Bruce felt grim pride at the boy's matter-of-fact assessment. Five days of intensive training had prepared Dick for exactly this type of situation, though facing the League of Shadows wasn't quite what either of them had envisioned for his first week as Robin.
"Alfred," Bruce activated his comm. "Building schematics. I need alternate routes from the third floor to street level."
"Transmitting now, sir," Alfred replied, his voice carrying new strain. "However, you should be aware that Mr. Fox's analysis indicates the League's operation extends throughout the entire downtown corridor. Whatever they're planning, this appears to be merely the preliminary phase."
Dick checked his utility belt one final time, ensuring his specialized equipment was properly secured. "Grapnel lines?"
"Building to building across the plaza," Bruce confirmed, studying the schematics Alfred had provided. "We can reach the adjacent parking structure, then descend to street level where Gordon's backup units are staging."
"Assuming the backup units are still operational," Agent Carter interjected grimly. "We've lost contact with our command structure entirely."
Through the conference room's reinforced walls came the sounds of systematic combat as League operatives encountered federal resistance. The gunfire was becoming more sporadic, suggesting that professional training was proving inadequate against centuries of perfected assassination techniques.
"Agent down on level two," came a voice through the tactical radio, barely audible through increasing static. "Unknown assailants, no visual contact. They're using the building's infrastructure to—"
The transmission cut off, followed by silence that was somehow more ominous than the previous gunfire.
"That's our cue," Bruce said, moving toward the window with grapnel gun ready. "Everyone stays together, moves fast, follows instructions without question."
Harvey nodded grimly, accepting a spare comm unit from Dick while Agent Carter coordinated with her remaining personnel through hand signals rather than compromised radio.
Bruce's enhanced hearing detected the approach of League operatives through the building's ventilation system, their movement pattern suggesting they'd identified the conference room's location and were moving to final assault positions.
"Thirty seconds," he warned, activating his grapnel gun while Dick prepared his own equipment.
The window's reinforced glass shattered under carefully applied pressure, creating an opening large enough for rapid extraction while minimizing noise that might alert League snipers. Bruce's tactical mind automatically calculated wind resistance, building sway, and optimal trajectory for crossing to the adjacent structure.
"Robin first," he decided, reasoning that Dick's lighter weight would allow for better accuracy under less than ideal conditions. "Then Harvey and Agent Carter. I'll cover the retreat."
Dick moved to the window with acrobatic grace, his Robin costume bright against the emergency lighting that had replaced the building's normal illumination. For just a moment, he looked impossibly young to be attempting something so dangerous, but his movements carried the confidence of someone who'd spent his life defying gravity.
"See you on the other side," Dick said with a grin that was pure Flying Grayson bravado.
His grapnel line shot across the plaza with mathematical precision, the powered unit allowing for rapid traverse despite the distance involved. Dick's form disappeared into the darkness between buildings, his descent controlled through techniques that made the impossible look effortless.
"Clear," came his voice through the comm moments later. "Perimeter secure, ready for package delivery."
Harvey moved to the window with considerably less enthusiasm, accepting the safety harness Bruce provided while Agent Carter maintained overwatch with her weapon ready. The District Attorney's face was pale but determined, understanding that his survival might depend on trusting techniques that violated every principle of conventional physics.
"Just like flying," Bruce said encouragingly, though his tone suggested he was more concerned with speed than comfort.
Harvey's crossing was less graceful than Dick's but effective, the safety harness and powered traverse system compensating for his lack of acrobatic training. He disappeared into the darkness with remarkable dignity for someone who spent his professional life in courtrooms rather than performing aerial stunts.
Agent Carter was preparing for her own crossing when Bruce's enhanced hearing detected what he'd been dreading. League operatives had reached the conference room level and were moving through the corridor with the silent efficiency that marked their elite training.
"Go," Bruce commanded, his cape billowing as he positioned himself between the agent and the conference room's entrance.
