Sick with regret, Tim Drake lay where he'd fallen. Blood continued to seep from his chest. He'd failed Bruce. He wasn't worthy of that suit after all. His eyelids grew heavier, and with a heart full of unfinished business, they finally closed.
"Is he out?" The two women observing from a distance whispered between themselves.
"Give it thirty seconds." Masie — no stranger to violence — kept her voice steady and held Ivy back.
They waited a little longer, until Tim was fully unconscious, then stepped out.
"Brothers really do have a special bond," Ivy said dryly, surveying the damage. "That is a thorough beating." She produced a vial of plant extract — dense with restorative life energy — and injected it into his arm.
Masie followed up, running a measure of Indigo Tribe energy through Tim's body to stabilize the worst of the structural damage.
"Let's go. We've kept him alive — his teammates can deal with the rest. I want to follow that cold-blooded one. A dark Batman in Gotham actually sounds interesting." Ivy and Masie each activated their rings' stealth function and took to the air after Jason Todd.
Half an hour later, Nightwing noticed Tim was missing. He tracked the motorcycle trail and found Tim barely breathing — a slow, faint rise and fall of the chest, nothing more. Alarmed, he carried him back to the cave.
The medical pod in the Batcave had been upgraded substantially — Thea's tech had seen to that. Robotic arms got to work. Blood transfusions ran. Two full hours of surgery before Tim was out of danger.
Dick knew Jason's game. He understood the message. And he understood his own answer: if he didn't step up and confront Jason directly, Jason would keep killing. There was no middle ground here. He had to fight.
He left the cave, connected with Barbara, and got the locations of several gang conflicts across the city. One quick analysis later, he was heading northwest.
High above, the two women tracking Jason continued their conversation.
"It's hard to believe Batman trained him," Ivy said, watching Jason below — twin pistols blazing, vaulting between rooftops, methodically cutting down one gang member after another. The blood was running freely.
Batman's legend had kept Gotham's criminals in check for years. As a former Gotham resident, Ivy had joined in those conversations — the no-kill rule, the great refusal. Bruce's biggest line. And here was his student, shooting people like he was clearing out a firing range.
"Clean technique," Masie observed, purely professionally. "You can see the work he put into it."
The two of them watched idly, conversation drifting from Jason's marksmanship to... significantly more personal topics regarding what "tools" they preferred in private company.
"That one's here." Masie, composure intact even while mid-discussion and flushed from the subject, spotted Dick first — the Nightwing motorcycle rolling in from the distance.
Jason didn't have the aerial vantage. But Dick wasn't trying for surprise — he wasn't even trying to muffle his approach. From half a mile out, the engine was clearly audible.
Jason finished his work: nineteen gang members, all down, all dead. He holstered his guns and turned, cold-eyed, as Dick stepped off his bike.
"Why did you hit Tim that hard?"
"Strange question. He broke into my home. Of course I fought back."
"You knew he wasn't your enemy. We're family."
Jason's lip curled in contempt.
"Jason, you're a killer. Whatever conscience you had left — it's gone."
"Don't lecture me." Jason's voice dropped. "You're not him, Dick Grayson. You're soft. You're pathetic. This city rots because of your self-righteous morals. Let me show you how it's actually done."
The kick was a thunderclap aimed straight at Dick's face.
Dick was two years older than Jason, his body at its physical peak, and his battle experience was encyclopedic. He raised his arm, absorbed the blow, and set aside his escrima sticks. He answered with fists and feet — Bruce's style. The language of the cowl.
Jason didn't reach for his guns either. He wanted this. He wanted the win to mean something — to earn the right to wear that suit, and if the chance ever came, to prove he could've done it better.
"Without him thinking you were special, circus boy — you're nothing."
The punch caught Dick on the right cheek, followed immediately by a knee drive into his stomach.
Dick's reflexes were exceptional. He absorbed the gut shot, rolled with the momentum, twisted his core, and brought a high kick up into Jason's jaw.
Both of them staggered, clutching their injuries, measuring each other.
"He was our father. No question. And you've shamed him." Dick faked left, drew Jason's guard, then dropped low and swept his legs out from under him before driving his forehead hard into Jason's face.
Jason's vision went dark, his hearing short-circuited — but he kept his head. His hand found a small canister, and he aimed it at Dick and sprayed.
A pale-yellow cloud rolled out. Dick broke into violent coughing. "Scarecrow's fear toxin? You took that from the Batcave. You're getting more desperate by the day."
"Face your fear," Jason said, and drove a kick into Dick's chest — two steps forward, then a follow-up punch aimed at his midsection.
On the third swing, his fist was caught.
By Dick. Completely lucid.
"Before I came, I injected vaccines for every known variant of Scarecrow's fear toxin. Surprised?" Dick's voice was level. "He never trained fools."
Two clean punches landed. Jason staggered back, spitting blood.
"It's over, Jason." A final kick to the chest. The man who'd built his reputation on ruthlessness went down on one knee and didn't get up.
Dick moved in to grab him by the collar — one last hit to end it.
He grabbed air.
"That's right," Jason said from above. "It is over, Dick. Rest in peace."
His right hand fired a grapple line to a distant high-rise. Jason swung skyward, and in the same moment his left hand clicked a detonator.