A Future Sooner than Tomorrow

Present Warning

A guard charges forward, pulling a heavy baton from his belt. Shayera sweeps his knees from under him with the blunt end of her mace before bringing the sharp end down onto the guard's helmet. A loud crack sounds out and when she brings her mace back up, the guard falls limp to the ground.

A pair of guards come forward, arms linked, hoping to rush the injured Nightwing. Nightwing attempts to step back, hesitating when his calf tenses up under his weight. The guard keep running towards him even when he holds out his escrema stick, readying to strike. When they get close enough, Nightwing gives the one to the left an electrifing jab to the neck. He buckles and falls whilst the other unhooks his arm.

He doesn't get far before Robin cracks him in the neck with an escrema stick.

The guards keep coming, a slow persistant trickle of them through the doors. The room lights up with the harsh flashes from the buzzing ends of escrema sticks as well at the harsh impacts of Shayera's mace against hard armour. Nightwing, Robin and Shayera work as a wall, keeping the guards pouring forward away from their injured teammates.

Dwindling in numbers, the guards switch tatics. No longer trying to close the distance between them and the heroes, they start tossing their batons like javilins. The heroes spin their respective weapons (Nightwing and Robin do so with the ends of their fingers while Shayera just grabs the chain of her mace) and use them as shields. The majority of batons deflect backwards, either being caught or dodged by the guards, whilst the less well-aimed ones hit the ground bludgoning end forward.

"Their aim sucks," Robin kicks at a stray baton by his feet.

"Their batons aren't exactly made for this," Nightwing's half-kneeling, one hand on the floor to steady himself. Sweat is dripping down his forehead and off the sides of his mask. "Actual throwing batons have to be evenly balanced on both sides."

Shayera hadn't ever put much thought into bladeless weapons, especially not glorified sticks, but maybe she should at some point. Not for herself, she loves her mace, but to better understand the limits of other people's weapons. She supposes the guards throwing the batons is kind of like her throwing her mace; not very areodynamic, falling heavy end first. The only difference would be her mace is weighty enough to still damage whoever it hits.

"Why do you know that? I thought your weapons are both called sticks," she asks. Neither Nightwing's escrema sticks nor Robin's bo stick have a larger end. Their entirely even from one end to the other.

"I tried out a lot of weapons when I was starting out," Nightwing falters for a moment, panting, and a baton grazes his shoulder. Robin steps infront of him.

"I've only ever used my bo stick out on the field, spent so much time watching the other Robins that I felt more comfortable with it, but weapon training was something Batman deemed neccessary although I'm not sure," Robin glances back at Nightwing, who's jammed a hand over his injured knee, "I'm not sure whether that had been the same with the other Robins."

Shayera's not great at reading faces obsured by masks but if she's right then the heavy slope in both Robin and Nightwing's shoulders is decidely uncomfortable. Or maybe they're just tired.

Shayera's tired. Her wings are sagging dlightly, not tightly folded to her back like usual. She doesn't have the energy.

"We can't keep playing defensively, we're tiring quicker than they are!" She winces as a baton hits the swinging chain of her mace, close enough it almost catches her fingers.

"What do you suggest?" Nightwing looks up at her.

Quietly, Shayera says, "I think me and Robin should charge them." She isn't suprised when Robin begins to protest.