Meanwhile, Lady Shiva had descended from the building's upper levels like a wraith given form, her attention fixed on the League operatives engaging other targets throughout the compound. Unlike the other assassins, she showed no concern for cover or defensive positioning. Instead, she walked into the smoke-filled battlefield with the confidence of someone who had never met her equal.
Until tonight.
"Ra's al Ghul," she called across the chaos, her voice carrying clearly despite the surrounding violence. "Your students show promise, but they lack the conviction that separates warriors from pretenders."
The response came from directly behind her: a voice that made her spine stiffen with recognition and something she rarely experienced: apprehension.
"And what would you know of conviction, my fallen star?"
Shiva turned slowly, controlling her reaction as Ra's al Ghul emerged from the shadows like a specter of ancient wrath. His eyes immediately fixed on the fresh cuts marring her features, thin lines across her cheek and forehead that told their own humiliating story.
"Sandra," he said softly, using the name she had abandoned decades ago. "Still bleeding from your encounter with Batman's child, I see."
The casual observation hit like a physical blow. Those cuts, barely more than scratches, had become symbols of her first true failure in years. A ten-year-old boy with five days of training had done what seasoned killers could not: he had made Lady Shiva bleed.
"The boy fought well," she replied carefully, her legendary composure intact despite the churning emotions beneath. "His training shows promise under Batman's guidance."
Ra's began to circle her with the deliberate pace of a predator sizing up wounded prey. "His training? Five days, Sandra. Five days against your decades of instruction under my tutelage." He paused directly in front of her. "Tell me, did I fail in teaching you to handle children? Or have you simply forgotten everything I invested in your development?"
"I completed my mission parameters," Shiva said, recognizing the trap in his words but unable to avoid stepping into it. "Dent was-"
"Your mission was a failure." The interruption was delivered with surgical precision. "The target lives. You were forced to retreat. And most tellingly, you lost control of yourself so completely that you attempted to murder a child in a fit of wounded pride."
Ra's drew his ancient sword with ritualistic slowness, the steel singing as it cleared its sheath. "Shall we discuss how far you've fallen from the standards I once set for you?"
Their engagement began immediately, but from the first exchange it was clear this would be no respectful duel between former master and student. Ra's moved with the fluid certainty of someone who had been perfecting these techniques when Shiva's ancestors were still learning to make fire.
She opened with a series of lightning-fast strikes, each one aimed at nerve clusters that would end most fights instantly. Ra's deflected them almost casually, his blade work flowing like water around stone, never quite where her attacks expected to find resistance.
"You were my finest student once," he said conversationally, even as his sword traced patterns through the air that forced her to give ground. "I watched you transcend every limitation, surpass every expectation. The girl who came to me broken by tragedy became a weapon of such precision that death itself seemed to bend to your will."
Shiva attempted a spinning kick that would have shattered ribs, but Ra's was already moving, his centuries of experience making her most devastating techniques seem telegraphed and slow.
"And yet tonight," he continued, pressing his advantage with measured aggression, "you were reduced to smashing mirrors like a common street brawler. Where was the emotional control I spent years instilling? Where was the tactical superiority that made you legendary?"
"The child used unorthodox methods," Shiva said, deflecting his blade with both hands while seeking an opening that never materialized. "His approach was unpredictable, chaotic"
"His approach was desperate," Ra's corrected, his sword work becoming more intricate, each movement flowing into the next with mathematical precision. "The desperation of someone fighting to protect others rather than merely to kill. And somehow, that desperation proved superior to all your vaunted skill."
The words cut deeper than any blade could have. Shiva knew he was right. Dick Grayson hadn't defeated her through superior technique or training. He had won through sheer audacity and the kind of reckless courage that came from having something worth protecting.
"He survived through luck and Batman's intervention," she countered, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
"He survived because he adapted," Ra's replied, his blade singing through the air in patterns that seemed to defy physics. "While you, my former masterpiece, devolved into exactly the kind of emotional reactivity I spent decades training out of you."
Ra's suddenly accelerated his assault, his sword becoming a steel storm that forced Shiva into purely defensive movements. This was no longer instruction. This was punishment.
"Do you know what disappointed me most?" he asked, his voice carrying the particular tone that had once struck terror into the hearts of League operatives. "Not that you failed to kill the child. Not even that he wounded you. But that when faced with your own limitations, you forgot every lesson I ever taught you about grace in defeat."
