“Another massacre,” Tim informed Bruce.
“Another Deathstroke situation,” Bruce sighed, “What does he want?”
“Apparently, he wants Joker’s gang gone,” Tim said.
“Right. This is the third attack, and they’ve all been targeted at Joker’s goons,” Bruce nodded, “But why?”
“Not a fan of his chaotic madness, I guess,” Tim shrugged.
“Our pasty friend is locked up in Arkham,” Bruce pointed out, “He poses no threat to Deathstroke, or any employer of his.”
“A message,” Damian said, taking shape out of the shadows.
“He takes after you,” Tim said, jabbing Bruce with his elbow.
“What do you mean by a message?” Bruce asked.
“Scare gangs. All gangs. New Gotham gang.”
“A petty gang managed to get Deathstroke on their staff?” Bruce chuckled.
“Major gang. Just guess.”
“Alright, let’s go ahead and say a big new gang is in Gotham,” Tim said, “Big whoop. Bruce, you can shut them down tonight.”
“Actually-”
“Crap, that’s tonight?” Tim gaped.
“Yes, it is,” Bruce nodded, “Damian, I’m taking you in to meet your teachers tonight.”
“I am my greatest teacher,” Damian said, repeating a saying Talia had taught him.
“What’s eiπ+1 equal to?” Tim challenged.
“Zero. Euler’s Identity. Links five constants in mathematics.”
“Damn, you sure he needs school?” Tim asked.
“He’s going to school, Tim,” Bruce said, “Which means I need a special favor from you, tonight.”
“Oooooookay… What is it?” Tim asked, warily.
“I need you to become the Batman.”
- - -
“Come on Tim, you’ve got this,” Batman whispered to himself, perched on a building across from a tailor’s shop. There was a new man under the mask-- Tim Drake!
“This is just like being Robin, except every will be firing at me instead of Bruce,” Batman said, trying to reassure himself, “I’ll be fine.”
Deep down, he did not think he would be fine.
Uncle Sam’s Tailor Shop was not just a tailor shop. It was a cover for drug running business that Joker started. There were undercover cops working here, so Bruce sent Tim to evacuate them before Deathstroke got around to beheading them. Bruce and Tim had put their heads together, and deduced this was Deathstroke’s next target, but he wouldn’t arrive until the next day. Tim would be safe. At least, he really hoped so.
Batman leapt off of the building, and used his cape to glide safely to the ground. The cape was similar to the one he wore as Robin, though it was slightly thicker and rougher.
Once he touched down, he tapped his fingers to his cowl, activating infrared vision.
There were roughly eighteen people in the basement, but no one on the main floor. Batman jimmied the handle, only to find that it was locked. He fumbled around his utility belt, finally finding a Batarang. He sawed through the handle, and easily pushed through. From there, he scanned the area for a door. No luck. There were several tables covered in fancy suits and pants. Nice attire hung from hangers on racks placed on the walls. Suddenly, Batman picked up strange movement on his infrared sensor. Someone was climbing up from the basement!
Batman ducked behind a table, using infrared to virtually see through it. A woman came up via ladder, brushing against some suits that were hung up. She had pushed open a loose part of the floor, allowing secret movement from the basement to the main floor.
The woman walked towards the door, taking a packet of cigarettes out of her back pocket. Batman stayed put, waiting for her to leave.
But the woman didn’t leave. Instead, she spotted the severed door handle, and called for backup.
‘Should’ve been more careful,’ Batman though to himself, ‘Stupid, stupid.’
“Someone’s here!” the woman explained, swinging the door open and closed.
“Be ready for anything,” someone else said, taking a shotgun off of their back.
“Think it’s the Shredder?” a man nervously asked.
“You mean the Ninja Turtle villain?” the woman chuckled.
“No, the dude who dropped seventeen crooks with six bullets,” the man replied, “Like a more efficient Batman.”
