Chapter Text
--
Slade would like to give everyone an unfriendly reminder that he was an assassin. His job was killing people. He was good at a few other things, could apply things like disguises and recon and torture as needed, but they weren't his specialty. He knew people that would fill in those gaps as needed; Wintergrass, of course, for disguises. Some LoA associates for torture, though he could usually handle that one fine by himself. And, like any assassin worth their salt, a slew of informants.
He got a hit. He fished for some schedules and locations and close relatives. He cased the planned kill-site, just in case. He did his job. He left. It was an efficient, lovely, well oiled routine, and it was all three of those things because it worked. It had worked, for decades, so he was more then a bit proud of it. Confident in it, even. Confident enough to start a project of his own.
One that didn't follow his routine, obviously, because he didn't get the hit, he was doing it for himself. He literally skipped step one, and it only went downhill from there, because he got cocky. He figured he had enough experience with blackmail and kidnapping that getting one over on these literal teenagers wouldn't be too much of a problem. He already knew what he wanted; The Golden Goose from the nest himself, clever and agile as he is a surprisingly-competent pain in Slade's ass, he had finally found someone he'd be willing to personally train. Someone worth his time, a talent worth cultivating, a child that was already growing into a man that he really would rather have with him then against him.
Blackmail probably wasn't the most trust-building introduction, but he figured once he started training the kid things would sort themselves out. The kid was smart; more then he let people give him credit for, which was downright genius. Slade knew that Robin was good at what he did, and full of anger, and willing to do anything for the people he cared about. Which was, honestly, far too many of them, but Slade could work with that.
Get the kid under his wing, train him a bit until some deadly enemy inevitably almost (or successfully) killed one off Robin's old teammates, and point the kid in their general direction. The first kill was always the hardest to get over, a mental dam that sometimes could only be broken with a canon. Then Robin would throw himself into Slade's training, either for an outlet or out of new determination or desperation or shame or even bloodlust, and Slade would fan his flames and polish his edges out into a beautiful protege- or, at least, weapon. It was a whole plan. A good plan, even, if he did say so himself.
In no small part because it worked, at first. Blackmail was collected and leveraged, Robin was plucked from his nest with not so much as a twitter and thrown into the bedroom by Slade's. No lock on the door or the window, nothing physically stopping him from leaving- an acute flourish to show just how helpless Robin was, being forced to actively choose not to escape. Tantamount to admitting defeat- something that made Slade smirk cruelly as he remembered just how many operations Robin and his teammates had ruined, or at least complicated. Maybe the impromptu lesson in restraint would finally humble the brat.
All said, he went to bed feeling pretty content. He hadn't been amateur enough to leave trace of himself or Robin anywhere, so no one would be on his tail for at least a day; maybe a few, giving the rumors of Batman being currently injured. He fell asleep plotting out the false trails and red-herrings he could leave to lead the heroes in circles.
He woke up to a muffled cry and sound of commotion. He doesn't even realize he's gotten out of bed before bursts through the door.
--
Dick- Robin, he has to be Robin, he can't be any more compromised then he already was- Robin was having the second worst day of his life. That was quite the claim, given the sheer amount of uniquely-terrible situation's he's in from one day to the next for the past several years, and also the fact that first place was his parents death.
Still, he can't bring himself to reevaluate. Between being cut off from everything, being caught of guard, blackmailed, stripped of his uniform (but not his mask), and then not even kidnapped but escorted to Deathstroke's apartment- it was honestly a miracle Robin hadn't lost his shit yet. He'd gotten really good at compartmentalizing, over the years.
Being left in a bedroom with worse security then apartments in the Narrows, entirely able but paralyzingly unwilling to let himself out. It could be the easiest, quickest kidnapping ever. It could beat his personal record for escape. It could be over in an hour, and he could be home with-
with an injured Bruce, and next to no time before Deathstroke starts revealing the identities of his teammates to rouges, leaving them vulnerable as civilians, and it's only a matter of time until someone tries to assassinate them at- at school, or-
The time creeps slowly on. Robin misses his window to break his record. He misses the window to return before anyone noticed he was gone; Alfred would be awake by now, and he'd realize Dick never came home. In a few hours, he'd miss the window to get home before sunset. To go to the store with Alfred like he asked, so he could take the extra time to pick out a birthday present for Roy. In around thirteen days, he'd miss the window for attending one Donna's eighteenth birthday party.
He wondered, almost numbly, if this would be his life now. A series of missed opportunities and promises he can't risk doing anything about. He could see, almost too easily, how quickly that line of thinking would break him just like Deathstroke wanted, and quickly dropped it.
