The master of ceremonies approached the podium, tapping the microphone to begin the formal proceedings. The crowd gradually quieted, attention turning toward the stage where Harvey Dent would soon deliver the opening address.
That's when Dick noticed something odd—a server navigating the crowd with unusual precision, his movement pattern distinct from the other staff. Unlike the regular servers, whose paths followed established protocols for efficiently navigating crowded spaces, this man moved with a different purpose. His apparent randomness actually concealed a highly calculated approach toward Alberto Falcone.
"Potential secondary target identified," Dick reported immediately. "Male server, approximately six feet tall, moving toward Alberto Falcone from service entrance. Movement pattern indicates combat training."
Bruce's reply was instant. "Description?"
"Caucasian, dark hair, early thirties. Holding a serving tray with champagne flutes in left hand. Right hand periodically touches inner wrist of left arm, possible concealed weapon location."
"Bullseye," Bruce confirmed, tension evident even through the controlled communication. "Facial recognition is likely compromised by disguise elements. Maintain surveillance but do not engage. I'm repositioning to intercept if necessary."
Dick tracked the man's approach, recognizing the deadly efficiency in his movement. This wasn't just any hired killer; this was Bullseye—the assassin who never missed, whose ability to turn any object into a lethal projectile made him one of the most dangerous men in the world.
On stage, Harvey Dent had just reached the podium, his confident smile flashing under the spotlights as the crowd's applause cascaded through the ballroom. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of Gotham. It's an honor to stand before you tonight..."
Lady Shiva had shifted her position, now standing perfectly aligned for when Dent would descend from the stage. The dual threat created a tactical nightmare—Bruce couldn't intercept both assassins simultaneously.
"Shiva's waiting for Dent to finish his welcome," Dick analyzed. "But Bullseye is moving now."
"Stay on Bullseye," Bruce replied tensely. "I'll handle Shiva after Dent's introduction."
The disguised assassin had stopped near a service table, idly setting down his tray of champagne flutes. To anyone else, he appeared to be simply refreshing his supply. But Dick saw his fingers dip briefly into his pocket, emerging with something small—possibly a coin or button.
No, not a coin. A paperclip. Ordinary, innocuous, and lethal in Bullseye's hands.
Dick watched in horror as the assassin casually straightened the paperclip, testing its weight and balance with practiced fingers. Alberto Falcone stood less than fifteen feet away, completely unaware of the danger.
"Bullseye is armed," Dick reported urgently. "Paperclip, modified for throwing. Target is definitively Alberto Falcone. Preparing to deploy within seconds."
"Hold position," Bruce instructed firmly. "Security will—"
"No time," Dick cut in, making a split-second decision. "He's throwing now."
In that moment, everything Bruce had taught him crystallized into perfect clarity. Without conscious thought, Dick's hand went to his utility belt, withdrawing one of the wing-dings. His body remembered thousands of hours of circus performance, the precision that had been drilled into him since he could walk.
Time seemed to slow as Dick calculated the exact force and angle needed. Not to hit Bullseye directly. The goal was to disrupt the throw, to prevent the paperclip from reaching Alberto Falcone.
Despite everything Alberto had done, despite the rage still burning in Dick's chest, the mission was clear: no deaths on their watch, not even the man responsible for his parents' murder.
"Robin, stand down!" Bruce's voice came through the comms, but Dick was already in motion.
With perfect form honed through years of performance, he launched the wing-ding. It cut through the air with mathematical precision, intercepting the paperclip mid-flight just as Bullseye released it toward Alberto's throat.
Unlike the quiet intervention Dick had hoped for, the collision produced a bright spark and metallic clang that rang out above Harvey's amplified voice. The paperclip deflected into a champagne glass, shattering it with unexpected force, while the wing-ding embedded itself in the wooden panel behind Bullseye—now fully visible to everyone nearby.
For a split second, everything froze. Harvey's words faltered mid-sentence. Guests near the impact turned in surprise. Bullseye's head snapped up toward the mezzanine, his eyes narrowing as he processed what had happened.
Then everything happened at once.
"There!" someone shouted, pointing up at Dick's position. "Someone in the rafters!"
Bullseye's professional calm transformed into cold fury. Without hesitation, he snatched three champagne flutes from a nearby tray and hurled them toward Dick with deadly precision. The glasses transformed into lethal projectiles, spinning through the air as Dick dove behind the balustrade, glass shattering against marble where he'd been standing just a second earlier.
