CHAPTER 65:
"Death"
Tim Drake spared no quarter, as some would say militarily. And he attacked Enigma with full force. But Enigma countered, quite easily, and he was surprisingly pushed back, having to defend himself rather than go on the offensive. Relentless, Enigma pressed on, and he had to step back further, his staff out in front to defend against her continuous strikes.
Then he thrust forward when she made an error, cockiness often did that, knocking her off her feet. She landed on her butt and he planted the staff inches from her chest—the Question Mark of the staff acting like a blade. It may have been blunt looking with its smooth rounded ends, but with enough force, it could still do a lot of damage struck to an open part of the body.
However, and to any fighter, having their own weapon used against them, and to lose, was disgraceful. And yet, Enigma wasn't.
"Do you yield, Enigma?"
She smirked. "Really? That all you got? We've just barely begun! This dog aint ready to give up the fight!" —referencing to what Tim had called her hair prior. "Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails, that's what little boys are made of. Sugar and spice and all things nice, that's what little girls are made of - Robert Southey. Well, some girls…but not this chick! Hmm, I wonder what you'd look like all naked, and drenched in butter? Those muscles glistening with sparkles."
Tim's focus momentarily wavered by the startling and flirtatious image of her words. "Huh?"
But it had been mere distraction. And it had worked. She caught him off-guard and whacked his Q-Staff away with Nygma's, then whacked him hard against the left thigh. Since Tim wasn't wearing his gear, he had little protection, and cringed, hissing from the stinging pain, folding in slightly to compensate.
He cursed himself for falling for such a ridiculous ploy. If he was younger, and less "in-the-know", he probably wouldn't have fallen for it. But it was an issue every teenager and older adult had to face and he couldn't turn it off. Since he had become very involved with Steph lately, often things of that nature had a way of distracting a person and allowing the mind to wander. And Enigma knew it.
Using another impressive move, Enigma rolled back, and jumped to her feet. Suddenly, she struck again, and this time across the backside with the Q-Staff, where again, he had little protection from the strike. He hopped and staggered, feeling the hurt and the sting to his butt, his hand instinctively going to the area.
But she wasn't done, and then struck him behind his knees, forcing him to collapse to the floor.
It had all happened so quickly.
Enigma then raised her staff aloft, as if to use it like a sword. For a split moment, she reminded Tim of Damian.
The moment it came down, he quickly rolled out its path to a safe distance, despite the pain he felt in his butt and knees. He then pivoted, got to one knee, and grabbed Enigma's staff once more. He forced himself to get to his feet, hiding any discomfort. There was a mental technique Bruce taught him to push pain away, something from Buddhist monks, and he used that now.
"You recover quickly," she said. "Do you do everything fast?"
Why does all this banter sound familiar? Yes, of course—Dick uses it to distract his enemies while fighting. I have to ignore her taunts, focus on the task. Push out everything else but winning from my mind.
He quickly calmed his mind.
He refused to acknowledge her with a response.
Now calm, he went on the offensive and attacked. She parried with him, defending, and then went on the offensive again. He was impressed by her talent. It took him years to get to his own level, and he practised every day. He even watched videos on line from experts to help him along with his training, some of the best fighters in the world, including Nightwing, and old Bruce Lee movies.
Enigma obviously had some training in martial arts. If she wasn't such a witch, she would probably make a worthy career of it.
"You've missed you calling, Enigma," he said. "Nice skills!"
"Thanks. Prison did have its advantages. Free self-defensive training and some other things on the side. Some of the women in the last prison I was in wanted to have me for dinner, but I taught them a thing or two. Even three. They didn't bother me after that."
"So, where did you meet Duela?"
He parried with her, and then realized because he was remaining calm and not getting frustrated, he was bantering, as well.
Dick said that talking during his fights not only helped him bring down the tension, but it also aided as a distraction tactic. His enemy would get so ticked off with his talking that they would make a mistake and Nightwing would take them down.
But, it wasn't working here.
"No, afterwards," Enigma revealed. "Two women, in the prime of their lives, enjoying the other's company. It just happened, we met through the internet. I knew she was coming out of her funk, away for a long while, and we just hooked up. I think I was someone who helped her come out, and back to the public, so to speak. And no, she isn't—if that's what you're thinking. And neither am I."
"Nothing wrong with it. I know a few people who are…"
"Ever toiled with the idea yourself, eh, eye candy? I bet you get cat-calls from both the girls and some boys?" Tim didn't respond, but yes, there were a few guys who had "eyed" him. But he never thought about it. There was one criminal he fought who cursed him and told him to shove his bo-staff up his ass; he'd probably like it. He whacked the criminal across the face with it instead.
"Get off me!" Nygma's voice suddenly burst through the conversional-battle.
Enigma looked at Arkells and her father on the ground, Tim observed. Arkells had overpowered her father, his heftier body an asset.
But that was an opportunity Tim was waiting for, and he took it. He performed a leg sweep when her focus was split. She hadn't expected it and fell back. He then disarmed her quickly and kicked the Q-Staff away, out of her reach. He brought the Question Mark to bare across her throat. "I repeat my previous question: Do you yield? And no, it's not a riddle."