Sleep. He should try sleep. He closed his eyes and took deep, doubtful breathes. Still, might as well tr-
A noise from his window startled him; the gentle sliding of it opening. He rolls out of bed smoothly, falling into a defensive stance as two shadows slipped into the room. The only thing that kept him from attacking was the knowledge that Deathstroke was only a few doors down.
"Who are you?" He hisses immediately, as quietly as he can while maintaining the threatening edge. One of them raises their hands in surrender, but the other pulls their- her- hood down, leaving only her eyes covered by purple goggles.
"Aw, are we really that fogettable kiddo? I know you've been busy hanging out with your friends, but it's still only been a few months." She pouted, stepping forward. Robin tenses, then relaxes as he places the face and realizes who it is- and then tenses again, because-
"What?" He blinks, looking at the door like Deathstroke would burst in at any second. Honestly, he just might. "Why are you here? How are you here?" He questioned, looking back at Missy.
"We're rekidnapping you!" She announced cheerily, though still quietly.
"What?" He repeated, more insistantly, because that only brought up more questions, but the other shadow- who hadn't revealed themself, but who he could only assume was Red- shook his head.
"Maybe save the questions for after you've made your daring escape from Slade Wilson's Cult In Progress?" He suggested. Robin opened his mouth to continue to press the issue, but probably-Red made a point. He needed to keep his priorities in check- their intentions were an unknown, as were their means, but he'd spent enough time with them- with admittedly varyingly dubious levels of consent- to know that they didn't seem to have malevolent intentions. He'd absolutely take his chances with them rather then freaking Deathstroke.
except....
"I can't escape." He said, loathing the way it felt coming out of his mouth. Like coughing up sludge. "I- He'll go after my team, and- and he'll-" he stuttered, in an entirely non-Robin fashion, but honestly couldn't bring himself to care all that much.
"Escape?" Missy asked, tilting her head, tone a cross between confused and amused. "Who said anything anything about escape?" She giggled, reaching forward for his head. He ducked out of the way, nerves rising again.
"You just did!" He hissed, eyeing the door again. "And I can't. If I escape, then Deathstroke's going to-"
A hand landed on his head, and he bit his tongue to keep from making a surprised sound. Why did he take his eyes off of the rouges in front of him? He braced for an attack of some sort- they'd never attacked him before, really, beyond restraining him, but they'd never snuck into Deathstroke's safehouse before either, and he didn't know what to expect-
"Yeah, Slade sucks. It would be real bad news for you capes if he thought you ran away, huh?" Red drawled. Robin tensed, not trusting that tone at all, but Missy reached back and hit the man before Robin could work himself up too much.
"Cut it out, Red, you're scaring the bird." She reprimanded. He shrugged, but walked around to lean against the wall next to the door and fiddle with something he pulled from his pocket. He always had more trouble getting a read on Red then on Missy; Missy didn't like Batman or the fact that Robin existed, because she cared about kids. Red....Convinced Missy that Batman needs Robin, and also seemed to care about him, but had a bit of a mean streak. Robin would honestly call it teasing, or a dry sense of humor, but it still set him on edge when he could never quite pinpoint where Red was coming from, mentally. Know thy enemy and all that- and, despite all of the years, they didn't know shit about Missy or Red. They were complete enigmas.
"Little fear gets the blood pumping. Good for the heart." Red muttered absently, not even looking back up at them.
"Where'd you hear that, one of Dr.Crane's lectures?" she asked, but didn't wait for an answer. She turned back to Robin. "Anyway, he's right. It would be very bad if you escaped and Slade hunted your friends for sport, yeah? So it's a good thing you aren't escaping; you're being re-kidnapped, remember?"
She said the words deliberately, smile twinkling with mischief, and Robin got her meaning quickly. He shook his fear for his friends off eagerly, more then willing to jump for any chance to wash his hands of this hole he dug for himself. He could- and would- hammer out the 'why' and 'how' later- his self imposed chains were broken, and he eyed the window with an almost uncontrollable urge to fly. If Missy and Red framed themselves then Deathstroke wouldn't be his responsibility, he'd-
Robin deflated, shifting back toward his cot again, another weight settling on his shoulders. Guilt.