Carter's crossing was professional and rapid, her federal training translating surprisingly well to improvised extraction techniques. She vanished into the darkness just as the first League operative appeared in the corridor outside the conference room.
Through his enhanced vision, Bruce could see the operative clearly despite the building's compromised lighting. Traditional black garb with red accent markings, weapons that favored silence over stopping power, movement that suggested decades of training in techniques that turned the human body into a perfect killing machine.
The operative paused at the conference room's threshold, apparently detecting that the space had been recently vacated but uncertain about the exact timing. League training emphasized patience and precision over rapid assault, but even their discipline had limits when facing empty objectives.
Bruce remained motionless in the shadows near the window, his cape arranged to break up his silhouette while his breathing controlled to avoid detection. The operative entered the conference room with predatory caution, weapons ready for immediate deployment against any remaining opposition.
For several heartbeats, hunter and hunted remained frozen in perfect balance. The League operative's enhanced senses searched for any sign of continuing presence while Bruce calculated optimal timing for his own escape. Too early, and he'd alert additional operatives. Too late, and he'd find himself trapped in close-quarters combat against an opponent whose skills rivaled his own.
The operative moved toward the window, apparently deducing the extraction route from environmental evidence. His training would have included analysis of improvised escape techniques, making him uniquely qualified to understand what Batman had accomplished.
That was when Bruce moved.
His grapnel gun fired just as the operative turned toward his position, the line shooting across the plaza while Bruce launched himself through the window with cape spread wide. Behind him came the whisper of thrown blades, League weapons seeking his exposed form as he descended into darkness.
The crossing felt eternal and instantaneous simultaneously, Bruce's enhanced reflexes calculating wind resistance while projectiles whistled past him with lethal accuracy. His cape billowed around him like living shadow, the specialized material deflecting at least one blade that would have found its mark.
"Clear," Dick's voice came through the comm as Bruce's boots touched the adjacent building's rooftop, the controlled landing absorbing impact through techniques that made superhuman feats appear routine.
Behind them, the safe house had become a tomb of shadows and silence, federal protection eliminated with surgical precision by opponents who treated conventional law enforcement as merely an inconvenience. Harvey Dent was safe for the moment, but the broader implications of the League's assault were staggering.
"Alfred," Bruce activated his comm as they regrouped on the parking structure's roof. "Status of federal operations throughout the downtown area."
"I'm afraid the situation has deteriorated significantly, sir," Alfred replied with the composed delivery he used for the worst possible news. "Mr. Fox's analysis indicates comprehensive neutralization of federal presence across twelve separate locations. The League has effectively eliminated law enforcement response capabilities throughout the downtown corridor."
Dick helped Harvey out of his safety harness while Agent Carter established radio contact with whatever backup units might still be operational. The federal agent's professionalism was holding despite circumstances that would have broken most people's psychological boundaries.
"Gordon?" Bruce asked.
"GCPD East End precinct remains operational under siege conditions," Alfred reported. "Commissioner Gordon has established defensive positions and is coordinating what resistance remains available. However..."
His voice trailed off in the way it did when he had information that would be unwelcome.
"What is it, Alfred?"
"Mr. Fox's intelligence analysis suggests this isn't merely about neutralizing federal response capabilities," Alfred said carefully. "The League appears to be directing all remaining law enforcement personnel toward a single location. They're orchestrating a tactical convergence."
Bruce felt cold certainty settle in his stomach as he processed the implications. Ra's al Ghul wasn't just eliminating opposition. He was consolidating all potential threats into a single location where they could be eliminated simultaneously.
"Location?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"The Iceberg Lounge," Alfred replied, his voice carrying the weight of inevitable confrontation. "Every remaining federal agent, every enhanced operative active in the city, every criminal faction that has been operating throughout the week. Intelligence suggests they're all converging on Mr. Cobblepot's establishment."
Dick's expression darkened as he understood what they were facing. "Your old teacher's staging a final confrontation."
