If Batman’s anger wasn’t the dominating force, he would have been amused. He was no longer used to be challenged, not by somebody who could hold their own against him. The Batman was untouchable, or so he liked to think. He (foolishly) thought himself to be above the rest of the world, put high up on a pedestal that nobody else could quite reach. Nightwing was pulling himself up there beside him and he was reacting with hatred. It didn’t take much to provoke him on a good day, let alone on a bad one.
The damage had already been done. He was seething inside.
Nightwing’s assault did what it was supposed to do and Batman hit the wall, the kid’s words ringing in his ears, barely noticeable when set up against the rush of savage adrenaline sparking through his veins. “You don’t know anything about me,” he spat, pushing himself off the wall with a single thrust. It was almost frightening, somebody knowing him well enough to guess what he was going to do before he could get around to doing it.
His opponent was wounded. Batman had seen his weakness in the cave, in the way that he moved. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep it up, wondered how long he could keep going.
He launched himself at him, full body weight behind the attack, heavy armor everywhere. It wasn’t going to cushion the blow, wasn’t going to do anything but shield the one who wore it like a second skin. Batman aimed his fist at Nightwing’s ribs, went in to hit him right there.