Before Ra's could respond, a figure dropped from the building's framework with acrobatic precision that made the dangerous descent look effortless. Robin landed beside Batman in a controlled crouch, his colorful costume bright against the construction site's emergency lighting.
"Did I miss the villain team-up negotiation?" Dick asked conversationally, extending his staff as he surveyed the tactical situation. "Because that seemed important."
"Robin," Ra's said with something approaching warmth, his earlier encounter with the boy apparently having left a positive impression. "Your timing is impeccable."
"Kid's got style," Nyssa added approvingly from her position nearby, noting the way Dick positioned himself to cover Batman's flank while maintaining awareness of the League operatives. "Good tactical instincts."
Dick grinned at the compliments, though his attention remained focused on the building above them. "So what's the plan? Take down the international murder squad and then have philosophical debates about urban renewal?"
"Something like that," Bruce confirmed, activating his cowl's enhanced sensors to track movement throughout the construction site. The familiar blue glow of the tactical display overlaid his vision, marking heat signatures and movement patterns throughout the skeletal building above. "But remember what we discussed about survival versus engagement."
"I remember," Dick replied, his voice carrying new maturity despite his youth. The boy had grown considerably in the months since joining Batman's crusade, both physically and tactically. "Though I also remember what you said about backup changing the tactical equation."
Ra's studied the boy with calculating interest, apparently reassessing his earlier dismissal of Batman's young partner. There was approval in the ancient master's expression, recognition of potential that Bruce himself had seen when he first encountered the young acrobat.
"The child shows wisdom beyond his years," Ra's observed, his tone carrying genuine respect. "Perhaps there is hope for the next generation after all."
That was when the first shot rang out.
The suppressed crack of Deadshot's rifle echoed through the construction site, the muzzle flash barely visible from somewhere high in the building's exposed framework. But Bruce's enhanced reflexes, honed through years of training and refined through countless encounters with Gotham's deadliest criminals, detected the threat before the bullet reached him.
His cape snapped around him like living shadow as he dove for cover behind a concrete mixer, the reinforced fabric designed to disperse kinetic energy and provide protection from small arms fire. The round sparked off the heavy machinery, Deadshot's legendary accuracy requiring recalibration for targets who moved with superhuman speed.
"So much for negotiations," Dick observed, taking cover beside Bruce while League operatives scattered with professional efficiency that spoke to decades of training in hostile environments.
"Contact confirmed," came Deadshot's voice from the building's upper reaches, his mechanical targeting eye allowing him to track multiple threats simultaneously. "Seven hostiles on ground level. Batman, Robin, and what appears to be the entire League of Shadows leadership."
"Copy that," Deathstroke's voice echoed through the construction site's acoustic maze, his enhanced awareness allowing him to monitor the situation while maintaining his own position. "Recommend systematic elimination before they can coordinate effectively."
Bruce felt grim satisfaction at the assassins' tactical assessment. They understood the threat represented by his temporary alliance with the League, which meant they'd act decisively rather than attempting individual glory. In some ways, that made them more dangerous. Coordinated professionals were always more challenging than ego-driven individuals.
"Positions," Ra's commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority as Shadow Cabinet operatives melted into the construction site's framework with silent efficiency. "Nyssa, northeast approach. Talia, coordinate with the Detective. I shall provide oversight and tactical adjustment."
Talia moved to Batman's position with liquid grace, her approach stirring memories that Bruce had carefully compartmentalized. The way she moved hadn't changed in seven years, that perfect economy of motion that made every step serve multiple purposes. Her proximity carried the same electric tension that had defined their relationship since their first sparring session in the monastery's moonlit courtyard.
"Like old times," she said quietly, producing curved blades that caught the emergency lighting. The weapons were perfectly balanced, their edges gleaming with the kind of sharpness that could only be achieved through meticulous care.
"Old times involved less family drama," Bruce replied, though his tone carried warmth despite the circumstances. He couldn't quite suppress the memory of their recent encounter, the way she had tended to his injuries after Copperhead's poison had nearly killed him. The diluted Lazarus waters that had healed his body, her touch that had healed something deeper.
Dick watched this exchange with obvious interest, filing away details about Bruce's complicated relationship with the League for future reference. The boy's intelligence extended beyond tactical matters, though this wasn't the time for relationship counseling. Still, Dick had learned to read the subtle changes in Bruce's posture, the slight softening around his eyes that occurred only in very specific circumstances.
A throwing knife materialized from the darkness above, Kraven's signature weapon seeking Dick's exposed position with predatory accuracy. The blade whistled through the air with lethal intent, its trajectory calculated to account for the boy's likely evasive maneuvers.
