Five miles off the Metropolis coast.
LexCorp's Oceanographic Laboratory AC-83.
It's been twenty seconds since Superman launched himself into inner space in a profoundly stupid act of heroism.
Mercy Graves has already pummeled me—sigh—mercilessly, batting me around like some cheap toy. As she lands a humdrum fist in my solar plexus—a move that brings pain I've long since been able to tune out—I wonder if she treats all her would-be targets this recklessly.
Truthfully? It's like I don't even have her full attention.
She's just…batting wildly.
No discipline, it seems. I would've expected more of her cruel master.
I manage to eek her into a chokehold, tossing that dreadful chauffeur's hat off her head to get a better hold. She grunts and lets out a few wet choking sounds before kicking one leg up. The action, to her credit, catches me sufficiently offguard—so much so that my hold loosens and she slides out.
She distance herself, backing away a foot or three, and strikes a cockamamie boxer's pose—legs shoulder-width apart, arms in tightly held fists at eye-level. Her frankly mannish face gives a frankly mannish scowl. The bun that was her tightly coiled hair is coming loose, and if I didn't know any better Id' say she just woke up.
Her face is bright red. From the blood rush or the anger.
Maybe both.
Before she tries to slide into home base—do a paltry leg sweep and take me down—I wonder if she's just plain crazy.
She tries the leg sweep, and I jam my bo staff into the soft tissue on her outer calf. She grunts and spins up into a crouch. I pull off a cheap Darth Maul imitation and slide the bo staff across my shoulders. She tries to move, I'll just slam the damn thing across her face.
The Star-lite lenses are good, insofar as she can't see my pupils. She can't see me looking ever so slightly beyond her shoulder, to Lex and Batman having a good old fashioned showdown. Reminds me of the old Smokin' Joe Frazier fights.
She launches herself at me, and it almost happens in slow motion. She's rather like a rabid dog.
I sidestep the oncoming left hook and whirl the bo staff around, striking her across the lumbar. It's lightweight enough that she'll feel a distracting sting.
She turns around and we lock gazes.
I drop the bo staff, feeling adventurous. Hold one hand out in a beckon.
Remember the abyss, Tim. It's gazing into you.
"Let's go."
She comes at me again. I wait for it, hoping for a millisecond that she'll just keel over.
Lex Luthor and Batman.
It's been just over ten years since I returned to Gotham, from a trek across the world. A trek that taught me how to turn criminals into cowards. How to avenge and not be vengeful. How to honor the lives of the people that mattered most to me.
And as Luthor and I trade blows like inveterate pugilists, all I can think of are those two people. Who did more for me in eight years of my life than I did for them. Who have defined my life, my every deed, up until this point.
This is how I feel most of the time. That every night is the most important night yet. Because I'm still fighting for them.
Fighting men like Luthor.
He is Clark's enemy first and foremost. A burden Clark is willing to bear. But in many ways, Luthor is more dangerous than even the Joker.
He has the means, and the knowledge, and the absolute cunning to do more damage than the Joker can even dream of. Luthor's fingers spread over anything he pleases. This is his evil.
This was always his problem.
I keep up the barrage on his armor's chest plate, finally breaking through like cracking the shell on a hard candy. He gives me a bewildered look, like he can't believe someone without superpowers could have done that.
With a free hand, I tap my forehead.
"Lex," I say and allow a smallest of small smiles. "A page from your own book. We carry the most powerful weapon in the world on top of our necks."
Before I jam a mini-explosive—in the shape of a batarangs—in his chestplate crater, I haul him to his feet.
"You can't do this, Batman! You're no better than he is!"
I hit him with a solid right hook. One of Richard Dragon's cruder lessons.
"Wrong," I say, as his head slacks. "I can."
I let him go. A moment later he struggles to get to one knee and raises his hand, preparing another energy blast. I can hear the servos warming up, the circuitry in his chest sparking and popping. A batarang slides into my hand.
I back away from him.
"What are you—"
He looks at the Batarang in my hand—I make it visible—and then down at the hole in his armor.
Then the explosive in the chest cavity blows.
The smoking hulk falls back to the ground.
As I stand over him and check his pulse and a few other vitals, his eyes flutter open momentarily.
"You," he mutters. "You…bastard …"
Continued...