Below, panic erupted. Guests scrambled away from Bullseye, colliding with each other in their rush to escape. Harvey Dent stood frozen at the podium as security personnel raced toward him, Rachel already pulling at his arm.
"What's happening?" Harvey's voice boomed through the microphone, adding to the chaos.
Across the room, Bruce was already moving—not toward Bullseye, but toward the nearest exit. Dick realized immediately: he was heading for the storage room where his Batman suit waited.
"Situation escalating," Dick reported, rolling to avoid another barrage of improvised projectiles, butter knives this time, thrown with enough force to embed in the plaster wall. "Bullseye is engaging directly. Cover blown."
"Hold position," Bruce's voice was steel. "Thirty seconds to suit up. Do NOT engage directly."
Dick didn't have the luxury of following that order. Bullseye had grabbed a handful of decorative rivets from a nearby column and was scaling the grand staircase toward the mezzanine, his movements fluid and predatory.
Below, Lady Shiva stood perfectly still amidst the rushing crowd, her expression a mask of cold fury as she watched her carefully planned assassination window close. Her eyes tracked from the chaos to Bruce's retreating form, calculation visible even at this distance.
"Shiva's made you," Dick warned. "She's watching you leave."
"Unavoidable," Bruce replied, his breathing indicating he was moving fast. "Focus on your own situation."
Another projectile, a corkscrew this time, whistled past Dick's ear as he ducked behind a decorative planter. He could hear Bullseye's footsteps on the mezzanine now, methodical and unhurried. The assassin knew he had his target cornered.
"Come out, come out, little bird," Bullseye called, his voice carrying a mocking singsong quality. "I don't know who you are, but that was a nice throw. Professional recognizes professional."
Below, the chaos had reached its peak. Tables overturned as guests stampeded toward exits. Security personnel struggled to maintain order while simultaneously trying to evacuate Harvey Dent, who was resisting, trying to calm the crowd from the podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm!" Harvey shouted into the microphone, which only added to the pandemonium. "Security has the situation under—"
His words cut off as Commissioner Gordon physically pulled him away from the microphone, his expression brooking no argument as he dragged the District Attorney toward a service exit.
Amidst the chaos, Dick glimpsed Alberto Falcone being hustled toward a side door by his security detail, his face pale with shock. Across the room, Carmine Falcone stood watching the scene with cold calculation, making no move to leave despite his security team's urging.
And Lady Shiva... Lady Shiva was gone. Vanished from where she'd been standing just moments before.
"Shiva's moved," Dick reported. "Lost visual."
"Heading for me, likely," Bruce replied, his voice now shifting to the deeper Batman register. "Suit secured. Forty seconds to your position."
Dick didn't have forty seconds. Bullseye had circled around, cutting off his primary escape route. The assassin moved like a predator, each step bringing him closer to Dick's position.
"I gotta say, kid," Bullseye called out, "interrupting a professional's work? Bad career move. Especially when that professional never misses."
To emphasize his point, he flicked a cocktail olive through the air. It ricocheted off three separate surfaces before striking the exact spot where Dick's hand gripped the balustrade, causing him to pull back with a suppressed hiss of pain.
"That was just to get your attention," Bullseye continued. "Next one goes somewhere more permanent."
Dick knew he had to move. Staying in cover meant becoming cornered, and Bullseye's accuracy meant distance wouldn't provide safety. His only advantage was mobility—the acrobatic skills that had been his birthright.
Decision made, he unclipped his cape, quickly reconfiguring it into gliding mode as Bruce had taught him. Not ideal for indoor use, but it would provide the controlled descent he needed.
"Going aerial," he warned through the comms. "No choice."
Without waiting for Bruce's response, Dick vaulted over the balustrade, cape extending into rigid glider form as he launched into space above the panicked crowd below. His trajectory carried him in a swooping arc toward the center of the ballroom, directly over the stage where Harvey had been speaking.
The unexpected maneuver caught Bullseye off guard—but only for a moment. Recovering instantly, the assassin grabbed a heavy ashtray from a nearby table and hurled it with devastating force. The projectile sliced through the air, striking the edge of Dick's cape and destroying its rigid structure.