Robin moved with fluid grace, his staff deflecting the projectile while his enhanced vision tracked its source among the building's shadows. The acrobatic training that had made him a star performer now served him well in life-or-death situations.
"Hunter's marking territory," Dick announced, already moving toward better cover as more projectiles followed the first. "Upper framework, southeast corner."
"I'll handle Kraven," Nyssa declared, her own weapons appearing in her hands as she began ascending the building's exposed structure with spider-like agility. "The hunter becomes the hunted."
Meanwhile, Copperhead had emerged from the building's lower levels, her serpentine movement allowing her to navigate spaces that should have been impossible for human anatomy. She flowed between construction equipment with impossible flexibility, seeking angles of attack that conventional opponents couldn't anticipate.
"Poison lady's mobile," Dick reported, tracking her movements while maintaining cover from Deadshot's overwatch position. "She's trying to flank us through the machinery."
As Copperhead slithered closer, her yellow eyes caught sight of a familiar figure moving with deadly precision through the shadows. Recognition hit her like a physical blow, and her sinuous form coiled with sudden, concentrated fury.
"¡Tú!" she hissed, her accent thickening with rage as she spotted Talia al Ghul preparing specialized smoke grenades. "¡La perra que me traicionó!" The serpentine assassin's vertical pupils contracted to thin slits as the memory of their last encounter flooded back—being left restrained for GCPD while this woman vanished into the night like smoke.
Talia turned, her expression shifting from tactical focus to something approaching satisfaction as she recognized her opponent. "Larissa Diaz. I wondered when you would resurface after your brief... vacation in GCPD custody."
"Vacation?" Copperhead's laugh was pure venom, her enhanced physiology causing her spine to undulate in ways that defied human anatomy. "Twenty-four hours in that hellhole before Bane broke us out. One day of interrogation, of them trying to synthesize my toxins, of being treated like a lab rat!" Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them. "All because you humiliated me at the safe house."
The accusation hung in the air as the two women circled each other through the construction equipment, their movements creating a deadly ballet of predator and predator. Talia's stance shifted to the distinctive opening form of League combat disciplines, while Copperhead's body began the unsettling contortions that made her so dangerous in close quarters.
"I did what was necessary to protect the judge," Talia replied coolly, though her muscles tensed as she observed Copperhead's preparation for attack. "Your defeat was an unfortunate consequence of your inadequate preparation."
"Inadequate?" Copperhead's voice rose to an outraged hiss. "You made me look like an amateur! Me—one of the deadliest assassins in the world—beaten by some daddy's girl playing with ancient techniques!" Her claws extended, the specialized toxin glands in her fingertips already beginning to secrete their deadly payload. "My reputation suffered because of you. Tonight, I restore it by taking your head."
The first exchange came with explosive violence. Copperhead launched herself forward with inhuman speed, her body compressing like a spring before uncoiling in a complex attack pattern that targeted multiple vectors simultaneously. Her flexibility allowed strikes from angles that should have been anatomically impossible, claws slashing toward Talia's throat while her legs swept at ankle level in the same fluid motion.
Talia responded with the calculated precision that had made her one of the League's most feared operatives. Where Copperhead relied on unnatural movement and toxic weaponry, Talia countered with perfect technique—flowing around the attacks like water, never meeting force with force but redirecting and exploiting the microsecond openings that appeared between Copperhead's combinations.
"Still fighting like a trained animal," Talia observed clinically as she deflected a particularly vicious swipe that would have opened her carotid artery. "My father would have eliminated such predictable patterns through proper discipline."
The insult struck home. Copperhead's next assault became wilder, more aggressive, her serpentine advantages beginning to work against her as emotion overrode calculation. "¡Callate, perra!" she snarled, her attacks gaining in ferocity what they lost in precision. "Your father's discipline couldn't save you from three days of failure!"
But even in her rage, Copperhead's enhanced physiology remained formidable. Her spine twisted in ways that allowed her to attack from behind while appearing to retreat, her ribs compressing to slip through gaps in scaffolding that should have provided Talia with cover. Each strike carried enough toxin to paralyze a normal human within seconds.
Talia adapted with the fluid grace of decades of training, using the construction site's obstacles to her advantage. A concrete mixer became a barrier to redirect Copperhead's momentum; steel beams provided leverage points for acrobatic counters that turned the assassin's own flexibility against her.
"You've improved since our last encounter," Talia acknowledged, landing a precise strike to Copperhead's solar plexus that briefly disrupted her breathing pattern. "Desperation often motivates rapid advancement."
