"Clear the level," Deathstroke announced, his voice carrying across the combat zone with deadly certainty. "Things are about to get interesting."
He pulled the pin and hurled the grenade toward the main support beam that anchored this section of the construction site. The device arced through the air with lethal precision, its trajectory calculated to maximize damage to the building's structural integrity.
Dick reacted with the instincts of someone who'd spent his life calculating angles and trajectories. Without conscious thought, he launched himself forward, staff extending to its full length as he sought to intercept the grenade before it could reach its target.
The impact was perfect. Dick's staff connected with the explosive device exactly as he'd intended, but the physics of the collision sent the redirected grenade spinning toward a cluster of already-damaged support beams. The explosion that followed was contained but devastating, thermite charges burning through steel like paper and severing connections that had been designed to support millions of pounds of concrete and steel.
The section of floor beneath Dick's feet didn't just crack or buckle. It simply vanished, transformed from solid surface to empty air in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Dick fell through the gap like a stone, his staff spinning uselessly in his hand as he plummeted toward the construction site's concrete foundation thirty floors below.
For a moment that stretched like eternity, the boy who had once flown through circus tents with the greatest of ease found himself experiencing the same helpless descent that had claimed his parents. The same desperate reach for something, anything, that might break his fall. In that instant of pure terror, Dick understood with crystalline clarity exactly what John and Mary Grayson had felt in their final seconds.
But this time, there was someone there to catch him.
Batman's grapnel fired with precision that defied human reflexes, the line snaking through the gap in the flooring to wrap around Dick's wrist just as his fall reached terminal velocity. The sudden jerk as the line went taut threatened to dislocate the boy's shoulder, but it arrested his descent mere feet above a cluster of steel rebar that would have ended everything.
"Got you," Batman said as he hauled Dick up through the gap in the flooring, his voice tight with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. Relief flooded through him as Dick's boots touched solid ground again, the boy gasping from adrenaline and the reality of how close he'd come to following his parents' path.
"Thanks," Dick managed, his breathing ragged but his eyes already tracking back to Deathstroke. "Though I think our friend over there has more party favors."
Indeed, Deathstroke was preparing another grenade with mechanical precision, this one aimed directly at the cluster of support beams that anchored the entire eastern section of the building. If it reached its target, the structural damage would be catastrophic, potentially bringing down multiple floors and everyone on them.
"You missed one," Deathstroke observed, noting Batman's arrival on the combat level. "Though I suppose family reunions can be touching, even in the middle of a war zone."
But now there were two opponents to deal with instead of one isolated boy. Batman and Robin moved with synchronization that had been developing over their five days of intensive training, each understanding his role in their coordinated response without need for verbal communication.
Batman went high, using his grapnel to intercept the grenade's trajectory while Dick went low, his staff work targeting Deathstroke's legs to disrupt his balance and prevent follow-up attacks. Their coordination was becoming instinctive, each fighter's movements creating opportunities for his partner without conscious planning.
The grenade exploded in Batman's armored gauntlet, the contained blast channeled away from the building's structure through the specialized design of his armor. The force still sent him staggering, but the structural damage was minimal compared to what would have happened if the device had reached its intended target.
Dick's attack connected perfectly, his staff sweeping Deathstroke's legs while the assassin was focused on the grenade's trajectory. The enhanced operative went down hard, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to turn the fall into a controlled roll, but the momentary advantage was enough for Dick to press his attack with renewed confidence.
What followed was a display of coordination that showcased everything Bruce had been teaching Dick about partnership and tactical thinking. Dick's acrobatic abilities allowed him to attack from angles Deathstroke couldn't predict, while Batman's strategic expertise ensured that each of Dick's movements created opportunities for devastating follow-up strikes.
But Deathstroke was far from finished. His enhanced physiology allowed him to absorb punishment that would have incapacitated ordinary humans, and his combat experience gave him tools for dealing with multiple opponents that went beyond simple physical capabilities.
He produced a cluster of smaller explosives, scattering them across the combat zone in a pattern designed to force Batman and Robin to choose between protecting themselves and protecting the building's structural integrity. Each device was precisely placed to maximize tactical disruption while threatening the support beams that kept this section of the construction site stable.
"Choose carefully," Deathstroke called as the devices bounced across the floor, their timers already counting down toward detonation. "Save yourselves, or save the building. But you can't do both."
It was a calculated gambit designed to exploit Batman's protective instincts. Deathstroke understood that Batman would prioritize preventing structural collapse over personal safety, leaving him vulnerable to direct attack while he tried to contain the explosives.
But he had underestimated Robin.