Suddenly in free fall, Dick's circus training took over. He tucked into a roll, redistributing his momentum toward one of the massive crystal chandeliers. His hands caught the ornate fixture, muscles straining as he used it to swing himself toward the stage curtains.
"Robin!" Bruce's voice held real concern now.
"Little busy!" Dick replied, releasing the chandelier at precisely the right moment to send himself flying toward the heavy velvet drapes. He caught the fabric, using it to slow his descent in a controlled slide that deposited him on the stage just as the last guests were being evacuated through the main doors.
The ballroom was emptying rapidly, security personnel focusing on evacuating Gotham's elite rather than confronting the threat. In the chaos, Dick could see Bullseye descending the grand staircase with predatory grace, eyes locked on his position, a handful of butter knives now clasped between his fingers.
"Bird boy's got moves," Bullseye called across the emptying space, his voice carrying genuine appreciation despite the murderous intent behind it. "Circus trained, if I had to guess." His eyes narrowed as he studied Dick's form. "Wait a minute—those flips. The Flying Graysons, perhaps? Thought there was only one survivor from that... unfortunate accident."
The casual reference to his parents' murder hit Dick like a physical blow. Bullseye knew who he was. Or at least, had figured out enough to make the connection between Robin's acrobatics and the murdered circus performers.
"You know what they say about guys who talk too much," Dick shot back, extending his collapsible staff to its full length. Not ideal against a ranged opponent like Bullseye, but better than nothing. "Compensating for something?"
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed Bullseye's face. "Kid's got a mouth on him. Didn't Batman teach you to respect your elders?"
"He taught me to respect people who deserve it," Dick countered, dropping into a defensive stance. "All I see is a guy who can't miss but still manages to be a complete miss."
"Not bad," Bullseye laughed, reaching casually into his pocket. Instead of another knife, he pulled out a deck of playing cards. "Let's see if you can back up that attitude."
With a flick of his wrist, three cards shot toward Dick in rapid succession—ordinary playing cards transformed into razor-edged weapons by the force and precision behind them.
Dick's eyes widened in disbelief as he barely deflected the first card with his staff, the paper edge somehow slicing into the metal itself. He dodged the second with a backflip that would have impressed even his father, but the third caught his cape, pinning the fabric to the stage floor with impossible force.
That split-second immobilization was all Bullseye needed. The assassin was already winding up for his kill shot, a corkscrew pulled from an abandoned bartending kit and aimed directly at Dick's heart.
"Good effort, kid. Nothing personal—just cleaning up loose ends."
The corkscrew left his fingers with lethal precision, spiraling through the air in what would have been a killing blow—if a black-gloved hand hadn't snatched it from mid-flight.
Batman materialized as if from nowhere, his massive form dropping from the shadows above the stage to land between Dick and Bullseye. The corkscrew crushed in his fist, metal twisting under inhuman pressure.
"It just got personal," Batman growled, his voice carrying the promise of violence.
Relief flooded through Dick at his mentor's arrival, though he quickly masked it behind professional focus. Five days of training hadn't fully prepared him for facing someone of Bullseye's caliber alone.
Across the now-empty ballroom, Bullseye reassessed the situation, something like genuine pleasure lighting his features. "Well, well. The big bat himself. Gotta admit, I was hoping we'd cross paths tonight." He casually fanned the remaining cards between his fingers. "Two vigilantes, one Bullseye. The odds just got more interesting."
"For us or for you?" Batman countered, subtly shifting position to keep Dick partially shielded while maintaining offensive capability.
"Depends on your perspective," Bullseye replied, the cards disappearing as quickly as they'd appeared. He reached instead for a champagne bottle, hefting it thoughtfully. "From where I'm standing, I see two targets instead of one."
From somewhere near the kitchen entrance, a cold female voice cut through the tension. "I see a complication to an otherwise straightforward contract."
Lady Shiva stood in the doorway, her elegant gown somehow still immaculate despite the chaos, her posture revealing the deadly fighter beneath the sophisticated facade. She hadn't even bothered removing her high heels, as if the prospect of combat in formal wear was beneath her consideration.
"You cost me my contract," she said to Bullseye, her voice carrying no emotion despite the lethal intent behind her words. "Harvey Dent was mine."
