Like a Damned Jaggurnaugt he ran forward — unstoppable, each thunderous step shaking the tracks beneath them. The derelict train cars rattled as if they were nothing more than toys caught in a storm.
The Bat met him head-on. One brutal left hook, delivered with the force of a piledriver, slammed into Alistair's jaw. The impact hurled him off his feet and straight through the side of a train car, steel shrieking as it caved around his body.
For a moment, silence. Then movement.
Alistair stepped out of the wreckage, blood running down his forehead and lip, the wound staining his teeth crimson. He grinned through it, eyes glowing faintly red in the haze. He spat onto the ground, the blood hissing as it hit the cold rail.
With a lazy snap of his fingers, the blood he'd just spilled lifted into the air — shimmering, warping, hardening into a cluster of jagged spears that hovered like hungry wolves.
Alistair: "Guess I'll have to take you seriously, Bat… don't disappoint me like last time."
The spears pulsed, glowing with a sick red light as arcs of lightning wrapped around them. With a sharp flick of his wrist, they launched. Dozens of them streaked forward like guided missiles, tearing through the air with ear-splitting shrieks before detonating against Batman's armored frame.
The ground shook from the explosions. Fire and blood-mist swallowed the corridor of tracks.
For a moment, Alistair's grin widened — then narrowed. A shadow walked out of the haze, unbowed.
Batman.
His armor was scarred, sparks dancing where plating had taken the worst of the blasts, but he kept moving, inexorable, like a predator who had already decided the outcome.
Alistair's grin flickered back into place, manic and hungry. Blood boiled up from his knuckles, coalescing into thick crimson gauntlets, pulsing like living muscle wrapped over his fists. He flexed his hands, and the gauntlets hissed like fresh-forged steel cooling in water.
The Devil had armed himself.
The Bat was already armed.
The space between them trembled, waiting to be shattered.
Alistair vanished, the air cracking with displaced force. He reappeared behind Batman, fist already cocked. The Dark Knight's scanners caught the motion in a fraction of a second, HUD flashing red — but Alistair was faster. He was gone again, a blur of pale motion, and then—
CRACK!
He materialized in front of Batman, uppercut driving into the armored jaw with a spark of blood-red energy. The sheer force rocked the Bat back half a step, armor groaning, before Alistair somersaulted away, landing crouched atop a train car like a predator toying with its prey. His gauntlets pulsed, blood veins glowing faintly through their surface.
From the shadows, the Bat-Family watched with conflicting expressions.
Nightwing wiped soot off his face, eyes tracking every movement.
Nightwing: "I'll be real with you… I got my money on Hyde."
Red Hood folded his arms with a smug grin.
Red Hood: "Mine too."
Red Robin looked between them, incredulous.
Red Robin: "You guys are willing to gamble against your father?"
Red Hood: "Adoptive father."
A new voice chimed in, sharp and certain. Damian. Sitting cross-legged on a broken pillar, arms folded like a little warlord.
Damian: "My entire allowance on Hyde."
Every head snapped toward him. The kid didn't even blink.
Batwoman, arms crossed, scowled at the lot of them.
Batwoman: "You're all idiots."
Jason smirked, leaning closer.
Red Hood: "Cool story, Mom. Now, who you betting on?"
Batwoman: flat "…Batman."
Silence. Then a slow grin spread across Jason's face.
Red Hood: "Guess we'll see who gets to gloat."
Back in the arena, sparks leapt from Batman's fists as he surged forward again — the unstoppable juggernaut — while Alistair's crimson gauntlets glowed brighter, laughter already spilling from his lips.
The next collision was about to shake the entire station.
The air thickened, oppressive, heat shimmering like waves across the ruined station. Alistair snapped his fingers — the gauntlet on his left arm dissolved into liquid red, coiling midair before compressing into a dense sphere pulsing like a heart. Another snap.
FOOM!
The ball ignited, flames black at the core, red at the edges. It hovered above his palm, crackling like a newborn star.
Alistair (grinning): "Catch."
He thrust his hand forward. The orb screamed through the air, a comet of living fire. Batman slammed both gauntlets together, panels hissing open — a shield unfolded, metal locking in layers. He braced himself as the inferno slammed against it.
SHHHHRRRRRK!