Dick's circus training had included extensive work with timing and spatial relationships, skills that translated perfectly to the current crisis. Instead of trying to collect all the explosives, he began using his staff to redirect them toward areas where their detonation would cause minimal structural damage.
"Angle and trajectory," Dick called to Batman, his voice carrying the focused intensity of someone solving a complex three-dimensional puzzle. "Don't try to stop them, redirect them. Use their own force to reinforce the structure instead of weakening it."
It was brilliant improvisation born from a lifetime of understanding how forces worked in three-dimensional space. Rather than trying to prevent the explosions, Dick was channeling them into areas where the building could absorb the damage without catastrophic failure.
Batman immediately understood the strategy and adapted his own efforts accordingly. Together, they turned Deathstroke's tactical gambit into a controlled demolition that eliminated the assassin's escape routes while leaving the critical support structures intact.
The explosions came in a carefully orchestrated sequence, each blast channeled through Dick's calculations to create maximum tactical advantage. When the smoke cleared, Deathstroke found himself trapped in a section of floor that had become an improvised arena, surrounded by gaps that would require enhanced abilities to cross while under fire.
"Clever," Deathstroke acknowledged, his respect for their coordination evident despite the deteriorating tactical situation. "The boy thinks three-dimensionally. Unusual for someone his age."
"I've had excellent teachers," Dick replied, positioning himself for what he sensed would be the final phase of their confrontation. "Both in the circus and in the last week."
But the explosions had done more than trap Deathstroke. The cumulative structural damage from multiple detonations was beginning to cascade through the building's framework. Steel beams that had been stressed beyond their design limits began failing in sequence, creating a domino effect that threatened the entire construction site's stability.
Deep groans echoed through the skeletal structure as gravity began asserting its authority over human engineering. The building wasn't collapsing all at once, but it was definitely failing piece by piece, each failure adding stress to the remaining supports in an accelerating cycle of destruction.
"Building's coming down," Batman observed grimly, his enhanced hearing picking up the telltale sounds of progressive structural failure. "We need to end this and evacuate."
"Agreed," Deathstroke replied, but his tone suggested he had no intention of simply surrendering despite the circumstances. "Though I suspect our definitions of 'ending this' differ significantly."
The SHIELD agents below were shouting orders, their voices carrying the authority of federal law enforcement as they established perimeter positions around the collapsing building. But their presence only added urgency to the situation. If they completed their cordon, escape would become impossible for everyone currently trapped in the upper levels.
Deadshot's rifle cracked again, but this time he was targeting the SHIELD positions rather than the combatants above. His shots were precisely placed to disrupt their coordination without necessarily killing them, professional courtesy toward fellow operators even as he opposed their mission.
"Lawton's buying us time," Batman noted, recognizing the pattern of the sniper's interventions. "He's keeping SHIELD from establishing complete control."
But personal vendettas still took precedence over professional solidarity. Deathstroke launched his final assault with everything he had remaining, enhanced strength and decades of combat experience combining into one desperate gambit. His sword work became a steel storm that forced both Batman and Robin to coordinate their defensive efforts perfectly to avoid being overwhelmed.
The three-way engagement was brutal and direct, enhanced assassin against vigilante and partner. Dick's acrobatic training allowed him to attack from impossible angles while Batman's tactical expertise created openings that the boy could exploit with increasing confidence.
Steel rang against staff as Dick deflected a thrust that would have opened his ribcage, his counterattack flowing seamlessly into Batman's assault from the opposite angle. Their partnership was becoming something more than the sum of its parts, each fighter's movements creating opportunities for his partner without conscious planning.
But the building's structural failure was accelerating. Another support beam gave way with a sound like thunder, sending vibrations through the remaining framework that everyone could feel in their bones. Time was running out for all of them.
That's when Dick saw his opportunity.
During a brief moment when Deathstroke's attention was focused on Batman's feint from the left, Dick used his staff to trigger the collapse of a section of damaged ceiling that had been hanging precariously above their combat zone. Chunks of concrete and twisted steel rained down in a carefully calculated avalanche that Dick had been studying throughout their fight, waiting for exactly the right moment.
Deathstroke's enhanced reflexes allowed him to avoid most of the falling debris, but a massive concrete slab caught his left leg, pinning him against the floor with crushing force. Even his enhanced strength couldn't shift the weight of structural concrete designed to support an entire building's load.
"Nicely done," Deathstroke acknowledged, apparently impressed by the tactical thinking behind Dick's move despite his compromised position. "Using the building itself as a weapon. Your training has been more comprehensive than I anticipated."