Shiva's response came in the form of a desperate combination attack, every technique she possessed flowing together in a display of skill that would have overwhelmed any other opponent. Ra's countered each strike with minimal effort, his blade work demonstrating the vast gulf that still existed between student and master.
"The boy learned from your encounter," Ra's observed, forcing her back with a series of strikes that came within millimeters of ending the fight permanently. "He walked away stronger, more confident, having proven himself against impossible odds. You, meanwhile, learned nothing except that your pride bleeds as easily as your flesh."
"I maintain the League's standards," Shiva managed, though her breathing was becoming labored under the relentless pressure of his assault.
The philosophical blade found its mark where the physical one had not. Shiva felt something twist inside her chest, a recognition of truth she wasn't prepared to confront.
"The boy fights for others," Ra's continued remorselessly. "While you fight only for the empty satisfaction of proving your superiority. Which of you, do you think, represents the true spirit of what I once tried to teach?"
Around them, the larger battle raged on. Bruce could hear the steady pulse of Bane's Venom tubes and the crash of concrete as the giant pressed his attack. Two days. It had been two days since they'd taken him down in the cave, and Bane clearly hadn't forgotten a single detail of that humiliation.
"I've had time to think about our last encounter," Bane called out, hurling a steel beam that forced both Bruce and Dick to dive in opposite directions. "About how a man and boy managed to defeat something that should have been unstoppable."
Dick rolled to his feet, cape settling around his shoulders. "Yeah? And what brilliant conclusion did you reach? That you suck at fighting kids?"
Even through his mask, Bane's rage was visible. His muscles swelled as the Venom responded to his emotional state. "Your sabotage was elegant, I'll give you that. Cutting my regulator, forcing an overdose. But that weakness has been eliminated."
He gestured to his wrist where new armor plating protected the control interface. Multiple backup systems were visible now—redundant connections, reinforced housing. He'd learned from their victory.
"We learned a few things too," Bruce said, already moving to flank him. "Like how you whine when your special juice gets cut off."
"And how you end up unconscious on our floor," Dick added cheerfully, bouncing on his toes like he was warming up for a performance. "Alfred was really annoyed about the mess you made. He had to get the blood out of the cave floor."
Bane's roar echoed off the construction site's steel framework. "Enough!"
He charged Bruce with earth-shaking force, but this time they were ready for him. Bruce didn't try to meet that charge head-on—instead he rolled aside at the last second, letting Bane's momentum carry him past while Dick dropped from above, driving both escrima sticks into the base of the giant's neck.
Bane spun faster than something his size should have been able to, massive fist swinging toward Dick. But the boy was already gone, flipping backward off Bane's shoulders as Bruce moved in from the opposite side, striking the nerve cluster behind Bane's knee.
"Still too slow," Dick taunted, landing in a crouch. "For such a smart guy, you really don't learn, do you?"
They'd done this dance before. Hit and move. Strike and fade. Never let him pin them down, never give him a solid target. Bane might have enhanced his equipment, but he was still the same lumbering giant who'd been outmaneuvered by a ten-year-old with daddy issues.
Bruce caught Dick's eye and nodded toward Bane's left side. Dick grinned and was already moving before Bane could track him, forcing the giant to turn his back to Bruce. The moment Bane committed to following Dick's movement, Bruce struck—three quick hits to the kidney, the floating rib, and the base of the spine.
Bane stumbled forward, right into Dick's path. The boy had rebounded off a steel girder and came flying back feet-first, both boots connecting with Bane's solar plexus. It wasn't enough to drop him, but it doubled him over just enough for Bruce to grab his head and drive a knee into his face.
"Son of a—" Bane's curse was cut off as he swung wildly, trying to catch either of them. But they were already gone, circling him like sharks around wounded prey.
"What's wrong?" Dick called out, his voice echoing from somewhere in the steel framework above. "Miss the good old days when you could just grab people and squeeze?"
Bane triggered the floodlights built into his tactical vest, harsh illumination banishing the construction site's shadows. "Let's see how well you hide now!"
"Who's hiding?" Dick dropped from directly overhead, driving his staff into the back of Bane's skull before using the giant's own momentum to vault away. "We're right here!"
Bruce came in from the side while Bane was still reeling, his strikes targeting every pressure point he could reach. The spots where even Venom couldn't completely protect against properly applied force. Bane tried to grab him, those massive hands closing on empty air as Bruce ducked under his reach.
