Dick slipped away from Bruce with practiced ease, their pre-arranged signals allowing for a smooth separation that wouldn't draw attention. While Bruce maintained his surveillance of Shiva from the main ballroom, Dick had a different mission: retrieve his suit from the service corridor and establish the high vantage point they'd selected for his first official operation as Robin.
When Bruce had first shown him the Robin suit prototype earlier today, Dick had almost forgotten to breathe. This wasn't just playing dress-up or temporary assistance. This was real. A genuine partnership with Batman, a commitment to justice that resonated with everything Dick's parents had taught him about responsibility and standing up for what's right.
"Escaping the boring party already, Circus Boy?"
The unexpected voice made him turn, his trained reflexes now automatically cataloging potential threat levels before conscious thought caught up. The assessment died in his throat as he caught sight of the speaker.
Not a threat, just a girl about his age, maybe a little older, with bright red hair that caught the ballroom lights like fire and startlingly intelligent green eyes behind stylish glasses. She wore a deep purple dress that complemented her hair perfectly, making her stand out from the sea of black and neutral tones surrounding them. Dick found himself momentarily speechless, a reaction that had nothing to do with threat assessment and everything to do with the fact that she was, well... pretty.
It was a realization that caught him completely off guard. Five days of training with Batman, learning about surveillance techniques and combat moves, and somehow Bruce had neglected to prepare him for dealing with pretty redheads at fancy parties.
He realized he'd been staring for a bit too long when she raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"I, uh—" Dick began eloquently, before his brain caught up to his mouth. He shifted into what he hoped was a casual, slightly cocky stance. "Who says I'm escaping? Maybe I'm just... strategically relocating."
"Right," she replied, clearly unimpressed by his recovery attempt. "And I'm just 'strategically relocating' away from Mrs. Vanderwhite, who keeps pinching my cheeks and telling me how much I've grown since I was a toddler." She rolled her eyes with the particular disdain only pre-teens can fully master. "I'm twelve, not five."
Her directness caught him off guard, but in a refreshing way. Most people had been walking on eggshells around him since the tragedy, treating him like he might break at any moment.
"That bad, huh?" he replied with a genuine grin. "I've got you beat. I've been asked 'how I'm holding up' at least twenty times in the last hour. One lady actually patted me on the head like a puppy."
The girl laughed—a bright, unguarded sound that seemed to cut through the stuffy atmosphere of the gala. "Society people are the worst. They think throwing money at charity makes up for having the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon."
Dick found himself laughing along, both at her comment and the absurdity of his situation—standing in a multi-million dollar gala, critiquing Gotham's elite while secretly preparing to don a vigilante costume.
"I'm Barbara, by the way," she said, extending her hand with surprising formality. "Barbara Gordon."
"Richard Grayson," he replied, taking her hand. "But everyone calls me Dick."
"I know who you are," Barbara said, studying him openly. "You're Bruce Wayne's new ward. The one from Haly's Circus." Her gaze was assessing but not pitying. "The Flying Graysons' aerial prodigy."
Dick tensed slightly, prepared for the usual mixture of pity and morbid curiosity his story typically evoked. "That's me. The orphaned acrobat." He tried to keep his tone light, injecting a touch of the showman's flair he'd inherited from his father. "Didn't realize I came with my own reputation."
"In Gotham? Please." Barbara waved dismissively. "You're practically headline news—Billionaire Bachelor Bruce Wayne Takes In Circus Orphan. The society columnists are having a field day speculating about Wayne's 'hidden paternal instincts.'"
Her exaggerated air quotes made Dick smile despite himself. "And what's your theory?" he asked, genuinely curious about how he and Bruce were being perceived.
"That Bruce Wayne isn't nearly as shallow as he pretends to be," Barbara replied with surprising insight. "And that you're probably a lot tougher than everyone's giving you credit for."
Something in her assessment—direct, unvarnished, but oddly respectful—made Dick relax his guard slightly. "Not bad, Gordon. You should be a detective."
"Please," she snorted. "With my dad as commissioner? That's so predictable. I'm thinking more along the lines of Congress, Supreme Court, or possibly benevolent dictator of a small nation."
Dick couldn't help it—he laughed again, a real laugh that momentarily washed away the weight of the past five days. "Ambitious. I like it."
"Speaking of ambitious," Barbara said, her eyes tracking upward to the ornate chandeliers hanging from the ballroom's vaulted ceiling, "I bet you're just dying to climb those, aren't you? I saw your act once, you know. Two years ago when Haly's was in town."