Dick approached slowly, his staff held ready but no longer in an aggressive stance. He could see that Deathstroke was effectively trapped, the concrete slab having punched through the floor beneath it and created an improvised prison that even enhanced strength couldn't overcome.
From his belt, Dick drew the sword that Deathstroke had dropped when the debris fell, the weapon's weight unfamiliar but manageable in his circus-strengthened hands. The blade gleamed in the emergency lighting, its edge sharp enough to end everything with a single stroke.
"This is for my parents," Dick said, his voice carrying all the pain and anger he'd been holding since that night at Haly's Circus. "For John and Mary Grayson, who never hurt anyone and didn't deserve what you did to them."
He raised the sword, its point positioned directly above Deathstroke's exposed throat. One thrust would end it all, would give Dick the vengeance he'd been dreaming about for seven days and nights of grief and rage.
Deathstroke made no move to defend himself, recognizing that his position was hopeless. "Do it then," he said, his voice carrying neither fear nor resignation, just professional acceptance. "Complete your mission. Take your revenge. Prove that you understand the real nature of this world."
Dick's grip tightened on the sword's handle, muscles coiling as he prepared to deliver the killing blow. This was what he'd wanted, what he'd trained for, what had driven him to push Bruce for more advanced techniques and real field experience. The chance to make Deathstroke pay for destroying his family.
"I've been wanting this for the last week," Dick said, his voice thick with emotion as he struggled between vengeance and justice. "Ever since I watched you murder my parents like they were nothing. Like their lives meant nothing to you."
The sword remained poised above Deathstroke's throat, its point steady despite the tremor in Dick's hands.
"But you know what?" Dick continued, his voice growing stronger as certainty replaced doubt. "I'm not like you. I'm not going to become a killer just because killing you would feel good."
Dick drove the sword downward with all his strength, but instead of piercing Deathstroke's throat, the blade buried itself in the concrete beside the assassin's head with a sound like a thunderclap. Sparks flew as steel met stone, the point embedding so deeply that it quivered like a tuning fork.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Dick's breathing was ragged, his small frame trembling with exhaustion and the weight of choice. Deathstroke lay perfectly still, his single eye wide with something that might have been shock.
"You..." Deathstroke's voice came out rough, almost strangled. "You were really going to do it. I saw it in your eyes. The decision made." His gaze fixed on the sword, mere inches from where his carotid artery pulsed. "But you stopped."
Dick straightened slowly, his legs unsteady. "For a second there, I wanted to. God help me, I really wanted to drive this through your throat and watch you die." His voice cracked on the words. "I had the perfect justification. You murdered my parents. You destroyed my world. Everyone would understand."
"But you didn't." Deathstroke's voice held genuine confusion now, all professional detachment stripped away. "In that moment, when you had absolute power over life and death, when no one would have questioned your choice... you chose mercy. Why?"
Dick wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and tears across his face. "Because they wouldn't have wanted this. My mom, my dad... they spent their whole lives making people smile, bringing joy and wonder to children. They never hurt anyone." His voice grew stronger. "If I killed you, if I became a murderer because of what you did to them, then you'd have destroyed them twice. Once with that sabotaged cable, and again by turning their son into something they'd be ashamed of."
Deathstroke closed his eye, something almost like pain flickering across his scarred features. "Your parents. John and Mary Grayson. I... I remember them now. Not just as targets, but..." He opened his eye again, meeting Dick's gaze. "They were performing for the children that night. Your mother waved to a little girl in the front row right before... Christ, what have I become?"
"A killer," Dick said simply. "Someone who takes contracts to murder innocent people for money. But you don't have to stay that way."
"You think I can change?" Deathstroke's laugh was bitter. "Kid, I've got more blood on my hands than you can imagine. Your parents were just the most recent in a very long line."
"Maybe," Dick acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean you can't stop. That doesn't mean you can't face what you've done and try to make amends."
Deathstroke studied the boy's face with something approaching wonder. "How old are you? Ten? Eleven? And you're trying to save the soul of the man who orphaned you."
"I'm trying to be the person they raised me to be," Dick replied. "The person Bruce and Alfred are helping me become. Someone who believes people can be better than their worst moments."
The sound of approaching footsteps through the debris interrupted them. Through the smoke and settling dust came figures emerging from the construction site's skeletal framework. Ra's al Ghul moved with imperial grace despite the chaos, his ancient robes somehow untouched by the violence. Behind him, Talia escorted Floyd Lawton at sword point.
Deadshot's hands were visible, his sniper rifle slung across his back in surrender. "You got me," he said to no one in particular, his voice flat with professional resignation. "Should have known this job was cursed from the start."