"Your problem," Bruce said, landing another combination before dancing back out of range, "is that you think like a tank. All force, no finesse."
"I don't need finesse!" Bane roared, but there was frustration creeping into his voice now. He kept swinging at targets that weren't there, his enhanced strength useless against opponents who refused to let him use it.
Dick laughed from his new position on a horizontal beam. "You kind of do, though. What good is being strong if you can't hit anything?"
They kept it up for several more minutes—a brutal game of tag where Bane was always 'it' but could never catch anyone. Every time he committed to attacking one of them, the other would strike from his blind spot. When he tried to defend, they'd simply wait him out until he exposed himself trying to take the offensive.
His Venom system was working overtime now, trying to compensate for the constant punishment. Bruce could see the strain in the way Bane moved, the slight delay in his reactions as the enhancement struggled to keep up with the damage they were inflicting.
"Getting tired?" Dick asked, dropping down to rake his staff across the back of Bane's knees before bounding away again. "Maybe you should take a nap. We can wait."
That's when Bane made his mistake. Instead of staying disciplined, instead of trying to corner them or force a different kind of engagement, he let his rage take over. He grabbed a concrete block and hurled it at Dick with enough force to punch through steel.
Dick was already moving, the block sailing past him to crash into the building's framework. But Bane had committed everything to that throw, leaving himself completely open.
Bruce didn't waste the opportunity. He drove forward, landing blow after blow while Bane was off-balance and exposed. Dick joined him a second later, their combined assault overwhelming even Bane's enhanced durability.
When Bane finally managed to swing at them, they simply weren't there anymore. Bruce had rolled left, Dick had flipped right, and Bane was left grasping at empty air while they reset for another round.
"This is embarrassing," Dick said conversationally. "I mean, for you. We're having fun."
That's when Taskmaster decided to join the party.
"Well, this is interesting," came that familiar clinical voice. Bruce turned to see the skull-masked assassin emerging from the building's interior, shield and sword ready. "The Dynamic Duo at work. I've been looking forward to our rematch, Detective."
Bruce felt his stomach sink. Taskmaster alone had been challenging enough at Wayne Enterprises. With Bane still in the fight, even weakened, this could get ugly fast.
"Robin, remember protocol seven," he called out.
"The crazy stuff?" Dick asked, already grinning. "My favorite."
Taskmaster tilted his head. "Ah yes, the improvisation tactics that proved so troublesome during our last encounter. But I've had time to study that engagement. Your circus techniques aren't quite as random as they appear."
He moved toward them with fluid confidence, shield already positioned to counter their expected approach vectors. "Photographic reflexes, Detective. I learn from every encounter."
"So do we," Bruce replied, but inside he was calculating odds that weren't great. Taskmaster's abilities had evolved since Wayne Enterprises, and fighting him while also dealing with Bane would stretch them beyond their limits.
Dick solved the problem in the most Dick way possible.
"Hey Bane!" he called out, swinging from a cable toward the giant. "Catch!"
He let go of the cable at precisely the right moment, his trajectory carrying him directly toward Bane's head. The giant's hands came up instinctively to catch or deflect what looked like a direct attack. But Dick twisted in mid-air, his smaller body slipping between Bane's fingers to land on his shoulders.
"Nope!" Dick drove both sticks into Bane's mask, right where the Venom tubes connected. Not hard enough to seriously damage the system, but enough to trigger the safety protocols they hadn't been able to fully eliminate.
Bane's enhancement stuttered, his muscles fluctuating between enhanced and normal as the system tried to compensate. In that moment of weakness, Bruce struck with everything he had—not at Bane, but at Taskmaster, who had moved to assist his ally.
"Clever," Taskmaster acknowledged, deflecting Bruce's initial strikes. "Use one opponent to create an opening against the other. But you're still outnumbered."
"Are we?" Dick asked from somewhere above them. He'd bounced off Bane and was now using the construction site's framework like his own personal jungle gym. "Cause it looks like you guys are the ones having trouble keeping up."
Taskmaster's head tracked Dick's movement, his photographic reflexes trying to download the boy's fighting style. But Dick wasn't fighting—he was performing. Every movement flowed into the next like he was back with the circus, executing routines that had never been meant for combat.