"Ra's doesn't stage confrontations," Bruce corrected grimly. "He engineers situations where his enemies eliminate each other while he observes from a position of safety."
Harvey looked between Batman and Robin with growing comprehension of just how far beyond normal criminal activity the evening had progressed. "You're talking about the League of Shadows like they're some kind of international conspiracy."
"Because that's exactly what they are," Dick replied matter-of-factly. "Ancient organization, unlimited resources, operatives who've been training since childhood to be perfect killers. Think of them as the world's most effective terrorists with a mystical philosophy degree."
Agent Carter had been monitoring her radio while they spoke, her expression growing increasingly grim as reports filtered in from throughout the city. "My superiors are requesting immediate extraction from the area," she said finally. "Federal response is being coordinated from regional headquarters."
"Smart," Bruce acknowledged. "This isn't a situation conventional law enforcement can resolve."
"And us?" Harvey asked, though his tone suggested he already knew they wouldn't be retreating to safety.
Bruce looked toward the Iceberg Lounge's distant lights, his enhanced vision already detecting the thermal signatures that suggested significant activity around Cobblepot's establishment. Multiple factions converging, enhanced operatives preparing for confrontation, federal agents walking into a carefully orchestrated trap.
"We go to where we're needed most," he said simply.
Dick checked his equipment one final time, ensuring his specialized gear was properly secured for what promised to be their most challenging engagement yet. "The Iceberg Lounge. Where everything started, where everything ends."
"Poetic," Harvey observed with gallows humor that suggested the strain was finally getting to him. "Though I'd prefer a nice quiet courtroom for my next dramatic confrontation."
"After tonight," Bruce said with grim certainty, "there might not be any courtrooms left."
"Alfred," Bruce activated his comm as they prepared to move across Gotham's rooftops. "Full tactical support. Monitor all frequencies, coordinate with Fox on intelligence analysis. This ends tonight."
"Of course, sir," Alfred replied, his voice carrying the absolute confidence that had sustained Bruce through eight years of impossible battles. "Master Dick, do be careful. And Master Bruce... your parents would be proud."
Dick grinned at Bruce as they prepared their grapnel guns for the journey across Gotham's rooftops. "So," the boy said conversationally as he checked his line's tension, "speaking of being careful... that was quite the conversation you had with Commissioner Gordon's daughter at the fundraiser."
Bruce's hand paused on his grapnel gun's controls. "I wasn't aware you'd noticed."
"Kind of hard to miss," Dick replied with the smug satisfaction of someone who'd caught Batman off guard. "Barbara Gordon, twelve years old, obviously brilliant, and clearly made an impression on a certain young vigilante who kept glancing in her direction all evening."
"I was maintaining situational awareness," Dick protested, though his voice carried less conviction than usual. "Tactical assessment of all potential—"
"Right," Bruce interrupted dryly. "The same way I was conducting 'tactical assessment' when Talia showed up at the hotel?"
Dick's grin faltered slightly as Bruce turned the tables with surgical precision. "That's... different."
"Is it?" Bruce asked, activating his grapnel gun with deliberate casualness. "Because from where I stood, both situations involved remarkably intelligent women catching the attention of remarkably focused vigilantes who suddenly found their tactical priorities... adjusted."
The boy's mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed a response. "At least I didn't end up shirtless in a luxury hotel suite making questionable life choices."
Bruce felt his jaw tighten despite himself. The memory of his night with Talia was still too fresh, too complicated, carrying implications he wasn't ready to examine fully. "That was operational necessity."
"Operational necessity," Dick repeated slowly, his tone suggesting he found Bruce's explanation about as convincing as Bruce had found his own tactical assessment excuse. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"We're calling it none of your business," Bruce replied with the authority of someone who'd just lost a verbal sparring match to a ten-year-old. "And we're focusing on the mission."