“What’d you say about me?” Batman asked, springing out of hiding. He had tried to replicate Bruce’s raspy voice, but failed miserably. He flicked a smoke bomb off of his belt. Except, it wasn’t a smoke bomb. He had grabbed the wrong thing. Instead, he had tossed lockpicking tools onto the ground. He didn’t even know he had those!
The seven gang members who had come up from the basement all opened fire. Batman turned away, and covered his head with his cape. He looked through his utility belt, and found the smoke grenades. He had four, so he had to be smart. He activated one, and lobbed it over his head. Immediately, he heard it hiss, and the room was filled with smoke.
Batman’s infrared sight, or what Bruce liked to call Detective Vision, allowed him to see bodies through the smoke. He went to town of the goons, taking them down almost effortlessly.
By the time the smoke cleared, all seven were down.
“Y’all good up there?” someone called up.
Batman stepped away from the ladder, and took a spray can off of his belt. It was an advanced version of the explosive putty Bruce once used. He sprayed a circle on the floor around it.
The circle exploded, allowing Batman to drop into the basement from the middle of the room.
There were three gang members in a triangle around him. Between them all, they had a pump shotgun, a high-powered rifle, and a bulky pistol. The one with the pistol fired first. Batman tucked his knees in and somersaulted over to the crook, then he sprung up and whacked him under the chin. He let another smoke grenade go off, and used his same tactic from upstairs. Take them down while they’re blind.
Once the smoke cleared, Tim got a good view of the room. There were multiple sealed cases laying on tables against one wall. On another was a rack of guns, and a crate of explosives. The other two walls were covered in graffiti Joker cards.
“Shame,” came a rough Australian voice, “You took the fun out of my job.”
Batman warily looked up, and saw a man in a slim costume. His mask was black and orange, with a solid white eye on the orange side. His left shoulder (although it was on Tim’s right) was a orange with a scaly texture, and it led into a white sleeve. The rest of his suit was black, save for some lining, and a bit of orange on the gloves. He had two pistols on his belt and two katanas on his back. Six grenades hung from his belt as well.
“D-Deathstroke?” Batman gulped.
Deathstroke jumped down through the hole in the ceiling, and faced Batman.
“You’re not Bruce Wayne,” Deathstroke assessed.
“I’m Batman,” Batman said.
“But not Mr. Wayne,” Deathstroke repeated.
“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean I can’t take you,” Batman said.
“No?” Deathstroke mused, “I’m interested to see you try, but I haven’t been hired to kill you.”
“I won’t let you kill any more of these people,” Batman challenged, “You have to go through me.”
Deathstroke walked briskly past Batman, collecting the three bodies of the gang members.
“W-What are you doing?”
Deathstroke held them all up, and slashed through their necks.
“Going through you,” Deathstroke said.
- - -
Bruce sat with Damian in front of the headmistress of Gotham Academy. Ms. McDowell. She was a round woman who wore too much makeup on any given day. Her eyes were an oaky brown, surrounded by red dust. The rest of her face looked plastic, and swollen. Her blonde hair was dark at the roots, but brightened as it grew farther.
“Mr. Wayne, it’s nice to see you, as always,” Ms. McDowell smiled, pulling her overgrown cheeks back, “Who is this?”
“Damian,” Damian stated.
“My… son,” Bruce said, almost uncertainly.
“Son?” Ms. McDowell’s eyes widened.
“Yes, son,” Bruce nodded, more sure of himself.
“I hadn’t read anything about you having a son,” Ms. McDowell commented.
“You’re the first to know,” Bruce admitted, “He was dropped off at my door. We did a DNA test. He’s really my child.”
Bruce was lying about the DNA test, but he couldn’t just tell Ms. McDowell that he knew about Damian because he’d slept with an assassin.
“One of your… conquests went south, I guess,” Ms. McDowell sighed, “You know, I wouldn’t mind having a child.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone, one day,” Bruce said, dodging the innuendo, “And, for the record, I don’t refer to my nights with women as ‘conquests’. You don’t think I’m that awful of a person, do you?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ms. McDowell shook her head quickly, “Not at all.”
