Rumble!
The deafening roar of a train entering the station shook the concrete. Batman felt a terrifying, violent gust of displaced air slam into him as the glaring headlights magnified in his lenses. If he didn't react instantly, he would be ground to pieces by the steel behemoth.
In a fraction of a second, his mind went into overdrive. His tactical vision mapped the surrounding environment, proposing and instantly rejecting survival strategies as the train barreled closer.
Use the grapple gun to pull myself to the tunnel ceiling? No, too little time. The angle is wrong.
Jump back up onto the platform? Impossible. Deadshot and Deathstroke are waiting up there. They know I can make that jump, and they'll shoot me out of the air before I land.
Dive back into the smoke and take their bullets? Too risky.
What about Jude? He can ensure that Floyd and Slade's attacks aren't fatal, but getting crushed by a train train likely doesn't count as an 'attack' under his rules.
Unless... if I let the wind carry me, and Jude coordinates with me using that clover...
Before he could finish the thought, time ran out. The staggering Batman dropped flat onto the railroad tracks. At that exact moment, the massive displacement of wind from the train swept over the platform, instantly blowing away the thick white smoke.
Batman twisted in the air, landing hard on his back. He pressed his body completely flat against the ties, tightening every muscle, sinking as low into the gap between the rails as physically possible, and turned his head sharply to the side.
With a ground-shaking roar, the train screamed into the station. Trapped in the claustrophobic darkness beneath the undercarriage, Batman's face remained utterly blank, though his heart hammered against his ribs. The spinning axles and heavy steel chassis tore past him, mere inches from his skin, surrounded by violent, turbulent airflow and deafening vibrations.
He was incredibly thankful that the trains at Central Station had high clearances. Otherwise, he wouldn't have risked dropping onto the tracks. He would have been forced to spread his cape and gamble his life on Jude coordinating a gust of wind to blow him to safety.
But he hadn't done that. Putting his life entirely in the hands of an unpredictable variable was never his style.
Half a minute later, the screeching brakes echoed through the terminal, and the train finally shuddered to a complete stop. Batman crawled out from beneath the cars and grappled back onto the platform.
It was empty. Deathstroke, Deadshot, and Jude were completely gone.
They had either relocated the fight or called off the engagement entirely.
Batman quickly swept the scene. He found a total of four civilians who had been caught in the crossfire. Astonishingly, none of their injuries were fatal or even serious. There was no doubt about it—Jude had secretly healed them while the three of them were fighting.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Deathstroke and Jude were speeding in a stolen car toward the East District to report back to the Riddler.
"Tomorrow? We're still fighting?!"
Jude's eyes widened in horror. "Are you serious? Can you tell him not to shoot at me? I already used my play-dead trick today, it definitely won't work a second time!"
"Then you'd better find a new way to keep yourself alive," Deathstroke replied coldly, his hands steady on the steering wheel. "Soldiers carrying out a mission are only allowed two outcomes: success or death."
"What about when you face Batman?"
"He is the exception."
"Hold on a second." Jude suddenly reached into his robes and pulled out a signal jammer. He flicked it on. "I kind of want to ask you a question."
Deathstroke glanced at the blinking device in his hand. "What is it?"
"If someone offered you money to carry out the Riddler's orders, conditionally, without actually betraying him... would you agree?"
"Hmm?" Deathstroke looked at Jude from his good eye. "It depends on whether the price is high enough."
"Let me ask this another way. If someone were to pay you... would you cancel the Riddler's contract entirely?"
Deathstroke's answer didn't change. "It depends on whether the price is high enough."
"Five times his rate?"
"At least ten times. And even then, whether I accept it or not depends entirely on my mood."
"Damn, that's expensive. I guess Deadshot has the exact same conditions, right?"
Deathstroke heard the disappointed sigh and asked, "He might be cheaper. Now, how much are you going to pay me to keep quiet about this little conversation?"