The casual mention of his performing days would have sent him spiraling just days ago, but now Dick found he could accept it with a bittersweet ache rather than debilitating grief. "You saw us perform?"
Barbara nodded, her expression softening slightly. "The triple flip you did—without a net—was insane. I couldn't stop talking about it for weeks afterward. Dad finally had to ban circus talk at the dinner table."
"Thanks," Dick said, genuinely touched by the memory she'd shared. "It feels like a lifetime ago already."
"I can't imagine what these past few days have been like for you," Barbara said, her voice quieter now. There was no pity in her tone, just straightforward acknowledgment. "Going from the circus to Wayne Manor must be the definition of culture shock."
"You have no idea," Dick replied, thinking of the Batcave, the training sessions, the preparations for tonight's mission. "My bedroom is bigger than our entire trailer was. And there's a legitimate cave system under the house. Like, with bats and everything."
Barbara's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Wait, seriously? Actual bats? That's both awesome and prime horror movie material." Her expression turned thoughtful. "Though I guess Wayne Manor is old enough to have some serious geological features. Dad says it predates Gotham's modern city planning by at least a century."
"So," she continued, leaning slightly closer with a conspiratorial air that made his heart do an unexpected flip, "what's the real Bruce Wayne like? Not the tabloid version who dates models and crashes sports cars, but the guy who decided to take in a kid after such a tragedy."
The directness of her question caught Dick off guard. Most people danced around the subject or avoided it entirely. "He's... not what I expected," he admitted truthfully. "Everyone thinks he's this shallow playboy, but he's actually really intense. Like, he notices everything. And he doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass, which is... good."
Barbara nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "That tracks with what my dad says about him. That there's more to Bruce Wayne than meets the eye."
Dick felt a momentary flash of alarm. Did Commissioner Gordon suspect something about Bruce? About Batman? He kept his expression neutral while his mind raced through implications.
"Your dad knows Bruce?" he asked casually.
"They cross paths at these boring civic functions," Barbara replied with a shrug. "And the Wayne Foundation funds a bunch of GCPD community initiatives. Dad says he's surprisingly smart about city politics for someone who pretends to be an airhead."
Relief washed through Dick. Just professional observations, not suspicions about Batman.
"So what's your escape plan?" he asked, changing the subject while checking his mental countdown clock. Seven minutes until he needed to be in position. "I was thinking of checking out the mezzanine level. Better view, fewer handsy society matrons."
"The mezzanine? Amateur hour, Grayson." Barbara shook her head with mock disappointment, her red hair catching the light with the movement. "I've been mapping this place since we arrived. The service corridor behind the kitchen leads to a staff break room with the comfiest couch you've ever seen. And the northeast staircase accesses the hotel's historic library, which is technically closed but never actually locked." She caught his surprised look and shrugged. "I do my research."
"Clearly," Dick said, genuinely impressed and slightly suspiciously. What kind of twelve-year-old mapped exit routes as a matter of course? Then again, he'd been doing the same thing—just for different reasons. "Is that a commissioner's daughter thing? Knowing all the escape routes?"
Something flashed across Barbara's face—a mixture of pride and something darker. "More of a 'my baby brother was kidnapped by gangsters before his first birthday' thing. You learn to pay attention after something like that."
"Wait, what?" Dick hadn't read that in any of the files Bruce had shown him about Gordon's family.
Barbara winced. "Sorry. Oversharing. Dad hates when I bring that up." She straightened her shoulders, visibly recalibrating. "Anyway, the mezzanine's a solid choice if you're looking for relative peace and quiet. Good sightlines too, if you're into people-watching."
The casual way she'd mentioned sightlines made Dick look at her more carefully. Barbara Gordon was definitely not an ordinary twelve-year-old.
"You sure know a lot about tactical positioning for someone who's just trying to escape boring conversations," he observed, testing the waters.
Barbara's eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment Dick thought he might have pushed too far. Then her expression relaxed into something knowing and just a little bit challenging.
"Says the circus kid who's been calculating jump trajectories to the chandelier since we started talking," she countered with a hint of smugness.
Dick felt his face heat slightly. He had, in fact, been unconsciously mapping possible routes across the ballroom's upper architecture—a habit formed from years of seeing every high place as a potential performance space.
"Busted," he admitted with a grin. "But in my defense, aerial assessment is kind of hard-wired at this point."