The shield screamed under the strain. Metal bled orange, softened, and then melted. The red fire chewed through like acid. Batman's stance held firm, but the defense didn't — he released it, letting the slagged shield drop with a heavy clang.
The flames didn't die. They licked outward, crawling across the floor like hunting serpents, leaving molten scars in their wake. The station shuddered as the fire spread.
Alistair raised his still-glowing gauntlet, eyes reflecting the blaze.
Alistair: "Not bad. Most men don't last long enough to see the second trick."
Batman didn't flinch. His respirator hissed, lenses narrowing as he recalibrated.
Batman (low): "Then show me the third."
The two titans squared again — the Devil smiling, the Bat calculating.
A hiss cut through the roaring fire. Panels slid open across the Bat's armored shoulders — thunk-thunk-thunk! — missiles screamed into the air, streaking white smoke through the ruined station.
From the shattered case at Alistair's feet, steel sang. Masamune rose, shifting in his grip — the once-elegant katana elongated, metal folding and thickening, until the hunter's blade became a monstrous greatsword, broad and heavy like a relic of war. A weapon fit for a Devil.
Alistair hoisted it with one arm, laying the enormous slab of steel across his shoulder. His grin widened, manic light burning in his eyes.
Nightwing (under his breath): "Is he insane?"
Damian (deadpan, bruised, still bitter): "I thought you'd figured that out after he broke us in half and then graded our form."
The missiles closed in.
Alistair's left hand shimmered, shifting from crimson to a cold, icy blue. Frost crawled up his wrist, across the veins, until the glow spread into Masamune itself. The massive blade drank the chill like it was alive.
With a sudden blur of motion — CRACK! — Alistair vanished, reappearing mid-charge, the greatsword whipping through the air with terrifying ease. He swung once, a single arc, and the frozen energy exploded outward.
FWOOSH—CRASH!
A crescent of blue-white ice tore through the air, colliding with the incoming missiles. The station lit up with shattering detonations — not of fire, but of frozen steel as rockets froze solid mid-flight, then splintered into shards.
Alistair didn't stop. He kept running, the ground cracking under his steps, Masamune dragging sparks as it scraped concrete. Steam hissed where his icy aura collided with the lingering flames.
Alistair (snarling, almost playful): "Come on, Bat! Let's see if that tin can keeps up!"
Alistair's grin widened as his hair began to stretch—longer, thicker, writhing until it pooled against the floor like a living cloak. Then, with a violent crack, it lashed forward. Strands hardened into braided cords, snapping around Batman's armor like constricting chains.
Nightwing (wide-eyed): "...Is his hair fighting now?"
Before anyone could react, Alistair whipped his head. The hair dragged the Bat like a ragdoll, slamming him into the side of a derelict train. CRUNCH! The car caved like a crushed soda can.
Alistair swung again— BOOM! —Batman's armored frame struck the ground, concrete splitting out in spiderweb fractures.
And again— CRASH! —this time into the steel of the overhead train bridge. Metal screamed as supports gave way, the structure collapsing in a groaning avalanche of twisted beams and concrete. The entire bridge came down on top of the Dark Knight, burying him under tons of rubble.
For a moment, there was only silence. Dust. The echo of metal settling.
Then—KRRRSH!—a red glow pierced the wreckage. Batman rose, pushing the debris aside, his Juggernaut armor dented but unbroken.
Batman (voice low, steady): "Initiate Overdrive Sequence."
A roar filled the station, the sound of turbines spooling like a jet engine. Panels along his chest split apart, venting steam as a deep crimson light flared to life. Out of the armor's back, a massive, double-edged greatsword slammed into the ground. The weapon was brutal, unadorned—built for war, not elegance.
Alistair tilted his head, manic grin spreading wider.
Alistair: "Fancy toys ain't gonna do you any good."
Batman: "We'll see about that."
The ground between them cracked under the pressure of two forces about to collide.
Alistair snapped his fingers. Muramasa shivered, its greatsword form fracturing like glass before reshaping itself into a slender jian, its edge gleaming with a subtle crimson sheen. He slid one hand behind his back, posture refined, almost regal. His grin was serene, like a man about to indulge in fine art.
Lightning burst across his frame—black streaks edged in blood-red, crawling up his arms and coiling at his fingertips. His eyes deepened into pools of molten crimson.
Alistair (soft, reverent): "Now this… this feels proper."