“Damian hasn’t quite adjusted to Western society, so I figured I’d ease him into school,” Bruce explained, “That’s why I’d like him to meet his teachers.”
“Very well,” Ms. McDowell nodded, “Here’s his schedule.”
PERIOD 1 - TRIGONOMETRY; ODECK
PERIOD 2 - WORLD HISTORY; NORMAN
PERIOD 3 - ENGLISH LITERATURE; TORELLI
PERIOD 4 - METAL WORKS; MARK
PERIOD 5 - WORLD LANGUAGES; SALKO
PERIOD 6 - BIOLOGY; LANGSTROM
PERIOD 7 - DRAMA; MOATS
“I will say, Mr. Wayne, these are some advanced classes,” Ms. McDowell said, “If he’s just starting to adjust, maybe these are too high level.”
“He’ll get by,” Bruce assured, standing up with Damian.
Ms. McDowell handed them a map, and sent them on their way.
“Why Drama?” Damian complained once outside of the office.
“An old friend of mine was an actor,” Bruce said, reminiscing about Alfred’s tales of the stage.
Bruce and Damian arrived at Mr. Odeck’s room. He was a tall, skinny man, with a loose, wrinkled, white dress shirt with a limp tie. His thinning hair was receding, while his beard grew longer and more unkempt. His lopsided grin mirrored his uneven glasses.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Odeck smiled. Bruce shook his hand politely. Damian eyed it suspiciously.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Bruce said, “All positive.”
It was true. Odeck was apparently a fantastic teacher, even if he didn’t look the part.
Bruce and Mr. Odeck discussed Damian’s integration into the class. He did the same with all of Damian’s teachers.
Mr. Norman, Damian’s elderly World History teacher, was kind. Ms. Torelli, Damian’s ELA teacher, was a cranky old hag. Mrs. Mark, the beffy lady who taught metal works, had a no-nonsense attitude that Bruce respected. Mrs. Salko had been somewhat timid, but seemed like she had a good knowledge of languages. Mr. Langstrom had been extraordinary, and Bruce was thrilled that Damian would be in his class. Lastly, Mr. Moats hadn’t left too much of an impression on Bruce.
Bruce and Damian drove home, ready for a good night’s sleep.
“Boring. All of them,” Damian said.
“Even Mr. Langstrom?” Bruce asked, “That man has… he’s got charisma! He’s got intellect! He’s got it all!”
“I like Mrs. Mark the most,” Damian stated.
“We’ve all got opinions,” Bruce shrugged. The rest of the drive was a relaxed silence, with ambient music floating out from the speakers.
When they pulled up to Wayne Manor, Bruce sensed something was off. His ‘spidey-sense’ was tingling. Nothing was visibly wrong, but he knew he was in for a rough time.
“Damian, stay here,” Bruce ordered, getting out of the car quickly. He ran up to the massive front door, and opened it slowly.
“Come on in,” an Australian voice called out from another room. Bruce recognized it as Deathstroke’s voice immediately.
Bruce rushed inside, straight to the living room, where Slade Wilson was sitting in a red armchair. He had his Deathstroke suit on, just without the mask. His face was weathered and leathery, with pale scars dashing across it. His right eye was covered by an eyepatch, and a light scar ran through it. His silver hair was cropped short, and his beard was trimmed.
“What’d you do to him?” Bruce demanded.
“Nothing, nothing,” Slade promised, “He’s fine. Despite what you may believe, it’s not my life’s mission to make your life hell. Just in it for the paycheck.”
“And who hired you this time?” Bruce asked.
“Another crazy,” Slade sighed, “Calls himself the Riddle-Man or something. Real obsessed with questions and riddles.”
Bruce was a little taken aback by Slade’s comment. He had dropped his all-business facade from the last time they had squared off.