"I get it," Barbara nodded. "Old habits and all that. Dad's constantly scanning rooms for threats and exits. Drives my mom crazy at restaurants—he always has to sit facing the door."
Dick couldn't help but laugh at that. "Bruce does the same thing! Alfred—that's his butler—has to reserve specific tables at restaurants to accommodate his 'peculiarities.'"
For a moment, they were just two kids bonding over the quirks of their guardians, the weight of their unusual circumstances temporarily lifted. Dick found himself genuinely enjoying the conversation, almost forgetting his mission countdown until a subtle vibration from his watch alerted him.
He glanced at his watch, the motion appearing casual but precisely calculated. "I should probably make an appearance at the refreshment table before I disappear. Bruce mentioned something about desserts being the only tolerable part of these functions."
"He's not wrong there," Barbara agreed. "The chocolate fountain is basically the sole reason I agreed to come to this thing." She adjusted her glasses, studying him with those intelligent green eyes. "You're different than I expected, Dick Grayson."
"Different how?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Less tragic orphan, more..." she tilted her head, considering, "potential troublemaker with hidden depths."
Dick wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, but found he liked the assessment regardless. "And you're not exactly what I'd picture as the commissioner's perfect daughter either," he retorted with a smirk.
"Oh please, I maintain an impeccable public image," Barbara replied with exaggerated innocence. "Class president, straight-A student, junior coding champion. The fact that I occasionally hack into systems I shouldn't is strictly between us."
She dropped that bombshell so casually that Dick almost missed it. "Wait, you hack—"
"Kidding!" Barbara cut him off with a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Obviously kidding. That would be illegal, and as the commissioner's daughter, I would never."
Dick wasn't buying the innocent act for a second, but he couldn't help admiring her brazenness. "Right. Obviously."
"It was nice meeting you, Dick," Barbara said, extending her hand again. "Maybe I'll see you up on the mezzanine later? If you get bored of the chocolate fountain, that is."
As they shook hands, Dick felt a strange certainty that this wouldn't be their last conversation. "I'd like that, Barbara. Save me a spot if you get there first."
She flashed him a smile that was equal parts mischief and genuine warmth. "Will do, Circus Boy. Try not to swing from any chandeliers in the meantime."
With that parting shot, she turned and headed toward the refreshment tables, her purple dress standing out among the crowd. Dick found himself watching her go for a moment longer than strictly necessary, something Alfred would have definitely raised an eyebrow at.
Shaking himself mentally, Dick resumed his path toward the service corridor, forcing his thoughts back to the mission at hand. Still, as he navigated through the crowded ballroom, he couldn't help but smile at the unexpected encounter. Barbara Gordon was sharp, observant, and completely unimpressed by his attempts to seem ordinary—qualities that made her both intriguing and slightly dangerous to his cover identity.
As he slipped through the "Staff Only" door at the far end of the ballroom, Dick reflected on the strange new reality of his life. Five days ago, his biggest concern had been perfecting a new quadruple somersault to surprise his parents during the weekend's performance. Now he was navigating high society events, making... friends? (Was that what had just happened?) with the police commissioner's enigmatic daughter, and preparing to don an armored suit to fight professional assassins.
The service corridor was blessedly empty, hotel staff all occupied with the main event. Dick moved silently down the hallway, counting doors until he reached the storage room Alfred had designated. Three quick knocks followed by two slower ones—the prearranged signal—and the door opened just enough for him to slip inside.
"Right on schedule, Master Richard," Alfred greeted him, closing and locking the door behind him. The small storage room had been temporarily converted into a makeshift changing area, with surveillance equipment monitoring the corridor outside.
"Any updates?" Dick asked, already loosening his bow tie with practiced movements. After years of quick costume changes between circus acts, the transition from formal wear to vigilante suit would be relatively straightforward.
"Master Bruce has continued monitoring the suspected Shiva operative. Her approach toward Mr. Dent appears methodical rather than coincidental." Alfred's voice remained composed as he retrieved a sleek black case from beneath a folded tablecloth. "Additionally, Commissioner Gordon reports that security has identified Alberto Falcone entering through the west entrance, while his father arrived separately through the main lobby approximately seven minutes ago."
Dick's hands froze in the act of removing his suit jacket. "Both Falcones are here? Tonight?" The mere mention of the name sent a surge of anger through him—white-hot and immediate. Alberto Falcone had ordered his parents' murders, had paid Deathstroke to sabotage the trapeze equipment, had stolen his family and future in a heartbeat.
