and trapeze equipment.
Deathstroke countered with enhanced speed that blurred the line between human and superhuman, his sword meeting Dick's staff in a shower of sparks as steel rang against reinforced polymer. But even his enhanced reflexes struggled to track attacks coming from angles that defied normal combat geometry.
"Interesting approach," Deathstroke acknowledged, leaping up to Dick's level with inhuman grace. The beam groaned under their combined weight as they engaged in close quarters, neither giving ground despite the hundred-foot drop yawning beneath them. "Using the environment like a performance space rather than a battlefield."
"Everything's a performance space if you know how to read it," Dick replied, his staff work adapting to the cramped conditions without losing effectiveness. "My parents taught me that the secret isn't just about not falling. It's about making falling look impossible."
Their exchange intensified, both fighters pushing their capabilities to the limit. Deathstroke's enhanced strength and systematic training met Dick's natural agility and improvisational brilliance in a contest that turned the construction beam into their private arena.
That's when Batman's voice cut across the combat zone, his distinctive growl carrying clearly despite the ongoing violence throughout the building. "Robin, status report."
"Having a delightful conversation about career choices," Dick replied without taking his attention off Deathstroke, his staff deflecting a sword thrust that would have opened his throat. "Mr. Wilson here was just explaining his philosophy on family values."
The casual tone was designed to mask the serious nature of their confrontation, but Batman could see the strain in Dick's movements as he approached through the steel framework. The boy was fighting at the edge of his capabilities, using everything Bruce had taught him plus his natural acrobatic gifts to survive against an opponent who had been killing professionally for decades.
Deathstroke's response to Batman's arrival was to increase the intensity of his assault, forcing Dick to give ground as the enhanced operative's sword work became a steel storm of lethal precision. "The cavalry arrives," Deathstroke observed, his single eye tracking Batman's approach while maintaining his attack pattern. "Though perhaps a bit late to prevent the boy from learning some harsh truths about consequence and capability."
Batman moved to flank Deathstroke from the opposite side, seeking to divide the assassin's attention between two opponents. But before he could close the distance, the distinctive crack of a high-powered rifle echoed across the construction site. The bullet struck Batman's armored gauntlet, the impact sufficient to disrupt his approach and force him to seek cover behind a concrete pillar.
"Deadshot's got overwatch on this level," Batman warned Dick, pressing himself against cover as another shot chipped fragments from the pillar's edge. "Multiple firing positions. He's controlling the engagement parameters."
Unlike the other assassins, Floyd Lawton hadn't been captured or driven off by the League's systematic assault. His sniper training had taught him that sometimes the best response to overwhelming odds was patience and superior positioning. From his new perch high in the building's framework, Deadshot had clear sightlines to the combat zone where his fellow professionals were making their final stand.
"Wonderful," Dick replied, using his staff to deflect another of Deathstroke's strikes while simultaneously dropping to avoid a follow-up slash that would have decapitated him. "Because this wasn't challenging enough already."
The three-way dynamic created a complex tactical puzzle. Deathstroke was clearly the most dangerous immediate threat, his enhanced capabilities making him lethal in close quarters. But Deadshot's sniper support meant that any attempt to coordinate against Deathstroke would be met with precision fire that could change the battle's momentum in seconds.
As if the situation wasn't complex enough, new sounds began echoing through the construction site from below. The distinctive whine of aircraft engines, the organized shouts of coordinated personnel, the heavy thud of boots on concrete. Through the skeletal framework came sleek aircraft that definitely weren't GCPD issue, carrying personnel whose equipment and coordination spoke to resources far beyond local law enforcement.
"SHIELD tactical teams," came Pierce's amplified voice from somewhere below. "This is a federal operation under Homeland Security authorization. All non-authorized personnel are to evacuate the area immediately."
Batman's jaw tightened behind the cowl. Alexander Pierce was making his move, using federal authority to justify direct intervention. The SHIELD agents' presence suggested Pierce had more influence within the federal hierarchy than Bruce had anticipated. Whatever Pierce's true agenda, he was willing to deploy significant government resources to contain tonight's situation.
"Federal intervention," Batman spoke into his comm, warning Ra's of the new development. "Pierce is deploying SHIELD agents under official cover. This goes deeper than we thought."
But Deathstroke had no intention of allowing federal intervention to complicate his personal business with Dick Grayson. As the SHIELD teams began their systematic ascent through the building's levels, the enhanced assassin reached for his utility belt and withdrew what appeared to be a standard fragmentation grenade.