"You can't." He denied again, mood flopping back down to defeated. "He'll just go after you instead. He'll kill you." Robin insisted, looking up at the pair of them. Contrary to popular belief, they had done a lot for him over the years. Whenever B wasn't there, whenever B couldn't be there, even whenever Robin didn't want B to be there- Red and Missy popped up, for better and for worse. They scared him out of his mind when he was younger, but eventually they became a sort of safe space. A static environment- he always knew what to expect, from them. No matter how unreasonable and inconsistent Bruce was, they were consistent. If he was hurt or upset or just alone for about ten minutes, they'd pick him up. He'd be free to vent or struggle or sleep or watch TV or prank or spar or whatever except leave for about fifteen hours, and then he'd vanish into the afternoon while he was pretty sure they pretended not to notice. Ironically, the crazy couple of kidnappers had become the closest thing he had to an escape.
They obviously had secrets. They had to be more skilled then they ever came off as, given that to this day B has yet to ever actually meet them. But he had trouble taking it on faith that they, whoever they used to be, could singlehandedly oppose Deathstroke. Robin couldn't just stand by and let that happen.
(....even if a tired, terrified, childish part of him wanted to. But he wasn't a child- he was a hero, and that's what heroes do.)
Missy interrupted his internal worry with a snort that made him almost flinch. What could possibly be funny about any of this? "He'll certainly try to kill us. But he's gotta catch us, first." she claimed, pulling out something he couldn't see, but clicked like metal. He shifted back, wary of the unknown, but bumped into a warm chest.
For a paralyzing second, he thought it was Deathstroke. That second was all the time Red needed to slide a needle into his neck. He struggled, trying to fight whatever he just got drugged with, but struggling made it work through his blood faster, and Red just kept him in a safety-hold while Missy approached with what she was holding- handcuffs- and securely restrained him. He tried to give another protest, but his tongue felt heavy and it came out garbled. Gently, someone tousled his hair as his vision faded out to an amused voice and a loss of gravity.
--
"Well. That could've gone better." Stephanie huffed, pulling her hood back up and lugging the teenager over her shoulder. He let out a surprisingly loud groan at the movement, and she didn't waste time looking at Tim before getting up to the window. She heard the faint thumps of an angry Deathstroke approaching, and turned so that if he got a shot on her before she left, it wouldn't hit the prone teen. She had to time this just right, slipping out of the window just after Slade saw, so it would look like a kidnapping. Tim would stay behind- he'd been fiddling around the room, setting up traps and such while Dick worried himself in circles- and fight Deastroke for a bit. He was wearing an approximation of LoA attire, and would dust off some of his more deadly training from Lady Shiva and Ra's until he could disengage and flee in the opposite direction of where Stephanie was taking Robin. Hopefully, when he lost Wilson, the bastard would start poking around the LoA and giving the three of them time to fuck off to like.....Iowa or something. Somewhere Deastroke wouldn't normally have eyes, and wouldn't think to look.
The door slammed open, and Wilson did, indeed, immediately try to shoot her. She expected it enough to shift kinda out of the way, but he was still Deathstroke, So she vanished out of the window with a nasty nick in the side of her hip- could be worse. She'd worked with much worse. Hopefully the bullets weren't laced with anything- he was expecting to be in conflict with his potential-protege, so he probably didn't have anything deadly coating the bullets, but maybe a sedative. Oh, that would fucking suck.
Somehow even more motivated to get to (relative) safety as soon as possible, she picked her way quickly through the streets and tried to find something to distract herself from the pain in her hip.
Dick twitched, and she shifted his weight to try and be a bit more comfortable. Sadly, he was getting a bit too big for her to carry him around so easily. From her memories, Fully Grown Dick was....hm. Shorter then Jason and Bruce, cause everyone was....A little bit shorter then Babs, because she would always tease him about it despite not being able to stand....Oh! He teased Duke about fitting the 'middle D' label in age and height, so he was taller then Duke, and Duke was a bit taller then her, so. Even full grown, she should probably be able to lug him around. Probably. Just....maybe not effortlessly.
She took a deep breath as she clung to the shadows around a corner, thinking to cut through an empty office building before remembering that she wasn't in Gotham, and glancing at the mini-map on her wrist. She never was good with directions, but the little apartment wasn't much farther. Someone had died there a while ago, abandoned by the victim's grieving partner. A stigma grew around renting it, because it was in a nice enough neighborhood where people could afford to be a bit stingy with their selection. It'd been left to it's own devices for a while, and tended to be where she and Tim stayed when they went to Jump City to keep an eye on Dick and the Teen Titans. They hadn't had to burn it yet, because they never made contact. It was kind of a shame that they'd have to now- it was just starting to feel lived in.