“Cluemaster,” Bruce growled. Although, he was fairly certain Arthur Brown, aka Cluemaster, was locked up in Arkham.
“No, not Cluemaster,” Slade shook his head, “Look, Riddle-Boy wants me to clear out Gotham. Get rid of the gangs. And he wants me to bring you to him.”
“I don’t think so,” Bruce clenched his fists.
“We both know I can take you down,” Slade reminded him, “Remember how easily I bested your pal Birdman?”
“Don’t you DARE talk about Oswald,” Bruce warned.
“Like I said, I had no desire to kill him. But I made good mon-”
Bruce lunged at Slade, and threw a punch at his jaw. Slade slid his head to the right, and brought his arm up to knock Bruce back.
Suddenly, Slade felt a small arm around his neck. He craned his head and saw Damian pulling hard.
“You got a new one,” Slade coughed, flinging Damian away.
Bruce sprang back up, and kicked Slade between the legs. He then slammed his fist into his ribcage.
Damian vanished. Slade and Bruce both took a few moments to glance around, before they returned to sparring.
A few exhausting minutes later, Damian charged back into battle, gripping a sword.
“Damian, no!” Bruce exclaimed. Damian ran his sword straight through a small gap in Slade’s armor, right under his left arm. He twisted the blade with a mad grin on his face.
“I- I like this one,” Slade rasped, “Isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done.”
Slade tore the sword out of his body, and slashed at Damian’s chest. Blood sprayed out from the wound, and Damian collapsed. Slade then rushed at a window, leapt, crashed through it, and disappeared into the night.
Bruce grabbed Damian, ran to the Batcave, and began stitching him up.
“Another Deathstroke situation,” Bruce sighed, “What does he want?”
“Apparently, he wants Joker’s gang gone,” Tim said.
“Right. This is the third attack, and they’ve all been targeted at Joker’s goons,” Bruce nodded, “But why?”
“Not a fan of his chaotic madness, I guess,” Tim shrugged.
“Our pasty friend is locked up in Arkham,” Bruce pointed out, “He poses no threat to Deathstroke, or any employer of his.”
“A message,” Damian said, taking shape out of the shadows.
“He takes after you,” Tim said, jabbing Bruce with his elbow.
“What do you mean by a message?” Bruce asked.
“Scare gangs. All gangs. New Gotham gang.”
“A petty gang managed to get Deathstroke on their staff?” Bruce chuckled.
“Major gang. Just guess.”
“Alright, let’s go ahead and say a big new gang is in Gotham,” Tim said, “Big whoop. Bruce, you can shut them down tonight.”
“Actually-”
“Crap, that’s tonight?” Tim gaped.
“Yes, it is,” Bruce nodded, “Damian, I’m taking you in to meet your teachers tonight.”
“I am my greatest teacher,” Damian said, repeating a saying Talia had taught him.
“What’s eiπ+1 equal to?” Tim challenged.
“Zero. Euler’s Identity. Links five constants in mathematics.”
“Damn, you sure he needs school?” Tim asked.
“He’s going to school, Tim,” Bruce said, “Which means I need a special favor from you, tonight.”
“Oooooookay… What is it?” Tim asked, warily.
“I need you to become the Batman.”
- - -
“Come on Tim, you’ve got this,” Batman whispered to himself, perched on a building across from a tailor’s shop. There was a new man under the mask-- Tim Drake!
“This is just like being Robin, except every will be firing at me instead of Bruce,” Batman said, trying to reassure himself, “I’ll be fine.”
Deep down, he did not think he would be fine.
Uncle Sam’s Tailor Shop was not just a tailor shop. It was a cover for drug running business that Joker started. There were undercover cops working here, so Bruce sent Tim to evacuate them before Deathstroke got around to beheading them. Bruce and Tim had put their heads together, and deduced this was Deathstroke’s next target, but he wouldn’t arrive until the next day. Tim would be safe. At least, he really hoped so.