Ra's surveyed the scene with calculating eyes, taking in Deathstroke's trapped form and Dick's protective stance. "Impressive restraint, young one," he said, genuine approval in his ancient voice. "To hold ultimate power and choose mercy... that is wisdom beyond your years."
Dick didn't respond, his attention split between the newcomers and ensuring Deathstroke remained secure. Something about Ra's made his instincts prickle with warning.
—
The weight of exhaustion hit Bruce like a physical blow as he watched the scene unfold below. Every muscle in his body screamed protest, ribs sending spikes of pain with each breath. The fight with Bane, followed by tonight's gauntlet of enhanced killers, had pushed even his enhanced conditioning past its limits.
But physical pain was nothing compared to the dread he felt watching Ra's al Ghul approach Dick with that same evaluating gaze he'd once turned on Bruce himself. The same look that had made a grieving young man feel chosen, special, worthy of something greater than mere mortality.
Seven years. It had been seven years since he'd walked away from the League of Shadows, rejecting everything Ra's represented. And now here was his former mentor, studying Bruce's young partner with obvious interest.
"Detective," Ra's acknowledged with a slight nod, the greeting carrying weight accumulated over years of separation. "The boy shows remarkable potential. Such wisdom in one so young is... rare."
Bruce moved closer to Dick, protective instincts overriding his exhaustion. "He's had good guidance."
"Indeed," Ra's agreed, his ancient eyes missing nothing about their dynamic. "Though I wonder if his teachers have prepared him for the harsh realities he'll face. The world has little patience for idealism."
The subtext was clear. Ra's was already measuring Dick as potential recruitment material, just as he'd once recruited Bruce during his darkest hour. The thought of Dick being exposed to the League's absolute certainty, their willingness to sacrifice individuals for the greater good, sent cold fear through Bruce's chest.
"Dick learns what he needs to learn," Bruce said firmly, positioning himself between Ra's and the boy. "According to his own moral compass."
"Moral compass," Ra's repeated with faint amusement. "As if morality were absolute rather than contextual. Tell me, young Robin," his attention shifted to Dick, "do you believe your choice tonight was correct? Allowing this killer to live when he will inevitably escape, inevitably kill again?"
Dick's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "I believe in justice. Real justice, not revenge disguised as righteousness."
"Wisdom," Ra's acknowledged. "Though I wonder if you'll maintain such conviction when Slade Wilson escapes in six months and murders another family. When your mercy becomes their death sentence."
Bruce stepped forward, authority radiating from his voice despite his battered state. "Enough, Ra's. The boy made his choice. Respect it."
"Of course," Ra's replied with deceptive mildness, though his eyes promised future conversations. "I merely observe that choices have consequences, Detective. Some more far-reaching than others."
Sirens were growing closer now, GCPD finally reaching the construction site. Bruce could see League operatives melting into shadows, their withdrawal as coordinated as their assault. Whatever Ra's had come to accomplish, he seemed satisfied.
"Time to withdraw," Ra's announced. "Though I suspect we'll meet again soon, Detective. Gotham has become... interesting."
Talia moved closer, her prisoner forgotten as League operatives took custody of Deadshot. In the flickering emergency lighting, she looked achingly familiar. Not like a stranger from his past, but like someone who'd been woven into his present just days before. The memory of their night together was still fresh, complicated by everything that had happened since.
"We make quite the team," she said softly, her eyes finding his despite the chaos around them. It was a callback to their coordination against Copperhead, when they'd fought as perfectly synchronized partners before the night had taken a more intimate turn.
"We always did," Bruce replied, his voice carrying the weight of recent memory alongside years of history. Three days. It had only been three days since they'd stood together in his suite, since she'd healed his injuries with diluted Lazarus waters, since they'd allowed themselves to remember what they'd once meant to each other.
"Father knew I was here to assess you," Talia said, her voice dropping to ensure privacy. "But when I saw you nearly die against Copperhead, when I watched you push yourself beyond human limits to protect this city..." She paused, searching for words. "Some choices transcend duty."
Bruce understood. Her decision to help him, to save him, to spend that night together hadn't been part of Ra's grand plan. It had been purely personal, a choice made from the heart rather than tactical calculation.
"The waters you gave me," Bruce said, referring to the Lazarus treatment that had saved his life. "You warned me about the side effects. The dreams, the visions."
"They've started?" Talia's concern was immediate, genuine. "I should have stayed to monitor the effects, to help you through the transition. But Father's summons..."
"I understand duty," Bruce said, though the words carried more pain than he'd intended. "I always have."