"It's a bit too expensive for my blood," Jude replied casually. "But in the eyes of some very wealthy people in Gotham, this might be a great deal. If I act as a broker and help connect you to a buyer, can I get a finder's fee? You can decide the percentage."
"10%"
"Deal. No problem."
Damn it, Deathstroke cursed in his head for the very first time. He had just given way too much of a cut to this kid. He should have offered less.
The next day.
Bang!Bang!
"Holy crap!"
Jude huddled miserably in a crater behind a concrete barrier, desperately scratching at his pumpkin head. In his other hand, he held a massive, heavy-duty ballistic riot shield, already peppered with fresh bullet dents. He had specifically begged Deathstroke to secure it for him after yesterday's fiasco.
It had proven to be a very, very wise choice.
"Do you have to fight him here?!" Jude screamed into his communicator over the deafening gunfire. "He's only picking on me!"
"If you blindly run over to his position like you did yesterday, you'll just be walking into his designated kill box," Deathstroke's calm voice crackled back over the comms. "An entire night is more than enough time for him to rig this entire block with counter-traps. Do you really want to go over there and taste his explosives?"
Jude groaned. "Then why isn't he shooting at you?!"
"Because I have a healing factor, and you don't. And because you are insulting his professional pride."
"Fuck, why is this guy so vindictive?!"
A block away, Deadshot stared relentlessly at Jude's cover through a high-tech infrared sniper scope. He had specifically swapped optics today just so he could see the thermal outline beneath that stupid black robe.
Fuck, why is this guy such a coward? Deadshot thought irritably.
He had fired over a dozen perfectly calculated rounds into the Bike Stripper yesterday, yet the man simply refused to die. Worse, Deadshot had actually been fooled by a fake-death routine. When he had seen Jude casually hop back onto his bicycle and ride away alongside Deathstroke, his entire mentality had cracked.
He was Deadshot. The man who never misses. One of the world's most lethal mercenaries. A top-tier warrior with a mind forged in hundreds of battles, capable of going toe-to-toe with Deathstroke using only a mortal body.
And yet, he had failed to kill a third-rate, bicycle-riding clown with more than a dozen direct hits.
Floyd couldn't swallow the insult. So today, he was specifically targeting Jude, pouring fire into his position just to test a theory. He needed to know if the man was completely impervious to bullets. If he was a metahuman like Deathstroke, then Deadshot could finally let it go.
They had entered the fight with an intelligence disadvantage, so getting tricked once was acceptable. Normal bullets were only effective against normal flesh and blood. If you were fighting a zombie without vital organs like Solomon Grundy, or a monster with bulletproof scales like Killer Croc, you needed custom ordnance. He needed to know what he was dealing with.
"Cease fire, both of you!"
Batman suddenly descended upon the battlefield. Deadshot immediately packed up his rifle and relocated. He had originally intended to bait Deathstroke into mid-range for an automatic rifle duel, but the Bat kept chasing him relentlessly, ruining his perfectly laid plans.
Day Three.
Bang!
Deadshot pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off a steel beam, bounced off a fire escape, skipped off the pavement, and slammed squarely into the center of Jude's riot shield behind cover.
Floyd lowered his rifle and sighed heavily. Finally, he let the target go. More importantly, he let himself go.
What was the point? This guy was completely harmless, yet entirely indestructible. It was like spending a whole day shooting at a reinforced wooden post. Why not just snipe Deathstroke instead? At least Slade would try to chop his head off or shoot back. Slade showed respect. Slade provided a sense of interaction.
After spending an entire afternoon bullying a punching bag that refused to die, Deadshot honestly just felt like vomiting.
"Floyd, stop!"
"Are you done yet?"
Deadshot rolled on the ground, dodging Deathstroke's bullet, only to be met with Batman's batarang. He angrily fired two bursts of bullets backhandedly: "You only know how to hit me, why don't you hit Slade?"
He was responded with Batman's flashbang.
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