Batman leapt off of the building, and used his cape to glide safely to the ground. The cape was similar to the one he wore as Robin, though it was slightly thicker and rougher.
Once he touched down, he tapped his fingers to his cowl, activating infrared vision.
There were roughly eighteen people in the basement, but no one on the main floor. Batman jimmied the handle, only to find that it was locked. He fumbled around his utility belt, finally finding a Batarang. He sawed through the handle, and easily pushed through. From there, he scanned the area for a door. No luck. There were several tables covered in fancy suits and pants. Nice attire hung from hangers on racks placed on the walls. Suddenly, Batman picked up strange movement on his infrared sensor. Someone was climbing up from the basement!
Batman ducked behind a table, using infrared to virtually see through it. A woman came up via ladder, brushing against some suits that were hung up. She had pushed open a loose part of the floor, allowing secret movement from the basement to the main floor.
The woman walked towards the door, taking a packet of cigarettes out of her back pocket. Batman stayed put, waiting for her to leave.
But the woman didn’t leave. Instead, she spotted the severed door handle, and called for backup.
‘Should’ve been more careful,’ Batman though to himself, ‘Stupid, stupid.’
“Someone’s here!” the woman explained, swinging the door open and closed.
“Be ready for anything,” someone else said, taking a shotgun off of their back.
“Think it’s the Shredder?” a man nervously asked.
“You mean the Ninja Turtle villain?” the woman chuckled.
“No, the dude who dropped seventeen crooks with six bullets,” the man replied, “Like a more efficient Batman.”
“What’d you say about me?” Batman asked, springing out of hiding. He had tried to replicate Bruce’s raspy voice, but failed miserably. He flicked a smoke bomb off of his belt. Except, it wasn’t a smoke bomb. He had grabbed the wrong thing. Instead, he had tossed lockpicking tools onto the ground. He didn’t even know he had those!
The seven gang members who had come up from the basement all opened fire. Batman turned away, and covered his head with his cape. He looked through his utility belt, and found the smoke grenades. He had four, so he had to be smart. He activated one, and lobbed it over his head. Immediately, he heard it hiss, and the room was filled with smoke.
Batman’s infrared sight, or what Bruce liked to call Detective Vision, allowed him to see bodies through the smoke. He went to town of the goons, taking them down almost effortlessly.
By the time the smoke cleared, all seven were down.
“Y’all good up there?” someone called up.
Batman stepped away from the ladder, and took a spray can off of his belt. It was an advanced version of the explosive putty Bruce once used. He sprayed a circle on the floor around it.
The circle exploded, allowing Batman to drop into the basement from the middle of the room.
There were three gang members in a triangle around him. Between them all, they had a pump shotgun, a high-powered rifle, and a bulky pistol. The one with the pistol fired first. Batman tucked his knees in and somersaulted over to the crook, then he sprung up and whacked him under the chin. He let another smoke grenade go off, and used his same tactic from upstairs. Take them down while they’re blind.
Once the smoke cleared, Tim got a good view of the room. There were multiple sealed cases laying on tables against one wall. On another was a rack of guns, and a crate of explosives. The other two walls were covered in graffiti Joker cards.
“Shame,” came a rough Australian voice, “You took the fun out of my job.”
Batman warily looked up, and saw a man in a slim costume. His mask was black and orange, with a solid white eye on the orange side. His left shoulder (although it was on Tim’s right) was a orange with a scaly texture, and it led into a white sleeve. The rest of his suit was black, save for some lining, and a bit of orange on the gloves. He had two pistols on his belt and two katanas on his back. Six grenades hung from his belt as well.
“D-Deathstroke?” Batman gulped.
Deathstroke jumped down through the hole in the ceiling, and faced Batman.
“You’re not Bruce Wayne,” Deathstroke assessed.
“I’m Batman,” Batman said.
“But not Mr. Wayne,” Deathstroke repeated.
“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean I can’t take you,” Batman said.