Batman surged forward, jet-thrusters screaming as his greatsword came down in a crushing arc. The impact erupted, a shockwave splitting the platform. Alistair raised the jian, parrying with a dancer's grace—only to stagger back, boots grinding against the cracked stone.
Alistair (grinning wider): "Stronger. Much stronger. Don't stop."
Batman pressed the attack. Every swing was mechanical precision, hydraulics hissing, the sheer weight of his blade tearing gouges in the station floor. Alistair deflected with one hand, his jian flashing like lightning—but each block pushed him further back, sparks flying where steel met steel.
Nightwing and the others shielded themselves from the storm of debris.
Red Hood (shouting over the noise): "He's actually driving Hyde back!"
Batwoman (grim): "No—Hyde's letting him. He's… enjoying this."
Alistair slid low under a cleaving strike, his hair lashing out to snag Batman's leg. But the suit's servos whined, locking down, anchoring Batman like a rooted pillar. The Dark Knight swung downward again—BANG! The greatsword clipped Alistair's shoulder, sending him skidding across the floor, crimson sparks trailing.
For the first time, blood dripped from his lip. Alistair touched it, chuckled, and licked it away.
Alistair: "Finally… you make me bleed. It's beautiful."
Batman didn't answer. He rocketed forward, knee-first, the blow slamming Alistair into a wall so hard the brick cratered. Before he could vanish, Batman caught him—servo-clamps clamping down on his arm. The greatsword's edge pressed against Alistair's throat, humming with stored energy.
Batman (low, dangerous): "This ends now."
Alistair tilted his head against the blade, crimson lightning dancing along his skin like a storm barely contained. His smile was unfazed, almost tender.
Alistair (whisper): "Then show me, Detective… show me how far you'll go."
The station trembled as the two forces locked, one unrelenting in will, the other reveling in restraint.
The greatsword hummed at Alistair's throat, its edge buzzing with enough force to cut through tank armor. Batman's grip never wavered, his jaw locked tight behind the cowl.
Alistair leaned into it, unfazed, lips still curved in that damned grin.
Alistair (mocking hush): "So serious. Always so serious…"
Batman answered with a headbutt. The impact cracked Alistair's nose, a spray of blood snapping his head back. Before he could recover, Batman drove a piston-augmented punch into his ribs, the sound like wood snapping under an axe.
Alistair staggered—actually staggered. His laughter bubbled through the blood.
Alistair: "Hah! That's it. Make me feel it."
Batman didn't rise to the bait. He pressed forward, strikes relentless, chaining knees, elbows, and hammering blows with the greatsword's pommel. Each landed with surgical precision—designed not to waste energy, designed to break. Alistair reeled under the barrage, his guard shimmering red with every parry, blood lightning sparking like a shield fraying at the edges.
For a heartbeat, it looked one-sided.
From the sidelines, the Bat-Family could hardly believe it.
Nightwing (hoarse): "He's… he's driving him down."
Red Hood: "No—look at Hyde's face."
Because Alistair's face wasn't twisted in pain. It was rapture. Each hit that shook his bones only widened his grin. Every dent in his skin was fuel.
And Batman—though his expression stayed stone—allowed himself the faintest tightening of the lips. Not a smile, but close. The thrill of testing his mind, his tech, his body against something so far beyond human stirred something even he couldn't entirely deny.
The ground shuddered as Batman lifted his greatsword in both hands and brought it down in a two-handed cleave. Alistair caught it on his jian, knees buckling, blood sparking from the contact. For the first time, his arms trembled.
Batman (flat, resolute): "Yield."
Alistair spat blood onto the blade between them. His crimson eyes burned brighter.
Alistair (hissing laugh): "Yield? Now why… would I ruin something this perfect?"
The two forces locked, one armored will against one laughing storm—until the breaking point began to quake beneath their feet.
Alistair leapt back, boots grinding across the fractured concrete. His wounds had already knitted shut, skin whole once more, but his hair—once bound neatly—now spilled loose, streaked with blood, hanging wild and feral around his face.
He clapped his hands together, the sharp crack echoing in the night.
Alistair: "Well, Detective… I can't say this hasn't been fun. But I've had enough playing Moriarty. I think I'd like to try Renfield now."
His nails blackened, lengthening into razor-edged talons. The gloves fell away, forgotten, as his eyes burned deeper crimson, and that grin—manic, unbroken—never left his face.