Maybe they'd be able to keep it? Dick was getting old enough that he didn't report everything to Bruce, and, if she may be so bold, she was pretty sure he was cool with them by now. Leaned on them a bit for escape and reliability and such, though they'd kind of been traded out for the Titans recently, so maybe not? Really, it depended on whether this experience would make him a paranoid (by their standards) ball of nerves that relied on Batman, or gave him a bit of an independence wake up call and got him to trust them a bit more. Maybe they could have....not a home, obviously, but at least a house, here. A Vacation house for occasions that Robin-maybe-Nightwing would keep an eye on, but something familiar.
.....Ugh. That bullet wound must have been coated with something that was screwing up her brain, she realized as she opened the door and slipped inside. She knew better then to stuff her head with sentiment like it was cotton. She got there just in time.
Ok. Step one- check security. Arm everything. She was sure that she was missing some system or other, but it all seemed to be mostly in order, and she was swaying on her feet. It would have to do.
Step two- bunker down in the bathroom. The kitchen in this place was just about as dusty as it was the day they found it- for as big as the apartment was, pretty much everything was set up in the big bedroom and the connecting bathroom. Food in the cabinets under the sink, extensive first aid kit between the toilet and bathtub, pillows and blankets and clothes piled high in the space between the door and the cabinets, some tools and weapons and such between the sink and the toilet. A clothespin hum between the shower-bar and doorframe, with said door being about as reinforced as the front door. No windows. a bathtub only barely big enough to lie in semi-comfortably, enough space on the floor for an extra person or two to do the same. The wall behind the bathtub had been purposefully weakened so that, worst case scenario, it could be busted through with as little difficulty as possible, with about a one-story drop into a dumpster. Not the lap of luxary or anything, but they only really used it when one of them was hurt or sick or something. It was as close to a bunker as they could get in a second-story west-coast apartment, but it worked. They'd gotten really good at making the Bathroom the safest place in a house, since they got Cass.
She picked up a comforter from the soft-pile, laid it down in the bathtub to make it at least kind of comfy, and dropped Robin in with a pillow and another blanket. She made double sure to set up all of the locks on the door correctly before setting herself up on the floor, using her cape as a blanket, vision fading out fast. Honestly, she was surprised she lasted as long as she did. But, then again, Deathstroke always did like a bit of a hunt. Maybe the longer time was on purpose. It probably was, that bastard. That, or he was still trying to figure out where Bat-tolerances for drugs laid. Maybe both.
Pressure. She had to put- put pressure on the wound. Sluggishly she tugged off her shirt, squinting to see the nick. It looked like she expected- nothing she'd bleed out on, probably, but something she should deal with. she turned her shirt inside out and pressed it to the wound, figuring it was better then the outside of her shirt, by however small a margin. Or big a margin. Whatever. It sucked, because of course it did, and she wasn't sure she could move around much anymore. She could barely see. She didn't know if she could hear- there wasn't much to listen too, besides her own heartbeat and ragged breath.
Bedtime, she decided, trying to manifest that being the right option because she physically could not handle anything else. She did everything she could, she probably couldn't die from this anyway, Robin was safe, Tim was smart enough to probably be safe.....Robin should be up in an hour or two? He wouldn't be able to break out, though, and if he saw her bleeding he'd help, even if he didn't want to. Kid was sweet like that. She yawned, going limp, and that was fine.
This was fine. She'd be fine. Everything was fine.
--
Robin woke the way he was trained to; very quickly, and twice as subtly. The first thing he realizes is that he isn't in his own bed, or the Batcave, or the Titans Tower. After that, his brain snaps to information gathering, greedily grasping for context.
Memories flood his brain first; being blackmailed by Slade, that teasingly, offensively easy to escape room, the invasion of- of Red and Missy, just about the last people he expected to see, and their swift attempt at explanation before drugging him. After that, nothing. No clue if he was back with Slade, if they were dead, or even if they had succeeded, exactly what they had done with him. He was somewhere soft but cramped, dark, and the only sound he could hear was the faint breathing of another person. None of that really helped him one way or another- his options were waiting it out, and getting up to look around.
He should probably put a little more thought into it, before he's on his feet, but he can't really bring himself to doubt the choice. The shifting sound of him sitting up doesn't disturb the breathe of the other person, which was both a really good sign- It probably wasn't Deathstroke- and also a fairly concerning one. he still had his mask on- Slade hadn't taken it off, claimed not to care about his identity, snickered about wanting ROBIN to be the one betraying his community- but it wasn't much use to him at the moment. The bugs and tracking chips had been abandoned with the rest of his uniform, so he couldn't wait on an rescue from his team. Which was the point of leaving them, so he really shouldn't be as discouraged by the thought as he was. He still had the shock-mechanism for if someone tried to remove it, and the night-vision mode, but the soft lighting of what was either a small lamp or a nightlight rendered it unnecessary.