Alfred observed his reaction with keen perception. "I understand this is difficult, Master Richard. However, I must remind you that tonight's mission parameters are strictly observational and protective in nature. Master Bruce was quite explicit on that point."
"I know," Dick replied, forcing his hands to resume movement, shrugging off the jacket and handing it to Alfred. "Protect Harvey Dent. Identify Shiva. Stay at my assigned position." The anger didn't dissipate, but he channeled it, using it as fuel rather than allowing it to consume him. Bruce had been teaching him that—how to transform emotion into purpose.
"Indeed." Alfred accepted the jacket, folding it with military precision. "Though I feel compelled to add that your safety remains our paramount concern. Should circumstances escalate, your extraction is the priority, not confrontation."
Dick nodded, though a small part of him—the part still raw with grief and rage—silently disagreed. If he had an opportunity to bring Alberto Falcone to justice, could he really just stand by and observe?
He pushed the thought aside as Alfred opened the case, revealing the Robin suit in all its glory. Dick's breath caught despite having seen it earlier. The red torso, green sleeves, yellow cape lined with black—exactly as he'd sketched on napkins just days ago, yet infinitely more sophisticated in its realized form.
"It's really happening, isn't it?" he whispered, almost to himself.
"Indeed it is, Master Richard." Alfred's expression softened slightly. "I must say, in all my years of service to Master Bruce, I never anticipated preparing equipment for a second vigilante. Particularly not one so young."
"Had a change of heart about me joining the team?" Dick asked, carefully removing his dress shirt and slacks, folding them with the precision Alfred had taught him.
"On the contrary," Alfred replied, surprising him. "While I maintain significant reservations about exposing a child to the dangers inherent in this line of work, I must acknowledge that you have demonstrated extraordinary aptitude and resilience. The past five days have been... illuminating."
Dick paused, halfway through changing. "You're saying I've impressed you?"
"I'm saying, Master Richard, that you have verified Master Bruce's assessment of your potential." Alfred handed him the base layer of the suit—a specialized compression garment designed to regulate body temperature and provide additional protection. "You possess natural gifts beyond your acrobatic training. Your tactical thinking, adaptability, and emotional intelligence are remarkable in one so young."
The unexpected praise warmed Dick more than he would have expected. Alfred's approval didn't come easily—he'd learned that quickly during their intensive training sessions.
"That doesn't mean I approve of this undertaking," Alfred continued, tempering his previous statements. "But I recognize that attempting to prevent it would likely result in you pursuing justice through even more dangerous, unsupervised means."
Dick grinned as he pulled on the compression layer. "You've got me there."
"Master Bruce made similar unauthorized excursions in his youth," Alfred noted dryly. "Though he was considerably older when he began his vigilante activities in earnest."
Dick pulled on the armored leggings, marveling at how light yet substantial they felt. Lucius Fox's design was extraordinary—flexible enough for acrobatics but reinforced at critical points. "Bruce said you weren't exactly supportive when he first told you about Batman."
"I believe my exact words were 'Master Bruce, this is the most idiotic, ill-conceived plan you have ever presented, and that includes the time you attempted to convert the east wing swimming pool into a shark habitat at age twelve.'" Alfred's perfectly serious tone made the story even funnier.
Dick laughed—a genuine, unrestrained sound that surprised even him. When was the last time he'd really laughed? Before his parents' deaths, certainly. "He tried to keep sharks at Wayne Manor?"
"Indeed. He had developed quite the fascination with marine predators that summer. Fortunately, his plans were discovered before the delivery truck arrived with the first specimen." Alfred helped Dick secure the torso piece of the suit. "Master Bruce has always possessed determination in abundance. Once he commits to a course of action, dissuasion becomes virtually impossible."
"Something else we have in common," Dick noted, adjusting to the feel of the suit as it came together. The weight was distributed perfectly, the armor providing protection without restricting his movement.
"Precisely why I have adopted a policy of conditional support rather than futile opposition," Alfred agreed. "If you are determined to follow this path, then you will do so with proper equipment, training, and backup."
Dick nodded, understanding the underlying message. Alfred might not approve, but he would help ensure Dick was as prepared and protected as possible. "I won't let you down, Alfred."
"See that you don't, Master Richard." Alfred handed him the final components—the distinctive domino mask, gloves, and utility belt. "The mask adhesive will hold for approximately six hours before requiring reapplication. The suit's communications systems activate automatically once the mask is in place."