"Of course," Dick agreed with exaggerated solemnity. "Though I have to say, Alfred's going to have some interesting observations about both our 'tactical assessments' when we get back to the manor."
The thought of Alfred's inevitably pointed commentary made Bruce wince internally. The butler had an uncanny ability to detect emotional complications, and his dry observations about Bruce's personal life had been devastating for eight years. Adding Dick's obvious interest in Barbara Gordon to the mix would provide Alfred with ammunition for months.
"Alfred has more important things to worry about," Bruce said, launching his grapnel line toward the next building with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
"Right," Dick replied, following with acrobatic grace that made the dangerous traverse look effortless. "Because I'm sure he didn't notice the way you came back to the hotel tonight looking like you'd been through an emotional blender."
They landed on the adjacent rooftop simultaneously, their partnership's synchronization now second nature despite its recent development. Bruce could see the Iceberg Lounge in the distance, emergency lighting casting an ominous glow that suggested the evening's violence was far from over.
"Focus, Robin," Bruce said, his voice carrying the edge that meant the conversation was over. "Whatever's waiting for us at the Iceberg Lounge is going to test everything we've learned together."
Dick's expression sobered immediately, the boy's natural combat instincts responding to the change in Bruce's tone. "Multiple enhanced operatives, international assassins, government conspiracies, and your former mentor's death cult. Just another Tuesday night in Gotham."
"Something like that," Bruce agreed, though his enhanced vision was already detecting thermal signatures around Cobblepot's establishment that suggested the situation was deteriorating rapidly. "Alfred, what's the tactical situation at the Iceberg Lounge?"
"Considerably complex, I'm afraid," Alfred replied through their comms, his composed voice carrying undertones of concern. "Mr. Fox's analysis indicates multiple factions converging on the establishment simultaneously. Federal agents, enhanced operatives, criminal organizations, and what appears to be a full League of Shadows deployment."
Bruce felt his tactical mind automatically cataloging the variables, calculating probable outcomes and identifying critical decision points. Ra's al Ghul had orchestrated exactly the kind of chaotic convergence that would allow him to eliminate multiple threats while maintaining plausible deniability.
"Pierce?" Dick asked, apparently thinking along similar lines.
"Present with what Mr. Fox believes to be SHIELD operatives under Pierce's direct authority," Alfred confirmed. "The Winter Soldier has also been detected in the area, though his current operational status remains unclear."
The mention of the Winter Soldier made Dick's expression darken with personal anger that five days of training hadn't quite managed to suppress. The boy had been remarkably composed about facing his parents' killer, but Bruce could see the emotional pressure building beneath his professional facade.
"Remember what we discussed," Bruce said quietly, recognizing the signs of someone struggling with the difference between justice and vengeance. "The Winter Soldier is enhanced beyond normal human capability. Direct confrontation without overwhelming tactical advantage would be suicide."
"I know," Dick replied, though his voice carried the strain of someone forcing rational thought over emotional reaction. "Observe, assess, support. Don't engage unless you're in immediate danger."
"And even then, your priority is extraction rather than confrontation," Bruce emphasized, launching another grapnel line as they continued their approach to the lounge. "The Asset has been systematically eliminating opponents tonight. Professional killers with decades of experience."
They swung between buildings with the fluid coordination that had become natural over their compressed partnership, Dick's acrobatic background allowing him to match Bruce's urban traversal techniques despite their vast difference in experience. The boy's natural talent was remarkable, but talent wouldn't be enough against the Winter Soldier's mechanical precision.
"Batman," Alfred's voice carried new urgency through their comms. "I'm detecting structural instability at the Iceberg Lounge. Whatever confrontation is occurring inside appears to be exceeding the building's defensive specifications."
Through his enhanced optics, Bruce could see emergency vehicles surrounding Cobblepot's establishment, their flashing lights creating a chaotic light show against the night sky. GCPD units, federal vehicles, ambulances, and what appeared to be specialized tactical equipment suggested that law enforcement was finally beginning to understand the scope of what they faced.