“No?” Deathstroke mused, “I’m interested to see you try, but I haven’t been hired to kill you.”
“I won’t let you kill any more of these people,” Batman challenged, “You have to go through me.”
Deathstroke walked briskly past Batman, collecting the three bodies of the gang members.
“W-What are you doing?”
Deathstroke held them all up, and slashed through their necks.
“Going through you,” Deathstroke said.
- - -
Bruce sat with Damian in front of the headmistress of Gotham Academy. Ms. McDowell. She was a round woman who wore too much makeup on any given day. Her eyes were an oaky brown, surrounded by red dust. The rest of her face looked plastic, and swollen. Her blonde hair was dark at the roots, but brightened as it grew farther.
“Mr. Wayne, it’s nice to see you, as always,” Ms. McDowell smiled, pulling her overgrown cheeks back, “Who is this?”
“Damian,” Damian stated.
“My… son,” Bruce said, almost uncertainly.
“Son?” Ms. McDowell’s eyes widened.
“Yes, son,” Bruce nodded, more sure of himself.
“I hadn’t read anything about you having a son,” Ms. McDowell commented.
“You’re the first to know,” Bruce admitted, “He was dropped off at my door. We did a DNA test. He’s really my child.”
Bruce was lying about the DNA test, but he couldn’t just tell Ms. McDowell that he knew about Damian because he’d slept with an assassin.
“One of your… conquests went south, I guess,” Ms. McDowell sighed, “You know, I wouldn’t mind having a child.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone, one day,” Bruce said, dodging the innuendo, “And, for the record, I don’t refer to my nights with women as ‘conquests’. You don’t think I’m that awful of a person, do you?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ms. McDowell shook her head quickly, “Not at all.”
“Damian hasn’t quite adjusted to Western society, so I figured I’d ease him into school,” Bruce explained, “That’s why I’d like him to meet his teachers.”
“Very well,” Ms. McDowell nodded, “Here’s his schedule.”
PERIOD 1 - TRIGONOMETRY; ODECK
PERIOD 2 - WORLD HISTORY; NORMAN
PERIOD 3 - ENGLISH LITERATURE; TORELLI
PERIOD 4 - METAL WORKS; MARK
PERIOD 5 - WORLD LANGUAGES; SALKO
PERIOD 6 - BIOLOGY; LANGSTROM
PERIOD 7 - DRAMA; MOATS
“I will say, Mr. Wayne, these are some advanced classes,” Ms. McDowell said, “If he’s just starting to adjust, maybe these are too high level.”
“He’ll get by,” Bruce assured, standing up with Damian.
Ms. McDowell handed them a map, and sent them on their way.
“Why Drama?” Damian complained once outside of the office.
“An old friend of mine was an actor,” Bruce said, reminiscing about Alfred’s tales of the stage.
Bruce and Damian arrived at Mr. Odeck’s room. He was a tall, skinny man, with a loose, wrinkled, white dress shirt with a limp tie. His thinning hair was receding, while his beard grew longer and more unkempt. His lopsided grin mirrored his uneven glasses.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Odeck smiled. Bruce shook his hand politely. Damian eyed it suspiciously.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Bruce said, “All positive.”
It was true. Odeck was apparently a fantastic teacher, even if he didn’t look the part.
Bruce and Mr. Odeck discussed Damian’s integration into the class. He did the same with all of Damian’s teachers.
Mr. Norman, Damian’s elderly World History teacher, was kind. Ms. Torelli, Damian’s ELA teacher, was a cranky old hag. Mrs. Mark, the beffy lady who taught metal works, had a no-nonsense attitude that Bruce respected. Mrs. Salko had been somewhat timid, but seemed like she had a good knowledge of languages. Mr. Langstrom had been extraordinary, and Bruce was thrilled that Damian would be in his class. Lastly, Mr. Moats hadn’t left too much of an impression on Bruce.
Bruce and Damian drove home, ready for a good night’s sleep.