"Interesting," Taskmaster mused, even as he defended against Bruce's renewed assault. "But I'm beginning to see the patterns in his—"
"Duck," Dick called out.
Bruce dropped to one knee just as a steel beam came flying over his head, courtesy of a still-struggling Bane. The beam caught Taskmaster in the chest, not enough to seriously injure him but sufficient to disrupt his analysis of Dick's movements.
"Thanks, Muscles!" Dick called out cheerfully. "You're really helping us out here!"
Bane's roar of frustration echoed through the construction site. His Venom system was still malfunctioning, leaving him caught between enhanced and normal strength. Every time he tried to grab one of them, they'd simply wait for his system to stutter and then strike while he was vulnerable.
Taskmaster was having his own problems. His photographic reflexes worked best against conventional fighting styles, but Bruce and Dick weren't fighting conventionally anymore. They were improvising in real time, creating techniques that existed for maybe thirty seconds before evolving into something completely different.
"This is inefficient," Taskmaster complained, deflecting a series of strikes that seemed to come from impossible angles. "Combat should follow logical principles."
"Should it?" Bruce asked, landing a solid hit while Taskmaster was distracted by Dick's aerial approach. "I'll make a note of that."
Dick dropped down behind Taskmaster, but instead of attacking, he simply yanked on the assassin's cape. The unexpected tug pulled Taskmaster off-balance just enough for Bruce to land another combination.
"You know what your problem is?" Dick asked, already moving again. "You think fighting is like a video game. Download the moves, copy the combos, win the match. But real fighting is messy."
He demonstrated by grabbing a handful of construction debris and flinging it at both opponents. Not to cause damage, but to create visual interference, forcing them to react to unexpected variables their enhanced reflexes couldn't predict.
In the confusion, Bruce moved in on Bane. The giant was still struggling with his malfunctioning enhancement, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Bruce didn't waste time on fancy techniques—he simply started hitting him. Fast, hard, methodical strikes to every weak point he could reach.
Bane tried to counter, but his timing was off. His enhanced reflexes depended on the Venom system, and with that stuttering, he was fighting blind. Bruce's fist caught him in the solar plexus, Dick's staff cracked across the back of his skull, and suddenly the giant was stumbling backward.
"Timber!" Dick called out as Bane toppled, his massive frame crashing into a stack of concrete barriers.
That left Taskmaster, who was discovering that photographic reflexes were useless when your opponents kept changing the rules of engagement.
"Enough!" he snarled, raising his shield. "I don't need to copy your techniques. I'll simply overwhelm you with superior—"
Dick's laughter cut him off. "Superior what? Your sparkling personality?"
The boy dropped down directly onto Taskmaster's shield, using it as a springboard to launch himself at the assassin's head. Taskmaster tried to track the movement, but Dick was already gone, his momentum carrying him over the assassin's shoulder to land behind him.
Bruce capitalized on the distraction, his strike catching Taskmaster in the kidney. The assassin spun to counter, but Bruce was already moving again, their partnership creating a constant state of tactical confusion that Taskmaster's abilities couldn't process.
"This is impossible," Taskmaster muttered, finding himself defending against attacks that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Combat has rules. Structure. Logic."
"Welcome to fighting the Graysons," Dick said cheerfully, appearing beside Taskmaster long enough to tap him on the shoulder before disappearing again. "We never really got the hang of rules."
In the end, it wasn't any single technique that brought Taskmaster down. It was exhaustion. His photographic reflexes required enormous mental processing power, and trying to download fighting styles that changed every few seconds had pushed his enhanced cognition beyond its limits.
When he finally collapsed, it was almost anticlimactic. One moment he was desperately trying to counter their impossible coordination, the next he was on his knees, his skull mask cracked and his breathing ragged.
"Not bad for a couple of amateurs," Dick said, grinning as he surveyed their unconscious opponents.
"Speak for yourself," Bruce replied, though he couldn't quite hide his approval. "Your improvisation was perfect."
Around them, the larger battle continued to rage throughout the construction site's multiple levels, enhanced fighters testing each other's limits while the building's framework provided endless tactical opportunities. Kraven stalked through the upper reaches, his hunter's instincts allowing him to track multiple prey simultaneously. Deadshot maintained overwatch from elevated positions, his mechanical targeting system calculating firing solutions through the smoke and chaos.