"Civilian casualties?" Dick asked, his voice carrying the concern of someone who understood that their mission extended beyond simple crime fighting.
"Minimal thus far," Alfred replied. "Mr. Cobblepot appears to have evacuated most patrons before the violence escalated. However, the building itself is showing signs of catastrophic structural damage."
Bruce felt grim satisfaction at Cobblepot's professionalism. Whatever else the Penguin might be, he was a competent criminal who understood the importance of protecting his establishment's reputation. Civilian casualties would have brought the kind of federal attention that even his political connections couldn't deflect.
They reached the final building before the plaza surrounding the Iceberg Lounge, their elevated position providing clear sight lines to the chaos below. Multiple GCPD units had established a perimeter, but their positioning suggested they were containing rather than intervening. Smart tactics when facing unknown enhanced threats.
"There," Dick said quietly, pointing toward a section of the lounge's exterior wall that showed fresh damage. "Looks like someone made their own entrance."
Bruce's enhanced vision tracked the damage pattern, noting the precision that suggested shaped charges rather than crude explosives. League of Shadows methodology, designed to create access points without bringing down the entire structure.
"Multiple breach points," he observed, cataloging similar damage around the building's perimeter. "Coordinated assault from different factions."
"Which means everyone's already inside," Dick concluded, his tactical training allowing him to read the same signs Bruce was processing. "Multiple enhanced opponents in close quarters."
"Where they'll be forced to engage each other rather than focusing on external threats," Bruce agreed, beginning to understand Ra's al Ghul's strategy. "Classic League methodology. Engineer a situation where your enemies destroy each other."
Alfred's voice crackled through their comms with new information. "Sirs, Mr. Fox has identified what appears to be an electromagnetic pulse event centered on the lounge's interior. Multiple electronic systems throughout the building have been disabled simultaneously."
Bruce felt cold recognition settle in his stomach. "Winter Soldier extraction protocol. He's attempting to eliminate tactical advantages his opponents might have through superior technology."
"Or he's been abandoned by his handlers and is improvising," Dick suggested, though his tone carried more hope than conviction.
The sound of structural collapse echoed across the plaza as a section of the Iceberg Lounge's upper level pancaked downward, emergency lighting flickering throughout the building as power systems struggled to compensate for massive damage.
"Building's coming down," Bruce observed with grim certainty. "Whatever's happening inside, it's exceeding the structure's ability to contain it."
They could see figures moving through the damaged sections of the building, thermal signatures that suggested enhanced individuals engaged in systematic violence. The scale of destruction was remarkable even by Gotham's standards, speaking to the power levels involved in the confrontation.
"Time to go," Dick said, extending his staff as he prepared for what might be their most dangerous mission yet.
Bruce activated his grapnel gun, aiming for the Iceberg Lounge's damaged skylight. "Remember, our priority is containment and protection. We're not there to settle old scores or prove anything to anyone."
"Understood," Dick replied, though his expression suggested he was thinking specifically about the Winter Soldier despite Bruce's warnings.
They launched themselves toward the chaos with synchronized precision, cape and acrobatic grace carrying them through Gotham's night air toward a confrontation that would define both their partnership and the city's future. Below them, some of the world's most dangerous individuals were testing each other's limits in close quarters combat that threatened to destroy everything around them.
"Alfred," Bruce said as they descended toward the maelstrom, "full tactical support. This ends tonight, one way or another."
—
Falcone Construction Site, Downtown Gotham - 1:23 AM
The abandoned Falcone Tower construction site rose into the night sky like a concrete skeleton, thirty floors of unfinished ambition that had been frozen in legal limbo for three years. Steel beams jutted at odd angles, elevator shafts gaped open to the elements, and construction equipment sat rusting where it had been abandoned when the money dried up. It was the perfect battlefield for enhanced killers who treated vertical space as just another dimension to exploit.
