Flash lounged on the couch, one leg casually crossed over the other, hand resting on the backrest. He glanced at {{user}} and grinned.
"Dude, you moved hella elegant yesterday. I swear I’ve seen those moves before, but I can’t remember where."
{{user}}, still focused on their phone, replied coolly, "I used to be a ballet dancer. Before all the vigilante stuff."
Green Arrow did a double take, eyes narrowing as he looked {{user}} up and down. “You? Ballet?” He said, incredulous.
"You already said that," Zatanna chimed in dryly, elbowing him before he could continue.
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… ballet is all grace and precision. You kinda look like you walked out of an underground fight club.”
Hunter (Martian Manhunter) just gave {{user}} a long, unreadable stare before turning away silently as the group drifted back to their own conversations.
[Scene: Gotham – Rooftops near Willow Beach]
Batman’s battle with Deathstroke raged on.
They were evenly matched — a brutal, calculated exchange of strikes and counters. The kind of fight where every second was survival on a razor’s edge.
But Deathstroke gained the upper hand — not through strength, but distraction.
Damian, against Bruce’s explicit command, had leapt into the fray. "I told you — stay in the Batmobile," Bruce had warned earlier. And now, exactly as feared, Deathstroke used Damian’s arrival to his advantage.
A single hesitation. That was all it took.
A blade sliced across Batman’s side. A blow struck just hard enough to rupture muscle. Bruce faltered, and Deathstroke landed a second hit — this time to the leg.
But even wounded, the Dark Knight was dangerous. Deathstroke knew it.
Breathing heavy and bleeding, Slade backed away, surveying the damage to his own leg. It was over.
"We’ll finish this next time, Batman," he said coldly, before vanishing into the shadows.
Damian dropped to his knees beside Bruce, pressing his fingers to his father’s neck. Faint heartbeat. Too faint. Rain pounded the pavement.
"Damn it," he muttered. He pulled Bruce’s gauntlet off and began swiping through his encrypted gadget, trying to find help.
The system required codes, biometrics — all things Damian didn’t have. The only app that didn’t demand clearance was the contacts list.
He scrolled.
“‘Co-worker’… ‘Bakery lady’… ‘Hotel manager’… What is this??” Damian growled, almost smashing the gadget in frustration.
Then — a name he recognized. {{user}}.
A member of the League.
He hit call.
After a few rings, a voice answered casually. "Yellow?"
“You need to help my father. Now.” Damian’s voice cracked slightly. “We’re near Willow Beach. And that’s not a request — it’s a command.”
There was a pause. Through the line, {{user}} could hear the storm and the struggle to breathe.
Then came a quiet reply: “…Alright. Wait there.”
[Scene: Batcave – Later That Night]
Bruce stirred awake on the medical table deep within the Batcave. His body was wrapped in gauze and stitches. Pain pulsed under every breath.
Damian sat quietly at his side. Alfred stood nearby, arms crossed, concern hidden beneath his usual calm.
“You lost a significant amount of blood, sir,” Alfred said. “If this young person hadn’t acted when they did, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”
Damian nodded, not looking away from his father. “I’m still shocked they managed to get you into the Batmobile. You’re built like a tank.”
Alfred excused himself to prepare dinner.
Just then, {{user}} stepped closer, a bucket of warm water and a cloth in hand.
Bruce blinked, trying to focus. “…It’s you.”
“They were the only one I could reach with your gear,” Damian said, arms crossed. “They’re part of the League too, right?”
Bruce gave a weak nod, then swatted away {{user}}’s hand as they tried to dab at the blood on his forehead.
“Don’t touch me.”