"Rat bastard! That was cheating!"
"No, that was quick-thinking." He then said, "Arkells? You have Riddler?"
Arkells not only was using his weight on Riddler to keep him down, but he had now turned him over, holding his arms across his back like an arresting cop, elbows slightly over-extended to cause pain. "Is that a question or riddle?"
"I guess a little of both."
Now that he had his situation dealt with, he gave a glance over to Damian and Jon Kent. He smiled, as Damian gave him a thumbs up. Superboy, now recovered from Riddler's gauntlet gun blast, stood at his side.
x x x
Damian turned to pressing issues on his side of the Batcave. "Hey! Pipsqueak! Fight me!"
His voiced carried across the cave to Dafoe, who turned and looked in his direction, gun in hand. On Treasure Island, Jason, when he was miniaturized, was shorter than Damian. The same went for Dafoe. But unlike Dafoe, Jason didn't look like a dork with his skunky hair and whisk of a ponytail. He had seen old photos of Grayson with a ponytail. It didn't do him any justice back then.
Damian dropped his sword and reached behind his back for his escrima sticks. He could easily take Dafoe out with his sword, but his father's cardinal rule rang in his ears: No killing. So, it would be a challenge. And that's the way he liked it.
But Dafoe was smarter than he looked and didn't appear to be baited easily.
Dafoe smirked, and continued to point the gun at his target. Dick Grayson's arms were in the air. "Do you really think I would be so easily taunted by the likes of you? Stay back, or I'll end your precious mentor once and for all, and finish what my father started!"
"Only a coward would be behind such an act of evil."
Jon leaned over and whispered in Damian's ear. "I can take him, using my heat vision. Just say the word."
Damian shook his head. "A cheap death is too good for this loser." But he did tell Jon to do something else. "Hey, Dafoe! I would normally agree with Todd about eliminating a threat, but I prefer to play with my food. That's just the way I am."
He twirled his escrima sticks in his hands, mimicking Nightwing's showmanship-style, like an exact carbon copy. In fact, he had secretly watched Grayson do so on countless occasions, memorizing it, because he found it impressive. In school, he practised twirling his pen in his hand while he sat at his desk listening to teacher's lectures. More than once, the teacher told him to stop it.
"Show off," Grayson remarked.
Damian smirked crookedly.
Damian moved in closer, and this allowed Jon to move off. Dafoe's eyes moved with Jon Kent. Damian had told Jon to free Stephane Brown, while he dealt with Dafoe.
Damian clonked his escrima sticks together to grab Dafoe's attention. And Dafoe eyes darted back to him.
But Dafoe appeared impatient, wasting no time. He pointed, and fired at Grayson.
Superboy quickly raced back, freeing Stephane Brown with his super-strength, breaking the ankle-bracket, and just managed to get back as the bullet was reaching Grayson's chest, plunking the bullet out of mid-air, much like Wally West, The Flash, would do. Jon Kent stood in front of Dick Grayson like a shield, the large S on the front of his black tights stating pretty much. He pinched the bullet between the fore finger and thumb of his right hand as if were a marble. Then he flicked it away like trash.
Superboy smirked proudly, cocky, and placed his hands on his hips.
The quickness of the save startled Dafoe, and Damian immediately took advantage. He ran to Dafoe, and smacked Dafoe's gun hand, knocking the weapon down, kicking it away. Then he whacked the pint-sized villain in his ribs, arms, and legs, throwing him off balance. And finally, he delivered one final bonk on the head, dropping Dafoe to the ground. Out cold.
When Dafoe hit the side of the Batmobile, the impact opened the canopy. It was never locked in the Batcave, because it didn't need to be—who would steal the Batmobile? Most likely its sensors thought that someone wanted inside and automatically opened it with the hit. But it was ignored, and paid no mind. It was one but one Batmobile, the others were in for repair or upgrade.
Villain's never stay down, Damian knew, and he remembered what Todd always said: Finish them, so they don't come back! And seeing Dafoe was a cloned abomination of Jason Todd, he had to be destroyed. The world could only afford one Jason Todd.
Dafoe was unconscious. Damian raised an escrima stick and went to hit him one more time with possibly a fatal blow, when Grayson grabbed the escrima stick in hand, and said, "Enough, Damian! You beat him already!"
Damian looked back, smacked his tongue in protest, and then released his grip on the escrima stick. Grayson looked disappointed, but that was to be expected. Then a mutual nod was exchanged between them and the moment was forgotten.
Superboy went to Jake Handles, he was still seated, and leaning against the Batmobile. He looked angry, not only about the situation, but also that his son had been defeated, and seemingly, so easily.
Jon Kent smiled a boyish grin. "Hi, nice to meet you. The name is Superboy. And I've heard so much about you. I remember you vaguely from Treasure Island, but at the time, you looked very different, like something from that musical play The Phantom of the Opera. Damian likes that kind of stuff. All that screaming isn't my thing. I also remember you used that control collar on me, and tried to abuse my powers, tried to make me hurt my friends, and I just want to say, time for a little payback. My father always taught me to repay those in kind that try to hurt your friends. A lesson learned is a lesson kept. I won't hurt you a lot."