"Lady, I hate to break it to you, but Dent's long gone by now," Bullseye shot back, gesturing toward the exit where the District Attorney had been evacuated. "Besides, I didn't come for him. Your target just happened to be in the splash zone."
"Your lack of precision is disappointing," Shiva observed coolly. "The room is in disarray. The guests have fled. Our respective targets are now aware they were marked. Inelegant."
Dick had never seen someone manage to make a professional killer look sloppy before, but somehow Shiva accomplished it with just a few words and a dismissive glance.
"Who hired you?" Batman demanded, his cape spreading slightly wider, an unconscious gesture of protection as he positioned himself between Dick and both assassins.
Bullseye spun the champagne bottle on a single fingertip, somehow maintaining perfect balance while keeping his attention divided between three potential threats. "Professional courtesy only extends so far, Bats." His eyes darted between them, assessing threats and options with terrifying speed. "But since you asked so nicely—Carmine Falcone sends his regards to his son. Family drama. You understand family drama, don't you?"
The last question was directed pointedly at Dick, driving home that Bullseye knew exactly who was behind the mask.
Dick felt his breath catch. Carmine had hired Bullseye to kill Alberto? The Falcone family war had escalated beyond what even Bruce had anticipated.
Shiva's expression betrayed nothing, but her stance shifted subtly—weight balanced perfectly, hands positioned for immediate response. "The old man betraying his heir. How disappointingly traditional."
"While you work for the son against the father," Bullseye countered with a knowing smirk. "Alberto's not exactly subtle with his ambitions. New money, new methods, same old family business." He tossed the bottle casually from hand to hand. "Let me guess—Alberto wants Dent taken out to protect his operation from prosecution?"
Dick saw Batman's posture tense slightly. The minute shift would be imperceptible to most observers, but after five intensive days of training together, Dick recognized it immediately—Bruce was preparing to move, calculating angles and approach vectors.
"Robin, defensive position alpha," he murmured, voice barely audible.
Dick complied instantly, dropping into the stance they'd practiced repeatedly over the past five days. Staff extended, weight balanced, positioned slightly behind Batman but with clear sightlines and room to maneuver.
"The confrontation between father and son is inevitable," Shiva stated coldly. "My contract was to remove obstacles to Alberto's ascension—Dent being the most significant." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Your interference has complicated matters unnecessarily."
"Lady, complicated is my specialty," Bullseye replied, suddenly hurling the champagne bottle toward a crystal chandelier above their heads. The bottle shattered against the ornate fixture, sending a shower of glass and champagne raining down.
Batman's cape came up instantly, sheltering both himself and Dick from the falling debris, but the momentary distraction was enough for Bullseye to close half the distance between them, scooping up a handful of broken glass shards as he moved.
"Heads up, Bird Boy!" he called cheerfully, flicking the glass fragments toward Dick with impossible accuracy.
Dick barely had time to react, using his staff in a defensive spin that deflected most of the shards. One sliced through his glove, drawing first blood—a shallow cut across his palm.
"Robin!" Batman's concern was evident even through his controlled facade.
"I'm fine," Dick shot back, forcing confidence into his voice. "Just a scratch."
"Is the child truly prepared for this level of engagement?" Shiva asked Batman, her tone suggesting mild curiosity rather than genuine concern. "Or is this another of your impulsive decisions?"
"Worry about yourself," Batman growled, clearly not appreciating her commentary on his mentorship choices.
"Oh, burn," Bullseye laughed, now casually inspecting a steak knife he'd plucked from a nearby table. "The big bad bat doesn't like his parenting questioned. Tell me, Bats, did you get the proper permits for adopting an endangered bird species?"
Dick bristled at being discussed as if he weren't present. "I can speak for myself, thanks."
"The kid's got spirit," Bullseye acknowledged, spinning the knife between his fingers with hypnotic precision. "I'll give him that much."
"Spirit is no substitute for experience," Shiva countered, still making no move to engage directly. Her eyes tracked the movements of all three combatants with clinical detachment. "Though his intervention against your initial throw was... unexpectedly competent."
Batman shifted almost imperceptibly, creating a better protective angle between the assassins and Dick. "Neither of you is completing any contract tonight."
"That's cute," Bullseye smirked. "No offense, Bats, but you're out of your depth here. The lady and I are in a whole different league."
"For once, we agree," Shiva said, her first acknowledgment of Batman as anything beyond an obstacle. "Though the child shows promise. Five days of training cannot prepare him for opponents of our caliber."