Talia stepped closer, close enough that he could see the conflict in her eyes. "This week, fighting beside you against Copperhead, watching you with the boy... it reminded me why I fell in love with you in the first place. Your conviction, your refusal to compromise your principles even when it would be easier."
"Talia..." Bruce began, but she continued.
"I know what you're going to say," she said, her voice carrying resignation mixed with determination. "That we're on opposite sides, that my father's vision and your mission can never align. And you're right." She withdrew an ornate scroll from her robes, sealed with Ra's personal mark. "Father asked me to deliver this. One final invitation to join the League, to take your place as his heir."
Bruce accepted the scroll, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "You know my answer."
"I do," Talia agreed. "Just as you know mine when it comes to leaving the League. We are who we are, Bruce. What happened between us doesn't change our fundamental loyalties."
GCPD voices were getting closer now, and Bruce could see Dick watching their interaction with obvious curiosity. The boy was perceptive enough to understand this wasn't a casual conversation between allies.
"Father isn't planning to simply withdraw from Gotham," Talia warned, her voice urgent as time ran short. "He sees the chaos here, the convergence of enhanced individuals, as an opportunity too valuable to waste. The League will establish a permanent presence."
The warning hit Bruce like a physical blow. "Why tell me this? It goes against everything your father wants."
Talia's smile was heartbreaking in its beauty and sadness. "Because three nights ago, you trusted me completely. When Copperhead's poison was killing you, when you were vulnerable and defenseless, you put your life in my hands without hesitation." Her voice softened. "That kind of trust deserves honesty in return."
"I'll always love you," Bruce said, the words emerging from the deepest part of him. "What happened between us, what we shared... it was real. It mattered. But..."
"But you can't be with someone whose family's vision requires the kind of sacrifices you'll never make," Talia finished. "I know. And I love you enough to understand why."
They stood facing each other in the wreckage, both understanding this was goodbye. Not just for now, but perhaps forever. The path Bruce walked as Batman and the road Talia traveled as Ra's daughter would always diverge, no matter how much they meant to each other.
"In another life," Bruce said quietly, "we might have found a way."
"In another life," Talia agreed, reaching out to touch his face one final time, "we might have chosen differently. But in this life, we choose duty over desire, mission over love."
"It doesn't make it hurt less," Bruce admitted.
"No," Talia whispered. "It doesn't."
She stepped back, duty reasserting itself. Around them, League operatives completed their withdrawal with silent efficiency. In moments, they would vanish as if they'd never existed.
"Take care of the boy," Talia said, her eyes finding Dick. "He has potential that goes beyond heroics. Father saw it immediately."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Bruce replied, understanding the implication. Ra's specialized in recognizing and shaping potential, especially in traumatized young people.
"Protect him," Talia urged. "Not just from criminals, but from the certainty that comes with seeing too much darkness. That's where Father finds his opportunities."
Before Bruce could respond, she was moving away, form already blending with shadows as League training took over. She paused at the platform's edge, looking back one final time.
"Goodbye, Bruce," she said, the words carrying finality beyond simple farewell.
"Goodbye, Talia," he replied, watching her disappear into the framework with the same fluid grace that had first caught his attention seven years ago.
Bruce stood alone for a moment, scroll in hand, choices pressing against his shoulders. Dick still maintained watch over Deathstroke, the boy's posture suggesting exhaustion but unshakeable determination.
"Bruce?" Dick called. "Police are almost here. And I think our friend is getting restless."
Indeed, Deathstroke was testing his concrete prison, enhanced strength probing for weaknesses. His single eye tracked Bruce's approach with predatory calculation.
"Touching reunion," Deathstroke observed as Bruce knelt to secure him properly. "Though the lady didn't stay for cleanup. Professional courtesy, or something more personal?"
"Ancient history," Bruce replied, producing restraints designed for enhanced individuals. "Something you'll have time to contemplate in custody."
"Federal custody," Deathstroke said with dark amusement as the specialized cuffs locked around his wrists. "You assume Pierce will allow normal legal proceedings. Charmingly naive, Detective."
The observation carried uncomfortable truth. Pierce's deployment of SHIELD suggested Deathstroke might disappear into some black site rather than facing legitimate justice.
"Then we'll make sure he faces proper charges," Dick said firmly, his voice carrying the determination that had carried him through this nightmarish week. "Real courts, real evidence, real accountability."
Commissioner Gordon approached, surveying the restrained assassin with professional satisfaction. "Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke the Terminator. International war criminal, assassin for hire, and wanted in seventeen countries." He nodded to the GCPD officers. "Get him secured for transport."