Being able to see the room didn't help him understand why they were in a bathroom of all places, and being able to see the door didn't make him feel any better about his ability to escape. It letting him see the person was helpful, at least. Asleep, mask on, drooling on the floor, in a sports-bra and sweatpants. He'd be more embarrassed about the fact, if 1. he didn't have Donna and Kori as teammates and 2. if her shirt wasn't bunched up against a bleeding wound in her side.
He's hovering by her side in the blink of an eye, not having any of the nice logical thoughts about escape that he probably should be having. Instead he looked around for a medkit, which was graciously easy to find, right next to the little Gotham Knights nightlight- not lamp- that, despite everything, made him giggle a little. Missy and Red were so- so weird.
Removing the shirt from the wound makes him cringe a little, wet and squicky and pulling at the sickly half-formed scab. It had done a pretty good job at stopping the bleeding, but still needed stitches, and probably disinfectant. It was kind of a gross color, so he reached up to check her forehead for fever-
Dick swallows a yelp, as his hand is seized by a quick hand, looking down to Missy. She's still wearing her goggles, so he doesn't know that her eyes are open, but he can feel her studying him.
"Wing?" She mutters, sounding confused. She tries to sit up and gasps, hand dropping from his to hold her side.
"Missy!" He hissed, "Don't move, I still have to do up your stitches."
She hummed, sounding a little confused but laying back and going limp to help him work. "Ah, right. Thanks, birdie. You're a life-saver."
He didn't respond, focusing on the procedure itself. It doesn't take very long, all in all, and it's a reletively clean process. He ties off the stitches, slathers some numbing cream around the area, and bandages it up anyway, just in case.
"Done." He announces, peeling off the latex gloves and dropping them with the bloodied shirt in the sink and then packing the medkit back into place.
"Thanks kiddo." She sighed, taking quiet measured breathes. He nodded, sitting by her side and staring at the door. They're both quiet for a while, until he can't stop himself from asking some of the questions on his mind.
"That...was from Deathstroke, wasn't it?" He started.
"Mhm. I had to....linger a bit in the window. Make sure he saw you were being taken, instead of running. It's....not so bad, really, but I think it had some....sorta sedative."
"Oh. That's....better then poison." He sighed, cringing a little. It wasn't the most sensetive thing to say, but it had been his concern since he'd seen the slight discoloring on the wound. She didn't seem offended, at least. Just laughed. "What about Red? Did he..." Dick trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the question. Did he get caught by Deathstroke? Is he dead? Did he sacrifice himself for my freedom?
"Dunno." She sighed, sounding somehow even more tired. "The plan.....he's sending Wilson on a wild goose chase. In the meantime....radio silence...Just in case."
"Oh." Dick frowned, curling up, guilt starting to crawl into his blood. "That's stupid. You guys are so stupid." He hissed, glaring through the mask, even though she surely wouldn't be able to tell. She made an amused noise, obviously not taking his scolding seriously, and he tightened his fists. "Seriously! You- You guys went up against Deathstroke, one of the deadliest men alive, gambling with your lives, when I- I didn't need your help. I would have been fine."
"Nope." She yawned, waving a limp hand in his general direction. "None....none of that. He's fine.....I'm fine.....you wouldn't have been fine.....Cutting off all of your support like that....You aren't Batman. Even if you were, he sure isn't fine." She scolded, slightly slurred but no less stern. "Just....Don't try 'n leave. It'll distract T, wherever he is now, and no one wants that.....'m sorry butcha just gotta wait it out this time.....let the grown ups handle it."
"I'm not a kid." Dick protests, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes but refusing to fall. Missy giggled, then winced as the laugh moved her injury.
"Little baby......practically an infant.....hatching.....fledgling....." She teased, voice getting weaker. "Not...not an owlet though....ha. Imma....Imma take a nap, don't freak out....I just gotta sleep this tranq off. Dream of ripping out Wilson's other eye...."
His ears burned at the teasing, and he wanted to retort, but her breathing evened out. Either she was a really good actor, or she'd fallen back asleep. He sighed, leaning against the cupboards under the sink and by her head. He should try to escape. He should. But.....if he was willing to let Deathstroke kidnap him, he didn't really have the right to object to Missy and Red. Not when it could endanger Red, who was playing the most idiotic and dangerous game of his life. If Dick got the guy killed before he ever got to wring his neck for his shit plan, he'd never forgive himself.
"Sweet dreams." He muttered to the sleeping woman, covering her with the blanket he'd woken up bunched in. He settles into a vigil watching the door, keenly aware he won't be able to sleep.