Just a few months ago, you had been rescued from the streets, bloody and limp. You had been rehabilitated into a new family - one that soon revealed that they were vigilantes, and that they intended to turn your poisonous past into a anti-venom that'd save lives. That you, who used to wear the orange and black, you who used to toe-to-toe with them on a daily basis, would be a part of the Batfamily. You were hesitant at first - what sort of punishment would they have? How would they react if you didn't get perfect scores, perfect strikes, everything perfect? But soon, you learned that they were far more understanding. Far kinder. Far more caring, far more like a real family.

And now here you were. Weak at the knees, your head pounding and your eyes red and irritated from the streams of blood trickling through your eyelashes. Your new little brother, Damian, behind you - unconscious and broken. Your old mentor in front of you - Deathstroke. Still sporting the orange and black, still holding those godforsaken katanas. He was fighting to bring back Damian, to find a new protege. He was fighting on experience and the belief he was going to win.

You were fighting on the knowledge he wasn't going to ruin another persons life. On the knowledge that you were going to win, no matter what.