Dick held the mask in his hands, studying it with a sense of profound significance. This simple piece of molded material represented everything that had happened in the past five days—his losses, his discoveries, his new path forward. Putting it on wouldn't just disguise his identity; it would transform him into something new: Robin, partner to Batman, something more than just an orphaned circus performer.
"Alfred," he said quietly, "do you think my parents would understand? This choice?"
The question had been weighing on him, though he'd never voiced it to Bruce. His parents had been performers, not fighters. They'd believed in bringing joy, in showing people the beauty of human potential. How would they feel about their son becoming a vigilante?
Alfred considered the question with appropriate gravity. "I never had the privilege of meeting your parents, Master Richard, so I cannot speak to their specific values or wishes." He paused thoughtfully. "However, from what Master Bruce has shared about them, and from what I have observed in you, I believe they raised a son with a profound sense of justice and an instinctive desire to protect others. Those qualities may manifest differently in you than they did in them, but they remain a testament to their influence."
The answer wasn't simple reassurance, which Dick appreciated. Alfred was acknowledging the complexity of the question while offering a perspective Dick hadn't fully considered—that his parents' values could live on through him, even if his path differed from theirs.
"Thanks, Alfred," he said simply, then took a deep breath and applied the mask.
The effect was immediate and startling. The world sharpened through the mask's specialized lenses, enhancing his vision in subtle but significant ways. He could detect differences in lighting, identify structural features more clearly, and perceive details that would normally be lost in shadow.
But the physical enhancement paled in comparison to the psychological transformation. With the mask in place, Dick felt himself standing straighter, thinking more clearly. Robin wasn't just a costume; it was a state of mind, a purpose embodied.
"Communications online," came Bruce's voice through the integrated earpiece. "Status?"
"Suiting up complete," Dick responded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline now coursing through him. "Preparing to move to observation position."
"Proceed according to plan," Bruce instructed. "I've confirmed Shiva's identity as Caroline Wei. Currently monitoring her movements near Dent. Security has also flagged the arrival of both Alberto and Carmine Falcone, though they appear to be maintaining distance from each other."
Dick felt that spike of anger again at the mention of Alberto Falcone. "Understood. Any sign of our secondary target?" Bullseye remained the wild card in tonight's operation—they knew he was in Gotham, but hadn't confirmed his presence at the event.
"Negative, but maintain vigilance. His MO includes disguise and misdirection. He could be any staff member or guest." Bruce's voice was pure Batman now, focused and commanding, despite the fact that he was maintaining his Bruce Wayne persona in the ballroom.
"Copy that. Moving to position now." Dick secured the final elements of his suit—utility belt, gloves, and the specialized bo staff that collapsed to fit in a holster at his thigh.
Alfred handed him the cape, which attached to reinforced connection points at his shoulders. "The memory cloth activates with an electrical charge from the suit," he explained. "For gliding capabilities, simply extend your arms while applying pressure to the activation points in your gloves."
"Got it," Dick nodded, remembering the technical specifications Bruce had reviewed with him. He fastened the cape, immediately appreciating how it balanced against his body weight.
"The staff storage compartment is here," Alfred continued, indicating the holster. "And these pouches contain batarangs modified to your specifications—lighter weight, adjusted aerodynamics."
Dick grinned, checking the batarangs with obvious enthusiasm. "Birdarangs?"
"I believe Master Bruce referred to them simply as 'wing-dings,'" Alfred replied with admirable restraint.
"We'll workshop the name," Dick decided, securing the last of his equipment. He took a moment to center himself, focusing on his breathing as Bruce had taught him. "How do I look?"
"Like someone who should be safely at home completing schoolwork rather than engaging with professional assassins," Alfred replied dryly. "However, I must admit the design is quite striking. Master Fox has outdone himself."
Dick performed a quick series of acrobatic moves—handspring, flip, silent landing—testing the suit's responsiveness. It moved with him perfectly, the armor flexing where needed while remaining firm at critical protection points. "It's amazing, Alfred. Feels like it was made for me."
"It was, Master Richard." Alfred moved to the storage room's secondary exit, which accessed a maintenance shaft leading to the mezzanine level. "This passage will take you directly to your observation point. Security cameras have been looped for the next sixty seconds to cover your transition."
Dick nodded, suddenly very aware that this was real—not training, not preparation, but his first actual mission as Robin. "Alfred, I—"
"Do be careful, Master Richard," Alfred said quietly. "And remember that while Master Bruce may present an intimidating exterior, he is deeply invested in your wellbeing. Follow his instructions precisely."