But it was Deathstroke who proved most dangerous, his enhanced capabilities allowing him to engage multiple opponents while maintaining tactical superiority. Unlike the others, who focused on individual targets, Slade moved through the battlefield like a force of nature, striking where opportunity presented itself.
"Well, well," Deathstroke called out as he engaged a group of League operatives with devastating efficiency. "The Detective brings his child soldier to a real fight. How wonderfully reckless."
Dick's head snapped toward the voice, recognizing the man who'd murdered his parents with mechanical precision just three days earlier. For a moment, the familiar rage threatened to surge—that white-hot fury that had driven him to attack blindly at the safe house, earning him nothing but humiliation and a bruised ego.
But this time was different.
Bruce's training echoed in his mind: Channel the emotion. Don't suppress it, transform it. Rage without focus is just noise. Rage with purpose becomes precision.
Dick's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his breathing remaining steady as his enhanced vision locked onto Deathstroke's distinctive armor. The anger was still there—burning bright and clean—but now it served him rather than controlling him. His stance shifted subtly, weight balanced, staff held with casual competence rather than desperate determination.
"Child soldier?" Dick called back, his voice carrying surprising steadiness for someone facing his parents' killer. "That's rich, coming from a mercenary who takes contracts on circus families." He moved with deliberate purpose rather than blind aggression, each step calculated. "Tell me, do you practice your tough guy routine in the mirror, or does the intimidation factor just come naturally with the eyepatch?"
Deathstroke paused in his engagement with the League operatives, apparently caught off-guard by the boy's composed demeanor. His single eye focused on Dick with renewed interest, tactical assessment overlaying whatever personal curiosity the kid's transformation had sparked.
"Interesting," Slade observed, dispatching a League operative with efficient brutality while maintaining visual contact with Dick. "Three days ago you were a screaming ball of grief and fury. Now you've found your verbal sparring gear. Batman's been busy."
"Yeah, well, turns out proper training beats blind rage," Dick replied, continuing his approach with that same controlled purpose. His voice carried a conversational tone that somehow made his words more cutting than any shouted insult. "Who knew? Oh wait—you did. Shame you didn't pass that wisdom along before turning my parents into splattered decorations on the circus floor."
The League operatives had unconsciously given Deathstroke and the approaching boy more space, recognizing the personal nature of their confrontation. Even enhanced assassins understood the dynamics of vendetta, the way individual hatred could reshape battlefield priorities.
Deathstroke's head tilted slightly, genuine curiosity entering his assessment. "Three days of training and you think you're ready for a rematch? Kid, I put you down with one hit last time. What makes you think anything's changed?"
"Last time I was an angry ten-year-old with circus training and a death wish," Dick acknowledged, his staff extending to full length with practiced ease. "This time I'm an angry ten-year-old with circus training, three days of intensive combat instruction from the world's greatest detective, and a very specific goal." His eyes never left Deathstroke's armored form. "I don't need to beat you, Slade. I just need to not embarrass myself while keeping you busy long enough for the real fighters to handle business."
"Real fighters?" Deathstroke's laugh carried genuine amusement. "Harsh assessment of your own capabilities, kid."
"Accurate assessment," Dick corrected, beginning to circle the enhanced operative with fluid movement that showcased his acrobatic background. "I know exactly what I am—a work in progress with potential. But here's the thing about works in progress..." He feinted left, testing Deathstroke's reaction time. "We tend to be underestimated by people who judge based on past performance."
Deathstroke countered the feint with minimal effort, his enhanced reflexes reading the boy's movement patterns with mechanical precision. "Cute psychology, Robin. Though I notice you're still not actually attacking. All talk, no substance?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Dick replied with exaggerated politeness, "was I supposed to charge in screaming like an idiot? Because that worked out so well last time." He continued his measured approach, staff work displaying the fundamentals Bruce had drilled into him. "See, I spent the last three days learning about patience. About timing. About how enhanced reflexes can actually work against you if your opponent isn't fighting the battle you expect."
The observation was sharper than Deathstroke had anticipated from someone so young. His tactical assessment began factoring in the possibility that the boy had indeed absorbed meaningful instruction during their brief separation.
"Enhanced reflexes working against me," Slade repeated thoughtfully, parrying a probe from Dick's staff that came in at an unexpected angle. "Enlighten me, kid. How exactly does superior reaction time become a disadvantage?"