Dick froze momentarily. How could she possibly know he'd only been training for five days? The precision of her assessment sent a chill down his spine.
"He is under my protection," Batman stated, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "As is Gotham."
Shiva's expression showed something almost like amusement. "Your sentimentality remains your weakness. Taking a child as apprentice only compounds it."
The tension in the room shifted suddenly as a commotion near the main entrance caught everyone's attention. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows as GCPD vehicles began arriving outside the hotel.
In that moment of divided attention, Bullseye made his move—not against Batman or Robin, but toward Shiva. The steak knife left his hand with impossible speed, a glinting blur of metal aimed directly at the female assassin's throat.
What happened next unfolded so quickly that Dick's trained eyes barely processed the sequence. Shiva didn't dodge or block—she simply tilted her head a precise fraction of an inch. The knife passed where her carotid artery had been milliseconds earlier, embedding itself in the wooden doorframe with enough force to bury the blade completely.
Her counterattack was immediate and devastating. A champagne flute from a nearby table became a missile in her hand, flying toward Bullseye with deadly intent.
Bullseye rolled beneath the projectile, coming up with a handful of silver dinner forks he'd somehow acquired during the motion. They launched from his fingers in rapid succession, each following a calculated trajectory that should have been impossible to avoid.
But Shiva moved like water, flowing between the deadly projectiles with preternatural grace. The forks embedded themselves in the wall behind her, forming a perfect outline of where she'd stood a heartbeat earlier.
"Okay, that was impressive," Dick muttered under his breath, momentarily awestruck by the display of skill from both assassins.
"Focus," Batman reminded him sharply. "They're still trying to kill their targets."
"Not each other?" Dick asked, genuinely curious about the professional dynamics at play.
"Professional courtesy," Batman explained quickly. "Testing each other's capabilities before deciding if direct conflict is necessary."
As if confirming this assessment, Bullseye straightened up, offering a small nod of professional respect toward Shiva. "Not bad. They said you were good."
"They undersold my abilities," Shiva replied coolly. "As they did yours."
"Look at that—mutual admiration society," Dick quipped, trying to mask his nervousness behind humor.
Bullseye's attention snapped back to them. "Almost forgot about you two. No offense—you're just not as interesting."
"We'll try not to be offended," Dick shot back.
Batman moved with explosive suddenness, launching himself toward Bullseye while the assassin was still bantering. At the same instant, he signaled Dick with a subtle hand gesture—flank right, non-lethal containment.
Dick responded instantly, his staff extending to full length as he vaulted over an overturned table. Years of circus performance and five intense days of Batman's training converged in this moment—his body responding with precision and confidence despite the fear coursing through him.
Bullseye sensed the dual attack, pivoting to face both threats. His hands became a blur, ordinary objects transforming into deadly weapons—coasters, silverware, broken glass, all finding lethal velocity in his grip.
"Duck!" Batman shouted as a barrage of improvised projectiles filled the air between them.
Dick dropped and rolled as a butter knife whistled over his head with enough force to embed itself two inches into the wooden stage behind him. "That's... not physically possible," he gasped, genuinely shocked by the display of power.
"With Bullseye, physics takes a holiday," Batman replied grimly, his cape deflecting most of the silverware aimed his way. One butter knife somehow penetrated the armor at his shoulder—a shot so precise it found the exact seam between plates.
"Found a weak spot!" Bullseye called out cheerfully. "Your armor designer needs to work on those seams, Bats!"
Lady Shiva had remained motionless throughout the exchange, observing with clinical detachment. Now, however, her attention shifted toward one of the side exits, where a commotion suggested someone important was being evacuated.
"Dent," she stated simply, already moving with fluid grace toward the exit.
"Harvey's getting away," Dick called to Batman, seeing the shift in targets. "She's going after him!"
At the same moment, Bullseye's head snapped toward the opposite side of the ballroom, where Alberto Falcone was being hustled out by his security detail. "And there goes my payday," he muttered, already calculating trajectories.
Batman made an instant decision. "Change of plans. Robin—pursue Shiva, delay only. Do not engage directly."
"What about you?" Dick asked, already moving toward the exit Shiva had taken.
"I'll handle Bullseye and protect Alberto," Batman replied. "Go!"