"I will," Dick promised, pulling the hood of his cape up to shadow his masked face. "See you after."
With that, he slipped into the maintenance passage, moving with the silent efficiency Bruce had drilled into him over the past five days. The narrow corridor was dimly lit by emergency fixtures, providing just enough illumination for his enhanced mask lenses to navigate perfectly.
He moved quickly but carefully, aware that timing was crucial. Bruce had synchronized their operation down to the minute, accounting for every variable they could anticipate. Dick's role was clear: establish observation position on the northwest corner of the mezzanine, monitor the ballroom for both Shiva's approach to Dent and any sign of Bullseye, and report all relevant activity without engaging unless directly instructed.
The maintenance shaft opened into a utility closet on the mezzanine level, exactly as Bruce's blueprints had indicated. Dick checked the immediate area through a small gap in the door before slipping out, staying low and using the decorative balustrade as cover.
The mezzanine overlooked the grand ballroom from three sides, providing exceptional sightlines to the event below. Most of the upper level remained dark, with only a few security lights illuminating the space. Perfect for surveillance, as it allowed Dick to see without being seen.
He reached his designated position in the northwest corner, where an ornate pillar provided additional concealment while still allowing full visibility of the main floor. From this vantage point, he could observe the entire ballroom, including the stage where Harvey Dent would deliver his speech, the bar area where Bruce was monitoring Shiva, and the separate corners where Alberto and Carmine Falcone had established their respective territories.
"In position," he reported quietly. "I have visual on primary and secondary targets."
"Confirmed," Bruce replied through the comms. "Maintain surveillance. Event schedule indicates Dent's welcome speech begins in twelve minutes. If Shiva intends to make her move tonight, the most probable window will be during or immediately after his address."
Dick settled into observation mode, his trained performer's eye cataloging the movement patterns below. Bruce had tutored him extensively on how to assess a crowd—identifying anomalies, recognizing deliberate versus random movement, separating actual threats from ordinary behavior.
The ballroom had filled considerably during his transition to Robin. Gotham's elite mingled in glittering clusters, champagne flutes in hand, engaging in the social rituals of the wealthy. At the center of it all stood Harvey Dent, Rachel at his side, working the room with the practiced charm of a rising political star.
Across the room, Bruce maintained his playboy persona while systematically positioning himself to intercept Shiva if she moved toward Dent. The woman they'd identified as Caroline Wei—Lady Shiva in disguise—continued her calculated approach, each movement bringing her incrementally closer to her target while appearing completely natural to casual observers.
But what drew Dick's attention most powerfully were the Falcones. Alberto stood near the eastern bar, surrounded by a small entourage of what appeared to be business associates but were likely enforcers. Carmine occupied the opposite side of the room, a circle of Gotham's old-guard elite providing him with an appearance of legitimacy despite his criminal empire.
Father and son maintained a careful distance, but Dick caught the occasional glance between them—charged with something beyond the professional falling-out Bruce had briefed him about. There was genuine animosity there, perhaps even fear.
As he observed them, Dick felt that now-familiar surge of anger toward Alberto. This man had ordered the hit that killed his parents. Not personally, not directly, but the order had come from him nonetheless. Five days ago, Alberto Falcone had decided that John and Mary Grayson needed to die to protect his criminal interests, and he'd hired Deathstroke to make it happen.
Five days. Less than a week since his entire world shattered because of a decision made in some criminal boardroom.
Dick forced himself to regulate his breathing, to channel the emotion rather than be consumed by it. Bruce had been explicit about this: vengeance clouded judgment, compromised mission effectiveness. Justice required clarity, precision, control.
"Movement at the east entrance," he reported, pulling himself back to the mission. "Security team adjusting formation around Dent. Preparing for his approach to the podium."
"Confirmed," Bruce replied. "Shiva has accelerated her approach pattern. Currently positioned three meters from Dent's expected path to the stage."
Dick shifted his focus, tracking the woman's subtle movements. Even knowing what to look for, he found her infiltration technique impressive. Each step, each gesture appeared completely natural while serving her tactical objectives. Nothing in her demeanor would trigger security concerns.
"She's maintaining contact with her clutch," Dick observed. "Right hand hasn't released it since she arrived. Potential device inside?"
"Highly probable," Bruce agreed. "Facial recognition has identified specific micro-expressions associated with operational focus rather than social engagement. She's preparing to deploy whatever she has in the clutch."