Batman landed on the ground floor in a controlled roll, his cape billowing around him as he rose from the impact. Through his enhanced optics, he could track the Winter Soldier's thermal signature ascending through the building's exposed framework with mechanical precision. The Asset was establishing defensive positions, turning the construction site's hazards into tactical advantages.
But Bruce wasn't alone in his pursuit.
Dark shapes descended from the Iceberg Lounge's collapsing structure with silent efficiency that spoke of decades of training. League of Shadows operatives rappelled through the emergency-lit chaos, their movements coordinated despite the destruction surrounding them. At their center moved a figure whose presence transformed the night air itself.
Ra's al Ghul touched down on the construction site's perimeter with imperial grace, his ancient eyes taking in the tactical situation with calculating interest. Behind him came his daughters, Talia and Nyssa, their coordination speaking to years of training together despite their obvious personal tensions.
"Detective," Ra's called across the debris-strewn ground floor, his voice carrying easily despite the distant sounds of structural collapse. "It appears we find ourselves with a mutual interest."
Batman turned toward his former mentor, cape settling around his armored form as he processed this unexpected development. Seven years had passed since he'd left the League of Shadows, seven years of building his own methods in opposition to everything Ra's represented. But tonight, the enemy of his enemy might prove useful.
The years between them seemed to collapse as Bruce studied the man who had shaped so much of his training. Ra's looked unchanged, that same imperial bearing, those calculating eyes that missed nothing. But Bruce knew he himself was different. The young man who had once sought approval from this figure was gone, replaced by something harder, more certain of his path.
"The Winter Soldier," Bruce said simply, understanding immediately what Ra's was proposing.
"Among others," Ra's confirmed, gesturing toward the construction site's upper levels where thermal signatures indicated multiple enhanced operatives taking positions. "Your former associates from tonight's festivities have chosen to make their stand here. Professional killers, government assets, and my own wayward students."
Bruce felt the weight of that last phrase. Wayward students. Once, he might have been counted among them if he'd chosen differently that day in the monastery. The memory of their final confrontation was still vivid, crystalline in its clarity. The executed prisoner, the offered blade, the philosophical chasm that had proven unbridgeable.
"You still believe in your Western sentimentality," Ra's observed, reading something in Bruce's posture. "Your arbitrary moral boundaries. Yet here you are, prepared to work alongside the very organization you so dramatically rejected."
"Circumstances change," Bruce replied evenly. "But principles don't. I won't kill for you, Ra's. Not then, not now."
A ghost of a smile touched Ra's lips. "I would expect nothing less from Thomas Wayne's son. Your father possessed the same stubborn integrity. It was both his greatest strength and his most limiting weakness."
The mention of his father stirred something in Bruce, but he kept his voice steady. "My father healed people. He didn't condemn entire civilizations."
"Your father was a good man working within a broken system," Ra's replied, beginning to move toward the building where their temporary enemies waited. "Noble, certainly. Effective?" He paused, meeting Bruce's gaze directly. "The streets of Gotham would suggest otherwise."
Bruce fell into step beside him, muscle memory from their training days making the coordination feel natural despite everything that lay between them. "Gotham is healing. Slowly, but it's happening."
"Seven years you have spent in your crusade," Ra's mused, his tone carrying neither mockery nor approval, simply observation. "You have become precisely what I believed you could be, Detective. A force beyond mere mortality. Yet you still cling to the illusion that this city can be saved rather than cleansed."
They reached the entrance to the construction site, both men automatically assessing tactical positions, sightlines, potential ambush points. The familiarity of fighting alongside Ra's was unsettling. Despite their fundamental disagreements, they had once moved together with perfect synchronization.
"I've proven you wrong," Bruce said quietly. "Crime rates are down thirty percent. Corruption prosecutions are up. The Falcone organization is crumbling."