"Improved?" Copperhead gasped, her body recoiling from the impact before flowing back into attack position. "I spent those three days planning exactly how I would kill you, analyzing every technique you used. I know your patterns now, Daughter of the Demon!"
The claim carried more weight than mere boasting. Copperhead's next combination showed clear adaptation to Talia's defensive preferences, attacks coming from angles designed to minimize the effectiveness of League redirection techniques. Her movements had gained a calculated quality that spoke to genuine study rather than simple enhancement.
Talia found herself pressed harder than in their previous confrontation, forced to innovate rather than rely on established patterns. Copperhead had indeed used her incarceration productively, developing counters to the precise techniques that had defeated her at the safe house.
"Analytical improvement," Talia noted with something approaching respect, though her own assault never wavered. "Yet analysis without philosophical foundation remains merely mimicry."
She punctuated her observation with a sequence that incorporated elements Copperhead couldn't have studied—advanced League techniques reserved for the most elite operatives. The combination forced the serpentine assassin into purely defensive postures, her enhanced flexibility barely allowing her to avoid strikes that would have ended the fight permanently.
"¡Imposible!" Copperhead hissed, her confidence shaken as attacks materialized from vectors she hadn't anticipated. "I studied everything! Every movement from the safe house!"
"You studied what I allowed you to see," Talia corrected, her next strike landing with surgical precision against nerve clusters in Copperhead's shoulder. "Basic League techniques, appropriate for neutralizing enhanced but undisciplined opponents. Did you truly believe that represented the full extent of my capabilities?"
The revelation that their previous fight had been conducted with restraint rather than full commitment struck Copperhead like a physical blow. The careful analysis she'd conducted during her imprisonment was suddenly rendered incomplete, her planned counters inadequate against techniques she'd never witnessed.
Desperation replaced calculation in her assault pattern. She threw herself into increasingly reckless combinations, abandoning the methodical approach that had initially pressed Talia in favor of overwhelming aggression. Her claws left green trails in the air as her toxin production reached maximum output, creating a visible cloud of potential death around her movements.
"Standing still now," Talia observed, her voice carrying that clinical detachment that had always infuriated opponents. "Desperation makes you predictable again, exactly as it did at the safe house."
But even as she spoke, Talia was preparing her specialized smoke grenades—League equipment designed specifically for chemical-based threats. Whatever compounds these devices contained, they would neutralize Copperhead's airborne toxins while providing the concealment necessary to end this confrontation decisively.
"Neutralization protocols," she explained to Bruce, who was monitoring their engagement while coordinating the larger battle. "Copperhead's toxins require skin contact or inhalation. Deny her accuracy and she becomes manageable."
The grenades burst with precision timing, filling the construction site's lower level with concealing smoke that carried a faint medicinal scent. The specialized compounds didn't just obscure vision—they actively neutralized the toxic particles Copperhead had been dispersing, rendering her environmental advantages meaningless.
"¡Maldita tecnología!" Copperhead cursed from somewhere in the artificial fog, her voice carrying the frustration of someone whose primary advantages had been systematically eliminated. "This won't save you forever!"
"It doesn't need to be forever," Talia replied, her voice seeming to come from multiple directions as she moved through the concealing smoke with practiced ease. "Only long enough to finish what we began at the safe house."
The sound of their continued combat echoed through the smoke—impacts, deflections, the occasional hiss of pain or frustration as one or the other landed a blow. But the tide had clearly turned. Copperhead's enhanced senses, adapted for detecting chemical traces and body heat, were being overwhelmed by the specialized countermeasures designed specifically to neutralize her abilities.
"Irritant countermeasures deployed," Copperhead admitted, her voice carrying the reluctant respect of a professional recognizing superior preparation. "Switching to physical engagement protocols."
But even as she spoke, both women knew the outcome was no longer in doubt. Talia had successfully neutralized every advantage that made Copperhead uniquely dangerous, reducing the confrontation to a contest of pure technique—a battle the League-trained assassin had never been likely to lose.
Across the construction site, Bruce and Dick had taken defensive positions behind a concrete barrier, coordinating their response to the multi-front assault. Bruce's tactical assessment was interrupted by the sound of concrete cracking somewhere above them—not the sharp report of gunfire or the whistle of thrown weapons, but something far more ominous.
"Movement from above," Dick reported, his enhanced vision tracking through the building's skeletal framework. "Big movement. Really big."
That was when Bane made his entrance.