He drove the talons into his own palms without hesitation. Blood spilled freely, hissing as it touched the air, coiling like living smoke around his arms. Masamune and Muramasa shimmered into being, their forms shifting down into vicious, close-range killers—one a tanto, the other a wakizashi. Both dripped red light like fresh wounds.
For anyone watching closely, his teeth no longer looked entirely human. His fangs glinted when he breathed.
Alistair began walking forward, each step deliberate, as if savoring the weight of inevitability.
Batman surged to meet him, Overdrive thrusters screaming, his massive blade cleaving downward in a strike meant to end the fight.
But Alistair vanished.
A blur. A crack of displaced air.
The moon framed him for a single, perfect heartbeat—floating above, hair wild in the silver light, twin blades spinning. Then he was gone again, reappearing back-to-back with the Dark Knight.
Metal screamed. Batman's sword fractured, then split entirely, the pieces tumbling like broken teeth to the floor.
Alistair spun the tanto lazily in his hand, the grin widening.
Batman turned, blade stubs sparking, but Alistair was already inside his guard. The tanto raked across the armor's chestplate, not cutting cleanly but tearing, like claws against iron. Sparks and blood-red energy hissed through the fracture.
Batman countered with a piston-punch from the gauntlet, the force enough to crater concrete—but Alistair took it head-on, the blow smashing into his ribs and sending him skidding back. He coughed blood, spat it to the ground—and laughed.
Alistair: "That's it, Detective. That's what I wanted."
He charged, no grace, no feints—just raw violence. His blades hacked against the armor like a butcher carving bone, gouging deep scars into titanium plates. When Batman tried to raise his shield-arm, Alistair bit down on the metal with his fangs, teeth sparking as he wrenched it aside with animalistic fury.
Blood surged from his hands, forming spiked tendrils that lashed around the Bat's legs. With a roar, Alistair yanked, dragging him off balance, and slammed him into the side of a derailed train car. The steel bent inward like cardboard.
Batman's thrusters ignited, repelling the blood-tendrils in a blaze of heat. He swung the broken half of his blade like an executioner—but Alistair let it hit. The steel bit into his shoulder, tearing flesh. He didn't flinch. He pressed closer, nose-to-nose, grinning wide as the crimson in his eyes pulsed.
Then he tore the blade out of his own body, snapped it in half, and stabbed one jagged piece back into the armor's shoulder joint. Sparks exploded.
Nightwing (watching, under his breath): "…He's tearing it apart."
Alistair straddled the armor like a predator on prey, tanto and wakizashi flashing in brutal arcs. Not clean strikes—rips, slams, stabs, each blow denting, peeling, or crushing plates of WayneTech alloy. His hair lashed like a whip, striking across Batman's visor with enough force to crack reinforced lenses.
The ground shook with every impact. He dragged the Dark Knight across concrete, slammed him through girders, and bit deep into the armor with clawed fingers, prying apart plates with sheer will and fury.
For every wound Alistair took—a rib cracking, blood spraying—he only grew wilder, stronger, like the pain was stoking the fire rather than stopping him.
At last, with a guttural roar, he drove both blades into the Bat's chestplate, crossed them, and ripped outward. Armor screamed as it tore, sparks raining like meteors.
Batman staggered, half-exposed beneath the shredded plates, breath harsh inside the suit.
Alistair dragged a bloodied hand across his mouth, painting his grin in crimson.
Alistair: "C'mon, Bat. Show me what's under the mask. Show me the animal."
Alistair burst forward—feral, unstoppable. The missiles on Batman's armor flared to life, firing in a barrage that lit the night like fireworks.
Alistair's grin stretched wide. He drew both blades, muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike, and with two savage arcs he sliced through every missile mid-flight. Red slashes streaked across the sky, splitting clouds apart, and the moon's pale light poured down like a spotlight on the carnage.
The resulting explosions threw up a dust shield that blanketed the battlefield. Inside the shattered mech, Batman's HUD fizzled out—he could no longer track Alistair.
Then—like a tornado breaking through the fog—Alistair spun out of the dust, leaping onto the exposed plates of the armor. His blades tore through titanium like wet paper. Piece by piece, he ripped the machine apart, animalistic in his precision and rage, until finally his claws sank into the reactor core.
