Water And Stone

by Matt Nute

The first punch to get through my guard hits me in the side. Kevlar/Nomex weave body armor absorbs some of the blow, but not all of it. I lash out in retaliation, missing blindly. Anger is getting the better of me. These thugs think they can visit fear on my city, they've got another thing coming.

There's six of them, and one of me. I'd call that even odds. I have my carbon-polymer escrima sticks, and they have switchblades and lead pipes.

Let's see what we can do about getting rid of those, shall we?

Oh, I'm Nightwing, and this is Bludhaven. My town. I came across these punks shaking down a few kids after dark, and decided to teach them a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. Looks like I may be the one learning the lesson, though.

The biggest of them takes a swipe at me with his blade. I spin into the attack, beating a tattoo up his wrist and forearm with my sticks. His numbed hand drops the knife, and I finish the move by driving my elbow into the point of his chin.

But the other guys are a tad faster than I gave them credit for. Whoever trained these guys, Black Mask, the False Face Society, whoever, trained them good. I block one attack to find another hit me from behind. The pipe connects wth the back of my skull, and I see bright flashes before I reel away, slamming into the brick wall of the alley.

My reflexes take over, but I'm moving rigidly, resisting their attacks with equal force. Effective, but tiring. A thrusted knife is struck away with a chop block. The swing of a club is met by a counterswing, the meeting of the weapons jarring my arm. But through it all, I am numb to the pain.

I have become stone, to match their stone.

And I flash back to years ago... god, has it been that long? Years ago to when I wore a different costume, the red and yellow of Robin. I had been nursing a cracked rib that one of the Riddler's henchmen had given me the week prior.

I had gotten angry, and with the impetuousness of youth, insisted that Bruce teach me to fight like he did, to be able to move like him. Bruce looked at me, and saw his ward, the closest thing he had to an adopted son. Bruce would never have brought me into this life.

But the Batman looked at me and saw his partner. And he wasn't about to let his partner go into battle defenseless.

I think that's how he looks at it, like a neverending battle, a war. Each night, each fight is just a skirmish in the greater campaign. He's the ultimate general, the master tactician. But he loves getting his hands dirty, to be the one in the trenches.

I remember standing in that circle with him, for months we trained. I would copy his movements exactly, over time learning to adapt them to my smaller size and acrobatic ability. Then the time came to spar against him, and I learned just how talented I wasn't.

Day after day, I picked myself up from the dusty floor of the Batcave, wondering what I'd done wrong. As the months passed, I found myself growing more and more skilled, able to take on any villain the underworld could throw at us. I remember the look of pride in my mentor's eye when I took down the Scarecrow with the nerve strike to the knee that I had learned.

And yet, why couldn't I lay a finger on the one who taught me? As I grew, I realized that I was just as fast, just as strong as he was. Was it the training? The drive? The dedication that made him the fighting machine he had become? Or was it something else.

I remember seeing him take a punch from Killer Croc without flinching. Later I found out that he'd broken three ribs and nearly punctured a lung, but he took the punch, and won the battle.

He was like stone.

But then, the stone cracked. Bane happened. And in the months after that, when I wore the cowl and cape, I found myself thinking on what had happened to Bruce. And it came back to the first time I had stepped into the circle with him.

He was like stone, invulnerable, but unyielding. Powerful, but rigid. And I had seen the flaw, not without a little shame, because I realized it dwelled in me as well.

So I went out to masters, and I learned. I picked up some of the Taoist martial arts, and adapted them to become my own. I learned the sticks from a Filipino maestro, who explained to me that his art was like water, not stone.

"Nothing is softer than water," he had said, "but watch as it wears down even the strongest. Be like water."

So it was water that I became. Fluid, adapting to each fight as it came. When I returned to my role as Nightwing, and fought again at Bruce's side, I saw something new in his movements. A grace he hadn't possessed before.

He, too, had become like water. Through different paths, we had reached the same destination. And when he smiled at me now, it wasn't that of a master to a pupil, but of a comrade to a fellow soldier. We changed that night, I think.

Before the quake, he and I entered the circle for one last time. Not out of spite, nor to train, but just to see. To see where we had come, after all these years. After nearly three hours, both of us slumped over, exhausted. Stone had met stone, and water had met water.

Three hours, and neither of us had laid a hand on the other.

I had become my teacher's equal. And in his smile, I could tell his pride exceeded my own.

The sharp clang of the pipe against the wall as I duck instinctively brings me back to the situation. I blink behind my mask, focusing on the half-dozen men advancing on me. My muscles burn, and my bones ache. Still they come forward.

I let out a breath slowly, shifting my grip on my sticks. My muscles relax, moving smoothly.

I will become water.

Slipping past them, I flow like a river, a jab here, a snap kick placed just so. Their vicious attacks seem clumsy and slow now, easily avoided. I use the close quarters to my advantage, like a stream through rocks. A circular parry disarms one assailant, with an axe kick dispatching him to the concrete. Another falls to a double-strike against his collarbone.

I am grace, I am precision as I dance among them. I am wearing down their defenses, taking advantage of their inflexibility. I move in ways they can't begin to comprehend, taking them down, hard.

And when it is over, I stand victorious. I look up into the night sky and fire a grapnel line from my glove, swinging up into the air. I stand atop a tall building, feeling the wind whip through my hair. I feel the cold stone city beneath me, I feel the dirt of the crime clog its streets.

This is my city, and it will be clean.

Get ready for the flood.

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