The massive figure dropped from the building's upper reaches with devastating impact, his Venom-enhanced physiology allowing him to absorb the three-story fall without significant injury. Concrete cracked under his boots as he rose to his full imposing height, the green glow of his enhancement system pulsing with mechanical rhythm. The sight of him brought back the memory of their last encounter—the systematic destruction of GCPD headquarters, the brutal fight in the Batcave, the way he'd nearly killed both Bruce and Alfred before they'd managed to turn his own enhancement system against him.
"Batman," Bane rumbled, his accent thick with anticipated violence. "Our previous encounter was interrupted by circumstance. Tonight, we finish what was begun."
Bruce felt his jaw tighten behind the cowl. Two days. It had been two days since Bane had breached the Batcave, since he'd nearly broken both him and Dick before they'd managed to sabotage his Venom regulator. The massive mercenary looked fully recovered, his tactical gear pristine, the tubes feeding his mask glowing with that sickly green Venom. But Bruce could see the subtle signs—the way Bane favored his left side just slightly, the faint scarring around his eye where Dick's bo staff had connected, the reinforced plating over his wrist where the regulator had been rebuilt.
"You sure you want a rematch?" Dick called out from his position, his voice carrying the confidence that had been building over their five days of partnership. "Because last time didn't go so well for you. What was it you said right before we put you down? Something about proving worthy?"
Bane's attention turned toward the boy with mechanical precision, apparently reassessing the tactical situation now that Batman's partner was actively participating rather than simply providing distraction. The mercenary's eyes narrowed above his mask, clearly remembering the humiliation of being outmaneuvered by a ten-year-old.
"The child speaks with remarkable boldness for one so small," Bane observed, his massive hands flexing in anticipation. "Though I recall you required considerable assistance to achieve that hollow victory. Your circus tricks and broken regulator will not serve you twice."
"Circus tricks?" Dick laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement despite the danger. "Is that what we're calling it when I stuck my bo staff through your eye socket while you were busy squeezing Batman to death? Because I call that 'precision targeting.'"
The reminder of that moment—the desperate gambit that had saved Bruce's life—sent a visible ripple of rage through Bane's enhanced frame. His muscles swelled slightly as the Venom system responded to his emotional state, compensating for psychological triggers with increased flow. The tubes pulsed brighter, their mechanical rhythm increasing.
"You were dying," Dick continued, his voice taking on a mocking edge that Bruce recognized from their first encounter. "Literally cooking yourself from the inside with your own enhancement juice while crying about how you were going to kill a kid. Real dignified stuff, Nacho Libre."
"Enough," Bane snarled, his voice distorting through the rebuilt mask. "I have learned from our previous engagement. Studied your methodologies. Adapted my approach." His hand moved to the control interface on his wrist—newly armored, Bruce noted, with additional protective plating. "You will not find me so vulnerable to your tricks."
Bruce moved to support his partner, positioning himself to create the same tactical coordination that had proven effective in the cave. "Dick, remember the pattern. Mobility over strength, precision over power."
"Already on it," Dick replied, his escrima sticks extending to full length as he prepared for engagement. "Though I'm thinking we skip straight to the part where we break his toys this time. Save everyone some trouble."
The casual reference to their victory—the moment when Bruce had driven his blade through Bane's regulator, causing the catastrophic overdose that had ultimately defeated him—made the giant's hands clench into fists. Concrete dust sifted down from the partially constructed walls as Bane's enhanced strength unconsciously asserted itself.
"You think sabotage makes you superior," Bane growled, beginning to circle their position with predatory intent. "Destroying equipment rather than facing your opponent directly. It shows weakness, not strength."
"Shows intelligence," Bruce replied, his voice carrying the weight of hard-earned experience. "You made the same mistake then that you're making now—believing that raw power trumps tactical thinking."
"The mistake," Dick added, vaulting onto a nearby girder to gain height advantage, "was thinking we'd fight fair against someone trying to murder our family. Alfred's still got a scar on his head from your little love tap, by the way. He says it's a good reminder of what happens when people underestimate old soldiers."
The mention of Alfred—the memory of backhanding the butler across the medical station, of the old man's blood on the cave floor—seemed to strike something deep in Bane's psychology. For all his tactical brutality, the mercenary operated by a code that respected courage in all its forms. Alfred's willingness to face him with nothing but a shotgun had clearly left an impression.
"The servant fought with honor," Bane acknowledged grudgingly. "Unlike his cowardly charges who resorted to sabotage and trickery."
"Trickery?" Dick's voice rose with mock indignation. "We worked as a team! You know, teamwork? That thing where people actually trust each other enough to coordinate instead of just throwing their weight around like some kind of roided-up toddler having a tantrum?"
Bruce watched Bane's enhancement system pulse faster as the boy's words hit home. Dick was deliberately provoking him, using the same psychological warfare that had proven effective in their first encounter. But this time, Bane seemed more prepared for it—his tactical awareness remaining sharp despite the emotional manipulation.