Blood surged from his hands, wrapping the glowing core in a pulsing crimson bubble. With one final rip, the juggernaut suit collapsed to its knees, smoke hissing from every joint as it powered down.
Alistair landed lightly on the ground, shirt and vest shredded, his body streaked in cuts and blood that only made his grin look more unholy. His claws retracted, his manic fury cooling just enough for mockery to return. He bowed low, like a performer at the end of a brutal show.
Alistair: "Thank you, thank you, everyone."
He turned—only to see Batman vaulting out of the ruined suit, bombs in both hands.
Alistair tilted his head, unimpressed.
Alistair: "Still wanna fight, Detective?"
Batman's chest heaved, his breath ragged. The mech had cost him more than energy; Alistair could see the bruises spreading across his ribs, the subtle stagger in his step.
Alistair sighed, almost disappointed.
Alistair: "I'll be back."
The Bat-Family stayed frozen, unsure what to make of his words.
Red Hood: "…We should've left already. But honestly? I'm way too curious to see how this plays out."
Nightwing: "…Thought I was the only one."
Alistair strolled off casually to his car, rummaged, and returned with a battered cooler. Batman lunged, throwing a punch—one Alistair let connect, his head snapping sideways with the impact. He turned back, deadpan, grabbed Batman's arm… and instead of throwing him, he let a warmth pulse from his palm.
Torn flesh, fractured bone—healed.
Batman blinked, confusion flashing in his eyes.
Alistair: "Relax, Detective. Just patching you up."
Batman: "Why?"
Alistair popped open the cooler, pulled out a beer with a crack-hiss.
Alistair: "Why not?"
Batman: "You could've killed me—more than once. Last time. Tonight. Why spare me?"
Alistair stopped, beer halfway to his lips, giving Batman a mock-offended look.
Alistair: "First off—ew. I'm not your boyfriend, don't swing that way."
Batman actually faltered, visibly thrown.
Batman: "…What?"
Batwoman was shaking, trying not to laugh. Nightwing and Red Hood weren't even trying.
Alistair waved the bottle around casually.
Alistair: "You know—your boyfriend, the Joker. You two have that whole toxic love-hate thing going on. I'm not getting in the middle of it."
Batman's silence was sharp enough to cut steel.
Alistair chuckled, finally sipping his beer before tossing one to the Dark Knight.
Alistair: "Second reason? Killing you would make my work a hell of a lot harder. You keep the trash organized—Penguin, Carmine… hell, even Black Mask before he tried to put me in a grave. You keep the board clean. I just… play the game."
Alistair twisted the cap off his beer with his fangs, tilted his head toward the Bat-Family.
Alistair: "Cooler's open. Help yourselves. Damian—got some apple juice boxes in there for you."
Damian scowled, arms crossed.
Damian: "I'm not seven, you psychotic—" (he snatches a juice box anyway) "—parasite."
Alistair grinned, watching him stab the straw in with unnecessary force.
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. Damian… with him? The question lingered unspoken, but Damian answered before he could even voice it.
Damian: "He taught me when I was still with the League."
The silence thickened. Batman's gaze moved from his son, then back to Alistair—who was already cracking another beer open.
The Bat finally spoke.
Batman: "Do you realize how many lives your powers could have saved? With everything you can do—you could've been more than this. A doctor. A savior. Millions of lives spared. Instead, you threw it all away."
Alistair let the words hang. He looked almost amused, but there was weight in his eyes when he answered.
Alistair: "First off—already a doctor. Funny you didn't know that, Detective. Second… what can heal can kill. Duality, always. Third—Big Pharma would put a price tag on every drop of blood I pulled out of someone's veins. And fourth—don't give me that tired speech. I'm not one of your Robins. I know exactly what I'm doing."
Batman's jaw tightened.
Batman: "That doesn't change the fact that you've ended lives."
Alistair shrugged, careless on the surface but deliberate in tone.
Alistair: "You win, or you lose. That's it. No in-between. You of all people should know that—every night you play chess with crime, and every night you decide who gets spared and who doesn't. You just don't like admitting it."
Batman's voice grew harder, his convictions unshaken.
Batman: "There's always a choice. That's the difference between us—I choose not to kill."
Alistair leaned back on the hood of his car, beer dangling between two fingers, fangs flashing as he grinned.