"Simple," Dick replied, his movement becoming more complex as he began incorporating acrobatic elements into his positioning. "Enhanced reflexes respond to what they perceive as threats. But if your opponent isn't actually threatening anything you care about..." He vaulted over a piece of construction equipment, using the elevation change to attack from an unexpected vector. "You end up wasting energy on responses that don't matter."
The strike connected—not with any force that could damage Deathstroke's armor, but with enough precision to demonstrate that the boy could indeed touch him when he chose to. The enhanced operative's single eye narrowed with something approaching respect.
"Better," Deathstroke acknowledged, his own movement shifting to accommodate the reality that his opponent might actually require attention rather than casual dismissal. "Though touching me and hurting me remain very different accomplishments."
"True," Dick agreed cheerfully, landing in a perfect crouch before flowing back into motion. "But I wasn't trying to hurt you just then. I was proving I could hit you when I wanted to. There's a difference." His next combination came faster, staff work incorporating techniques that blended Bruce's combat instruction with his natural acrobatic instincts. "See, the thing about fighting enhanced operatives is that you can't match their physical capabilities. So you have to be smarter about target selection."
Each strike in his sequence was aimed not at Deathstroke himself, but at equipment, balance points, environmental factors that could create openings. Dick was fighting the battlefield as much as the man, using every lesson Bruce had taught him about tactical thinking.
"Kid's got a mouth on him," Deathstroke observed, deflecting the sequence while noting its improved sophistication. "Reminds me of my annoying second cousin. Kid named Wade, serves in Canadian Special Forces. Never knew when to shut up either."
"Wade Wilson?" Dick asked, surprising himself by recognizing the name. "The guy who keeps sending you inappropriate Christmas cards?"
Deathstroke's surprise was visible even through his mask. "How the hell do you know about that?"
"Batman's files are very thorough," Dick replied with a grin that would have been charming under other circumstances. "Your cousin Wade has quite the reputation for being... creatively insubordinate. Plus he once sent a mission report written entirely in haiku. That kind of thing gets noticed."
The casual reference to detailed intelligence gathering on his family members caused Deathstroke to reassess the boy's backing even further. Batman's information network was apparently more comprehensive than he'd credited.
"Maybe it runs in the family," Dick continued, his attacks becoming more aggressive as he found his rhythm. "The difference is, I actually know how to back up my words."
"We'll see about that," Deathstroke replied, his own engagement becoming more serious as he recognized that the boy might actually warrant genuine attention rather than casual swatting.
Their exchange intensified, enhanced operative against trained acrobat, systematic brutality meeting improvised creativity. Dick had learned from their previous encounter, no longer fighting with pure rage but channeling his emotion into precise technique. His movement patterns drew heavily from his circus background, but now incorporated the defensive fundamentals Bruce had spent five days drilling into him.
"You've improved," Deathstroke admitted, parrying a particularly creative combination that used the construction site's framework to create multiple attack angles. "Three days of intensive training with Batman shows. Though you're still telegraphing your transitions."
"Am I?" Dick asked innocently, just before his 'telegraphed' transition proved to be misdirection for an attack coming from an entirely different vector. The strike connected with Deathstroke's shoulder joint, finding one of the few gaps in his armor coverage. "Oops. Must have forgotten to telegraph that one."
For the first time in their encounter, Deathstroke was forced to acknowledge that the boy had landed a meaningful hit. Not damaging—Dick lacked the physical strength to seriously injure an enhanced operative—but precise enough to demonstrate genuine skill rather than lucky accident.
"Cute," Slade acknowledged, his respect for the boy's development growing despite himself. "Though you realize you're just delaying the inevitable? I could end this any time I choose."
"Could you?" Dick challenged, his confidence growing as he realized his training was actually working. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're having to work a lot harder this time around. Must be frustrating, having to take a ten-year-old seriously."
The psychological angle was almost as effective as the physical one. Deathstroke's professional pride was indeed stung by the reality that a child—regardless of training—was requiring genuine effort to subdue.
"You want to see serious?" Deathstroke asked, his stance shifting to something more aggressive. "Kid, I've been playing with you. Time to remember why enhanced operatives don't usually worry about circus boys with sticks."
Dick tightened his grip on his staff, muscles coiling as he prepared for whatever Deathstroke was about to unleash. But before the assassin could follow through on his threat, the sharp crack of concrete splitting echoed from somewhere below them. Both combatants paused momentarily, instinctively checking their surroundings for new threats.