"Your coordination was adequate," Bane admitted, his voice carrying grudging respect despite his anger. "The distraction patterns, the use of environmental factors, even the child's theatrical provocations—all effective against an opponent unprepared for such methods."
"Unprepared," Dick repeated, somehow managing to pack an entire lecture on tactical inadequacy into those three syllables. "That's one way to put it. I prefer 'overconfident,' personally. You came into our house, hurt our family, destroyed our stuff, and then acted all surprised when we fought back with everything we had."
The boy's voice hardened, losing its mocking edge and taking on something more dangerous. "You want to know what trickery really looks like? Trickery is expecting your opponents to play by your rules while you use chemical enhancement to gain unfair advantage. We just leveled the playing field."
Bane's response was immediate and violent. He charged toward Dick's position with earth-shaking force, his enhanced muscles propelling his massive frame faster than physics should have allowed. But the boy was already moving, his acrobatic training allowing him to swing between the construction site's steel framework with fluid grace.
"Missed!" Dick called out as Bane's fist struck the girder where he'd been standing, the impact actually bending the steel beam. "You know, for someone who claims to have learned from our last fight, you're showing remarkably similar patterns. Charge, miss, get frustrated, repeat."
Bruce moved to support his partner, cape billowing as he engaged Bane from a different angle. Their coordination had evolved rapidly over five intensive days of partnership, creating tactical advantages that individual skill couldn't provide. But more than that, they'd learned to trust each other completely—the kind of trust that allowed split-second decisions and coordinated maneuvers that looked choreographed but were actually pure instinct.
"Systematic approach," Bruce called to Dick, his voice carrying across the construction site's chaos. "Pattern recognition from the cave engagement."
Dick nodded, already implementing the strategy they'd refined specifically for enhanced opponents. His movement became more fluid, using the construction site's vertical elements to maintain distance while seeking opportunities for precision strikes. But there was something different this time—a confidence that hadn't been there in the cave, a certainty that came from having faced this opponent before and emerged victorious.
"Remember how this ends," Dick taunted as he dropped behind Bane, his escrima sticks finding the gaps in the mercenary's tactical gear with surgical precision. "You, unconscious on the ground, while we stand over you trying to figure out whether to call an ambulance or just let Darwin sort it out."
Bane spun with remarkable speed for someone his size, but Dick was already gone, swinging away on a cable line while Bruce moved in from the opposite side. Their attacks weren't designed to cause immediate incapacitation—that would have been impossible against Bane's enhanced physiology. Instead, they were systematic, methodical, each strike building toward a greater tactical objective.
"You fight like shadows," Bane growled, adjusting his Venom flow to compensate for the multi-directional assault. "Never standing still, never engaging directly. Where is the honor in such cowardice?"
"Honor?" Bruce's voice carried a cold edge as he landed a precise strike to Bane's kidney, the blow calculated to disrupt the mercenary's balance. "You breached my home. Threatened my family. Honor doesn't enter into this equation."
"Besides," Dick added, his voice coming from somewhere in the steel framework above them, "we're not shadows. We're Batman and Robin. And the thing about us is, we don't stay down when bullies try to break us."
The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning—a declaration of partnership, of shared purpose, of the bond that had been forged in fire during their first encounter with Bane. They were no longer mentor and student, guardian and ward. They were equals, partners in the truest sense, united by mutual respect and shared commitment to protecting what mattered to them.
"Batman and Robin," Bane repeated, testing the names like weapons. "The Detective and his theatrical protégé. Tell me, child, when the Venom tears through your precious coordination, when your partner lies broken at my feet, will you stand and face me alone? Or will you run, as children should?"
Dick's answer came not in words but in action. He dropped from above, both escrima sticks aimed at the same pressure point behind Bane's ear that had ultimately felled the giant in their previous encounter. It was a bold move, potentially fatal if mistimed, but it carried the weight of absolute trust in his partner's ability to support him.
The strike connected, but this time Bane was ready for it. The massive hand that caught Dick's wrist in mid-descent was like being grabbed by a hydraulic vise. "Predictable," Bane rumbled, beginning to squeeze. "The same technique that worked before will not"
Bruce's batarang severed two of Bane's Venom tubes before the villain could finish his sentence, green fluid spraying across the concrete as the enhanced flow of chemicals was interrupted. Bane roared in frustration, his grip on Dick loosening just enough for the boy to twist free and roll away.
"New rule," Bruce called out, moving to flank Bane's position. "We don't repeat ourselves."