jla_watchtower | Somewhere in New Jersey

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Somewhere in New Jersey

The Titans' arrival is silent and swift, determined and precise. Before the shadow of the jet falls over the state line, Nightwing is relaying the plan to the rest of the team.

"Starfire, flank the building and come around from the rear. Hit it hard, make sure they can't get out. Robin, hit the power on that place. Don't wait, Wonder Girl and Nightstar - get inside and do what you do best. Kid Flash, Jesse, you're looking for anything in there while they're being kept busy that can give us an edge on this damned virus. Omen, keep tabs on any magic users in there. Flamebird, Speedy, follow me in after the heavy hitters do their thing. We're on cleanup."

He pauses to check the instrumentation. "And whoever finds Light... make sure you hurt him."

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Dammit. What is he doing here? Always sticking his damned cowl in, can't leave him alone to do his job, and his daughter's dying somewhere on the moon and he can't even BE there with her --

His rage explodes in a barrage of razor-sharp wingdings.

Except that he isn't there anymore. The weapons ping into the concrete near his former resting place, and a voice from the other side of Nightwing hisses, "Want to explain that, old chum?"

He wants to lash out at the younger man, to pummel him, but he doesn't quite know why. Something isn't right. The Batman's will isn't so easily subverted.

He's too worked up for coherency. Right now, he's operating on little sleep, having been caring for his daughter before the crisis officially broke, little temper, and even less love for anyone standing between him and what he thinks might be the answer.

A snarl is all he'll get, before he snaps out at his mentor with a palm strike and a boot to the abdomen.

"Nightwing!" barks the Batman as he blocks the palm strike and absorbs the boot to the abdomen, grabbing at the offending foot with intention of spinning it, and its owner, to the ground. "More delusions of adequacy?"

Damn it, this is WRONG.

Nightwing doesn't have the skills edge, but what he does have is speed and sheer acrobatic prowess. The foot is used instead as a pushoff point, using the Batman's chest armor as a springboard into a backflip that brings his trailing foot up to lash out at his jaw.

No more than YOU.

That one connects. Batman is thrown back against the wall, where he sags a moment and wipes at his bleeding lip. Anger flares. "You sure you want this dance?" he queries in a low growl while his subconscious flashes warnings about what has gotten into his son, into both of them. "Back off. Now."

Think, damn it, think.

He lands back on his feet in a low crouch, the whites of his lenses narrowed and ominous in the darkness. His posture coiled like an overwound spring.

First blood. That felt good.

It's not the Nightwing he knows who responds with a dark sneer.

You first.

And then he's lunging at him once more.

Nightwing is the faster, Batman the more powerful. As the younger man lunges, the Bat's foot moves toward Nightwing's left shin, a diversion for the fist waiting on the other side. That fist is capable of driving hair from Nightwing's body and leaving some badly bruised ribs in its wake.

Rage breeds adrenalin. Adrenalin breeds strength. The kevlar can only reduce the impact so much.

Ungh --

Thrown sideways, he crashes unceremoniously into a shelf of test tubes, conical flasks and racks, glass shattering in a staccato melody.

Batman straightens, rubbing his jaw as he moves forward to see where Nightwing fell and whether he's staying down. The momentary respite in the action gives his agile mind time to ponder again what's going on. In some ways the two of them have never stopped fighting, and in that respect, this interaction is natural. But the niggling doubt remains, and the Dark Knight probes that doubt. What could have gotten into both of them? What was happening before he arrived here that could explain--

Glass shards are useful things.

Especially for slicing body armor.

He's hurt, there's no denying that - but in his enraged state, he can barely feel it. Yet.

He waits, motionless, and then - his hand slices upwards.

Body armor is useful, too. The shard strikes the Kevler-enforced abdomen of his suit, which yanks its wearer back to the here and now. That was close. A vice-like grip reaches for Nightwing's wrist in the aftermath of that strike as Batman snaps commandingly, "Stop this for two seconds and think." He wants to twist that arm, hear it snap, and the degree to which he desires that violent breaking one bones is enough to stop him in his tracks.

He can't think. That's the problem. Clouded with rage, with grief and functioning on little sleep, wound up to near-insane levels of anger and frustration, he's not stopping. He won't stop. Blood is dripping from three gashes on his face, but he's not even registering it.

In a surprising show of dexterity, he turns the wrist grip into a weapon, pulling the older man forward and pushing him over him with his feet to send him across the room.

Hell. His own doubts have slowed his reaction time, forced him on the defensive and given Nightwing openings he should not have allowed. As he lands and rolls to a stop near the wall, however, it clicks into place. The words, the anger, the actions that make sense but only in extreme situations. Before he came here, they had been searching for the source of this virus, and more information had been released from the villain himself: Dr. Light. And then he thinks quickly on Light's minions, and a notion arrives, a plausible explanation: mind control.

A hand reaches for the taser at his belt; he has to put Nightwing down now and fast and get to the rest, determine the veracity of his theory. And his thumb twists the power to a higher setting. Adrenaline has to be overwhelmed.

He's on his feet, closing the distance between them like - no, he is - a man possessed, not ready to allow him to get to his feet.

A fistful of the Bat's cape, and a hard, violent pull.

Nightwing's cat-like reflexes are irritating as hell, but they're not going to win the day. The taser, however, goes skittering across the floor as Batman is spun around, and in answer, the older hero grabs and twists in return. What will result is a brief wrestling match on the floor, one the Batman knows he can win because of superior strength and weight. All he has to do is slam the younger man into the ground and stun him long enough to retrieve the taser.

And that's just what he tries to do.

Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't be hard. These aren't normal circumstances. He roars in incoherent rage as he's slammed to the floor, reaching to grab for his adoptive father's throat.

Blood streaks his face, bitter and dark, already clotting and smearing like war paint.

Blood on his hands, at least in part. Batman isn't interested in seeing any more of it shed by his adopted son, and so, using brute strength, he rolls over, Nightwing's hands still around his throat, so that he can crawl for the taser. Stars pop into his vision: the young man has one hell of a grip.

Sorry, old chum, he thinks bleakly as he reaches down and behind to jam the device against Nightwing's thigh.

Besides Alfred, Dick Grayson may be the only person alive who knows the Batman's Achilles heel. And it's with that in mind that he kicks out once more, just as the taser nodes slam into his thigh.

Kicking him without subtlety.

Right where Bane broke the Bat's back.

In the Batman's life, pain has been a familiar and varied companion, sometimes a welcome respite from emotional hurt, sometimes a useful focal point, but rarely so severe that he is blinded by its impact. When Ra's al-Ghul stabbed him near the heart, the pain was shattering. So, too, was the moment in which his body was snapped like a twig over Bane's knee, a moment Nightwing's action deliberately resurrects. From the blood-speckled lips of the Dark Knight comes a howl of agony enough to send shivers up the spine of even a cold-blooded killer, and the taser tumbles from fingers no longer capable of holding the device.

A heartbeat later, save involuntary twitches throughout his body, the Batman lies still on the laboratory floor, as broken as the glass scattered all around them.

Sixty thousand volts course through Nightwing's body, white heat exploding through every nerve ending. He arches back, howling his fury to the world ...

And in the moment before darkness takes him, he has the most terrifying split-second of clarity.

... Bruce ... ? Oh, God --

The pain surges forward, his eyes roll back in his skull, and he sinks to the floor beside him.

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Somewhere in New Jersey

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