"Temporary victories," Ra's dismissed. "You treat symptoms while the disease spreads deeper. Each criminal you capture is replaced by two more. Each corrupt official you expose reveals three others in the shadows."
"Then I'll keep fighting," Bruce replied with absolute conviction. "For as long as it takes."
Ra's stopped walking, turning to face Bruce fully. For a moment, the ancient master studied his former student with something approaching curiosity.
"You truly believe it, don't you?" Ra's said softly. "After everything you have witnessed, after seven years of blood and violence and endless cycles of crime and punishment, you still believe Gotham can be redeemed."
"I know it can be," Bruce said firmly. "Because I've seen what happens when good people refuse to give up. Commissioner Gordon, District Attorney Dent, Dr. Thompkins at the clinic, even Alfred. They prove every day that this city is worth saving."
"Alfred," Ra's repeated, and something in his tone softened almost imperceptibly. "Your faithful guardian. He wrote to me, you know, shortly after your departure from the compound."
Bruce's eyes widened slightly behind the cowl. "What?"
"A single letter. Very proper, very British. He thanked me for training you, for giving you purpose, but warned me in the most polite terms imaginable that if I ever threatened you again, he would find a way to make me regret it." Ra's actually smiled at the memory. "I have faced armies, Detective. I have broken empires. But I confess, that butler of yours gave me pause."
Despite everything, Bruce felt a warmth in his chest. Alfred, protecting him even from threats an ocean away. "He's protective."
"He loves you as a son," Ra's corrected. "As I once hoped to, before you chose your path."
The admission hung between them, unexpected in its honesty. Bruce remembered the moments in the monastery when Ra's had seemed almost paternal, the approval in his voice when Bruce mastered a particularly difficult technique, the way the League master had spoken of legacy and succession.
"You could have been my heir," Ra's continued, his voice taking on a regretful note. "Together, we could have reshaped this world, brought true balance to civilization's chaos. Instead, you chose this lonely vigil, this endless war against entropy itself."
"I chose justice over judgment," Bruce replied. "Individual salvation over collective condemnation."
"And yet here we stand, preparing to fight side by side once more." Ra's began moving again, heading toward the building's entrance. "Perhaps there is wisdom in your approach that I have not fully appreciated. Or perhaps desperation makes strange allies of us all."
Bruce's eyes found Talia among the League operatives, her presence both expected and complicated. The memory of their recent encounter was still fresh, the way she had cared for him after Copperhead's poison nearly killed him, the diluted Lazarus waters that had healed him, the intimacy that had followed. Seven years of separation, and yet when they touched, it felt like no time had passed at all.
Talia met his gaze steadily, her expression unreadable in the emergency lighting. Nyssa stood beside her sister, watching the exchange with calculating interest.
"Your reunion with my daughter was... illuminating, I'm sure," Ra's observed, noting the silent communication between Bruce and Talia. "The heart remembers what the mind chooses to forget."
"Some things don't change," Bruce replied carefully, aware that every word was being analyzed by multiple parties.
"And some things evolve," Talia interjected, moving closer with fluid grace. "You're different, beloved. Harder. More certain of your path."
"As are you," Bruce acknowledged. The woman before him carried herself with new authority, no longer just Ra's al Ghul's daughter but a leader in her own right.
Nyssa stepped forward as well, her tactical assessment of Bruce frank and professional. "Seven years of war have marked you both. Perhaps this alliance will reveal whether that growth has made you compatible or driven you further apart."
They were at the building's entrance now, the sounds of movement from above indicating their enemies were positioning for whatever came next. The moment of reflection was ending, the immediate tactical situation reasserting itself.
"Terms?" Bruce asked, his voice carrying the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust his former mentor's definitions of temporary.
"Simple," Ra's replied, spreading his hands in a gesture of apparent reasonableness. "The assassins represent chaos without purpose, violence without vision. Remove them from the equation, then you and I can discuss Gotham's future like civilized men."
"Civilized," Bruce repeated with dark amusement. "Right."