Alistair: "And I choose not to care about the lines you draw for yourself. Good. Evil. Justice. Villainy. All human inventions, Detective. Stories we tell ourselves so the world makes sense. But the truth? There's only choice. And consequence. I've made peace with mine. Have you?"
Batman didn't answer, but his silence wasn't victory. He was thinking.
Alistair: "See, I don't pretend. That's the difference. You hide behind the mask because the man underneath can't stomach the weight of his choices. Me? I live them. I bleed them. Every life I take, every one I spare—it's mine. My burden. My freedom."
Batman finally stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the broken train yard.
Batman: "Freedom without responsibility isn't freedom—it's chaos. You don't live with your choices, Alistair. You run from them. Wrap them in jokes, hide them behind smirks, but they're still there. You just refuse to look."
Alistair chuckled darkly, his crimson eyes glowing faintly as he raised his beer in a mock toast.
Alistair: "And yet… you're still drinking with me."
For a second—the smallest fraction of a second—Batman's lips tightened, the faintest ghost of what might have been a smirk.
The Bat-Family looked between them, utterly baffled by the exchange.
Batman's voice was level, but his eyes sharpened.
Batman: "I read your file."
Alistair cocked his head, genuinely surprised.
Alistair: "Huh. Didn't think I'd still have a record. Guess the GCPD loves keeping old ghosts."
Batman: "Alistair Adonis Silas Edward Norwood."
Alistair blinked, then smirked.
Alistair: "Last name's Grimm."
Nightwing frowned.
Nightwing: "As in… Brothers Grimm?"
Alistair's grin widened, sharp and amused.
Alistair: "As such—a Grimm fate you all have."
He tipped his beer toward them like a toast.
Alistair: "Norwood was my father's name. He's dead."
Batman: "But your mother is still alive."
Alistair: "Indeed she is."
Batman's jaw tightened as he continued.
Batman: "Your file says your father died in a burglary accident. That you and your brother were kidnapped."
Alistair chuckled darkly, no humor in it.
Alistair: "Yeah… that's where the file's wrong. I killed my father."
Jason let out a sharp bark of laughter.
Red Hood: "Nice."
They slapped palms in a quick dap before Batman cut in.
Batman: "Why?"
Alistair's smirk faltered. Just for a moment. His eyes burned, but his voice came out low, heavy.
Alistair: "When your father's an abusive piece of shit who nearly beats your brother to death and drives your mother insane… sometimes your hands move before your head does. Instinct. Survival. Call it what you want."
Batman's voice was quieter now.
Batman: "The police. You could've—"
Alistair: "Don't. This was the '90s, Detective. East End. Cops didn't give a damn about people of color. You think they were coming to save us? Hell, I'm surprised I even have a file. Guess even Gotham's bureaucracy loves a tragic statistic."
The silence stretched. Even Jason didn't have a comeback this time.
Batman's eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but in recognition.
Batman: "…I don't approve of what you did. I never will."
Alistair tilted his head, waiting for the inevitable lecture. But it didn't come. Instead—
Batman: "But I understand why you did it."
That earned a grin, feral and tired all at once.
Alistair: "Careful, Detective. Almost sounded like respect there."
Batman: "Understanding isn't approval."
Alistair raised his beer in mock salute, crimson eyes glinting.
Alistair: "And yet—it's closer than I ever thought I'd get from you."
Alistair finished his beer and placed his hands forward.
Batman: "..."
Confusion flickered across the Dark Knight's masked face.
Alistair: "I'm turning myself in. Let's just say… you won the fight."
He then turned to Damian, eyes softening ever so slightly.
Alistair: "Damian, I live in apartment 47. I need you to go there and feed Snowy for me once in a while. You know what she's like."
Damian: "Can I take her home with me?"
Alistair: "Sure. Why not? I'll be back to pick her up after I break out of Arkham… could be a week, could be two months. Depends on the food situation."
Batman's gaze stayed fixed on him, incredulous.
Batman: "You're just… turning yourself in?"
Alistair: "Yeah. Why not? I've had my fun. Now I want to see what the underworld of this place looks like from the inside."
Damian smirked slightly, a rare relaxed expression.
Damian: "Just don't make me regret feeding her."
Alistair gave a faint, playful bow.
Alistair: "She's in good hands, my boy. Now, Detective… I'll see you on the other side."