Jake Handles eyes widened. He suddenly rolled over and quickly got to his feet. He moved away from Superboy and the rest, stepping behind the jet-propulsion engine of the Batmobile, using it as if it was a shield of sorts. But if he tried to run, he wouldn't get very far. The fight was ended. The day had been won. And Jake Handles was finished. Or so, it seemed.
Handles swore. "This isn't over, Dick! It will never be over between us!"
"Yes, it is, Jake," Dick Grayson said, holding the escrima stick. "Time to give up. There's no where you can go now. No escape route this time. You have no more allies. This is the end of the line."
Superboy rose into the air, to get a birds-eye view of the scene, as if to say, "If you try to run, I'll catch you anywhere you go." "Hey!" came Kent's voice. "What are you doing in there?"
Damian looked up at Jon Kent. "What are you blabbering about, Kent?"
Jon pointed. "Your cat just jumped into the Batmobile."
Damian looked. With the canopy open, Alfred was able to jump inside. Why? He must have done so to get away from the fighting or for some other reason. Cats do odd things at odd times. But this was not the time for cat antics.
Damian went to the car, looked, extended both hands, and reached in. He knew the others had the situation with Handles under control. "Pennyworth, come here now! Don't touch anything. Everything in there is very sensitive. Get away from those controls!"
Alfred Pennyworth, the cat, crawled over the mid-section, and then sat on the passenger seat. He wiggled his tail, and then stuck out his tongue at Damian, as if giving him attitude. "Not a good time, Pennyworth. Come on out, I'll play with you later."
"I won't be defeated like this, Dick!" Handles voice was overheard, his voice echoed in the cave. Damian let the others focus on him. "I would rather die that be humiliated like this!" Damian momentarily saw Jake Handles raise his artificial right arm with his hand missing while cupping his broken left wrist, looking over the back of the Batmobile. "And I will get back Julie! And kill you all! I swear! I still have means at my disposal, allies to rally to my cause."
Grayson didn't say anything, but he did look thoughtful, as if thinking he needed to continue to walk his back.
Suddenly, Alfred Pennyworth, the cat, moved, and Damian looked back down at him. Damian leaned over the edge of the vehicle door, but then stepped back, and pulled it open. He went to grab the cat, when just then, Alfred Pennyworth, leapt up in avoidance, as if playing, and hit a button—the very same button that began the ignition sequence to the Batmobile's jet-engine.
A second later, something activated, and roared, and the Batmobile's engine blasted out, and with Jake Handles, standing directly in its fiery path, he was suddenly engulfed in its wake.
Grayson fell back from its fiery discharge and Superboy covered his eyes.
Jake Handles screamed as his body burst into flames, and he flayed his arms about as if doing so will fan the flames away. It was the failing off anyone on fire. Most people panicked and failed to adhere to the lessons taught: Stop, drop, and roll. The explosion that burned 80% of his body before failed in comparison to what was happening now. It was like the flames of Hell had engulfed him.
Dick Grayson quickly ran to the Batmobile, yanked Damian back, and switched off the jet engine.
Soon, after an aimless fiery walk to nowhere, charred, aflame, Jake Handles finally dropped, and laid still, an almost instantaneous death, this body succumbing to fire. This time, he was not coming back.
Superboy used his breath to blow out the flames.
"Whoa…" he said. "He's well done. Reminds me of the time I tried heating up a steak for Mom and Dad with my heat vision."
Grayson picked up Pennyworth from the driver's seat, holding him. The cat, unaware of what he had just did, meowed, as if accepting attention. Damian took him, held him in his arms. "Please, Grayson. Don't tell father. It wasn't his fault."
Grayson put a hand on Damian's shoulder. "I know, kiddo. I know…" Grayson said a bit somber, looking back at Jake Handles.
Dick went over to Jake Handles' body. Superboy was still blowing out pop-up flames. In the end, there was little to recognize Jake Handles as the man who he was. His old Spyral colleague was nothing more now than a black, withering corpse.
Damian went over, looked over Handles. While he was glad Jake Handles was finally gone, the how it happened was still a bit shocking. Who'd ever thought being killed by a cat? Black cats were known to be unlucky, if a person believed in such a thing.
Damian pet Alfred behind the ears, scratching with two fingers. The cat mewed. "Someone's getting extra fishcakes tonight," he said. "And just for once, Pennyworth…forgive and forget about Grayson's transgressions. He's a good guy."
Grayson smiled. "You're a chip off the old block."
"I have a good teacher. By the way, where is father? He's been abstain for all of this."
Grayson looked reserved, but Damian was told.
"If I know Bruce, he's going to be really ticked off when he finds out he's missed all the action," Dick said. "But, on the positive side, he'd going to be very well rested for all the clean we're going to have to do."
"Anyone have any marshmallows?" Damian put out. Grayson gave him a straight look. "Too soon?"
To be continued...
