Batman was beginning to wonder if he was fighting some mirror image version of himself.
Every attack he launched was effectively parried. Karate, kick-boxing, jujitsu—his opponent seemed
to know them all, and defended itself accordingly.
A brutal chop was deflected by a scaly elbow. A stunning chest kick was stopped by a cross-wristed
block. Even aikido—a martial arts system that uses the attacker's strength against him—proved of no
value. Only the occasional blow landed home, and then more by luck man by judgment. When it did,
the creature made no sound and gave no sign that it felt pain.
By the same token, Batman managed to repel the lizardlike humanoid every time it became the
aggressor. Booted feet and gauntleted hands warded off a succession of blows flung at him from every
conceivable angle. When one of the beast's blows struck home, Batman grunted and rolled with the
impact.
The confrontation was more like a ballet than a battle.
Almost as if we're perfectly suited to each other, Batman thought, failing to connect with a wild,
swinging kick. He ducked under the inevitable counterattack, deflecting a punch with an upraised
forearm. As if whoever controls this creature is providing only so much energy, and no more. As if
he's conserving his power for something else.