The blade grazed the side of his neck.
Bruce tilted his head right, and the clasp on his cape snapped. The cold spine of the blade slid along his jaw, drawing a thin line of blood.
He didn't retreat.
His left arm hooked around Deathstroke's sword wrist. Driving his shoulder into the man's armpit, he used the maintenance rack to pin his elbow and dropped hard.
The long sword struck the steel framework.
Deathstroke's knee came up immediately.
Bruce tightened his abdomen, but the impact still made his vision go white. His disabled suit weighed on his shoulders. Without powered assistance, dozens of kilograms of armor had become dead weight.
He pinned Deathstroke's lead foot and dragged him between two rows of equipment.
It was cramped here.
There was no room to swing a sword.
"Your battery's dead."
Deathstroke pinned his wrist and drove his forehead toward Bruce's mask.
Bruce turned his head and tightened his hold.
"And you've got nowhere to swing."
Inside the gas mask, each breath grew heavier than the last.
Something rolled to the floor behind them with a soft clatter.
Ivan huddled beneath the blast-resistant workbench. Biting his sleeve, he wrapped his jacket around his hand and felt for the spare capacitor's insulated plug.
The indicator light was out.
The stored charge was still there.
He disconnected the lead and flung the exposed connector toward the copper grounding strip.
"Close your eyes!"
An electrical arc erupted.
Deathstroke's visor flashed white, then filled with red error boxes. Guided by the wrist he had just locked down, Bruce punched the goggles.
The lens cracked.
His second punch struck the lower edge of the throat armor.
Deathstroke stepped back half a pace, drove his knee into Bruce to knock him away, and tore off the dead eyepiece.
The