“Boring. All of them,” Damian said.
“Even Mr. Langstrom?” Bruce asked, “That man has… he’s got charisma! He’s got intellect! He’s got it all!”
“I like Mrs. Mark the most,” Damian stated.
“We’ve all got opinions,” Bruce shrugged. The rest of the drive was a relaxed silence, with ambient music floating out from the speakers.
When they pulled up to Wayne Manor, Bruce sensed something was off. His ‘spidey-sense’ was tingling. Nothing was visibly wrong, but he knew he was in for a rough time.
“Damian, stay here,” Bruce ordered, getting out of the car quickly. He ran up to the massive front door, and opened it slowly.
“Come on in,” an Australian voice called out from another room. Bruce recognized it as Deathstroke’s voice immediately.
Bruce rushed inside, straight to the living room, where Slade Wilson was sitting in a red armchair. He had his Deathstroke suit on, just without the mask. His face was weathered and leathery, with pale scars dashing across it. His right eye was covered by an eyepatch, and a light scar ran through it. His silver hair was cropped short, and his beard was trimmed.
“What’d you do to him?” Bruce demanded.
“Nothing, nothing,” Slade promised, “He’s fine. Despite what you may believe, it’s not my life’s mission to make your life hell. Just in it for the paycheck.”
“And who hired you this time?” Bruce asked.
“Another crazy,” Slade sighed, “Calls himself the Riddle-Man or something. Real obsessed with questions and riddles.”
Bruce was a little taken aback by Slade’s comment. He had dropped his all-business facade from the last time they had squared off.
“Cluemaster,” Bruce growled. Although, he was fairly certain Arthur Brown, aka Cluemaster, was locked up in Arkham.
“No, not Cluemaster,” Slade shook his head, “Look, Riddle-Boy wants me to clear out Gotham. Get rid of the gangs. And he wants me to bring you to him.”
“I don’t think so,” Bruce clenched his fists.
“We both know I can take you down,” Slade reminded him, “Remember how easily I bested your pal Birdman?”
“Don’t you DARE talk about Oswald,” Bruce warned.
“Like I said, I had no desire to kill him. But I made good mon-”
Bruce lunged at Slade, and threw a punch at his jaw. Slade slid his head to the right, and brought his arm up to knock Bruce back.
Suddenly, Slade felt a small arm around his neck. He craned his head and saw Damian pulling hard.
“You got a new one,” Slade coughed, flinging Damian away.
Bruce sprang back up, and kicked Slade between the legs. He then slammed his fist into his ribcage.
Damian vanished. Slade and Bruce both took a few moments to glance around, before they returned to sparring.
A few exhausting minutes later, Damian charged back into battle, gripping a sword.
“Damian, no!” Bruce exclaimed. Damian ran his sword straight through a small gap in Slade’s armor, right under his left arm. He twisted the blade with a mad grin on his face.
“I- I like this one,” Slade rasped, “Isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done.”
Slade tore the sword out of his body, and slashed at Damian’s chest. Blood sprayed out from the wound, and Damian collapsed. Slade then rushed at a window, leapt, crashed through it, and disappeared into the night.
Bruce grabbed Damian, ran to the Batcave, and began stitching him up.
The fun doesn't stop with Batman: Eternal! There's also-
Green Arrow: Eternal by @Eeveechu151
Superman: Eternal by @Generation Sect
Red Hood and the Outlaws: Eternal by @HydreigonBorn37
Hawkman and Hawkgirl: Eternal by @Ratbag the Coward
The Eternal Universe has grown a lot this season, and it'll keep getting bigger!
Green Arrow: Eternal by @Eeveechu151
Superman: Eternal by @Generation Sect
Red Hood and the Outlaws: Eternal by @HydreigonBorn37
Hawkman and Hawkgirl: Eternal by @Ratbag the Coward
The Eternal Universe has grown a lot this season, and it'll keep getting bigger!
