Off the Deep End

Summit

It felt a bit blurry at the edges.

They've all had missions before, even Ra's before he was the demon head and was just 'the son of' or 'the heir to'. They've all been through this thousands of times.

They walk through the halls, brisk, no fuss. They are fixing cuffs on shirts, righting collars. They are strapping on grieves, pulling on armouring, tossing on hoods. There is an old juke box in one of the rooms they walk past and they almost feel as if they could turn it on and sweep through room to room while Run Boy Run plays in the background. As it is, they flick to and from, loading themselves with weapons, sharpening daggers, coiling bolas, strapping on gear. It is a bit like a ceremony, one that is repeated every time.

It is a bit like a blessing, almost. All that's missing is the muttering of words. a word of faith as a sword is sheathed, the whine of metal against metal a different kind of choir. The smell of leather sheaths and oiled blades. The faint tinge of Lazarus on Ra's skin as he drapes himself in his green and gold robes.

The floors of the weapons rooms are well cleaned but also well worn. Like the wooden floors of a grandparents house, varnished and polished and taken pride in, but also dented and rubbed away at with the years of family gatherings. There aren't fingerprints on weapons or traces of natural oils from skin, these weapons are cared for, perfectly cleaned and maintained. But there are filled scratches in wooden handles, blades sharpened so many times they are growing thinner. There are perfectly moulded calluses that fit the blades into practiced hands, there are clasps on pommels bent slightly out of shape from the many times they've been struck across people's heads.

There are gold candle sticks on the mantle below a mirror, used to ensure everything is in its place. It takes effort to become bristling with weapons, it takes time. One does not simply wake up and walk out the door comfortably carrying a small armoury on their person.

But once they are done preparing they meet together in the halls, walking through their palace as if they were messengers from a death god. They stalk through the shadows, silent.

There is only calm in their heads, there must be if they are to succeed.

Dick did not like Santa Prisca. Although, he was very biased.

But, it did not come down to what he preferred when picking the location of the summit meeting, so he just had to suck it up.

The lighting was dim, white bulbs on steel stands that ran along the pathways. The whole tunnel system seemed to once have been mines, but that must have been a long time ago. Bane must have kept the place up to scratch for escapes and hiding because it was only as dark, dusty and dank as one would expect a cave to be. At least there were no dead bodies, Dick might have actually thrown in the towel and left if it was gross.

Deathstroke went ahead, seeing as he was the Light's enforcer. He would meet Black Beetle, ensure the area was safe and then they would join. Ra's had at first been against bringing anyone other than Dick and Alex, but when they realised the amount of security the Reach was bringing he stopped arguing. Thalia had come and Jason as well. If the Reach wanted to bring a small army they'd meet them in arms.

They crept out, filing into lines of defence, Savage face to face with the Ambassador.

"please," said ambassador smiled, "we are meeting as comrades, are we not? Let us do away with the masks."

The light looked between themselves. Ra's gave Dick and Alex a discreet nod and they dropped their hoods, Jason removed his mask. Before Savage said anything Slade followed suit, and Savage seemed annoyed for a moment at the small sign of his true loyalties.