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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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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