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Slade can give credit to Wayne’s crew—they put up a valiant fight, far, far more of a challenge that most are when facing Slade. Not that he would expect anything less from those Wayne deemed worthy to serve underneath him.
It’s been almost two decades, now, since Bruce Wayne first started making his mark on the seven seas. Two decades since he started becoming an...irritant for Slade, a man who could go toe to toe with him. A man who created other greats, a man with influence across far too many ships for Slade’s comfort.
The Nightwing, the Red Hood, the Titan—three pirate ships that are certainly not to be trifled with, all because Wayne trained their captains to be the best of the best. Further pains in Slade’s side.
He knows they’ll all be coming for him after this. That their loyalty remains, even after their distance, even after they’ve become their own men. Dick Grayson especially has been a thorn ever since he started sailing on his own, and this will only make him worse.
But Slade still finds it worth it. Still thinks any attempt at revenge will be worth it, merely for the sight of Bruce Wayne lying on the deck, face slack, blood pooling around him as Slade drags his sword out.
Around him, the chaos of battle is coming to an end; those of his crew that have survived put temporary care on their wounds and work to secure the remains of Wayne’s crew, knowing Slade’s methods well enough to not kill the survivors just yet.
There are a good amount, really, but still enough of their comrades lay dead to leave Slade and his the victorious ones.
He wipes the blood off his sword on Wayne’s coat, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the action spark rage in those of Wayne’s crew that are together enough to notice at all. Slade surveys them, appreciative of his crew for the way they line up the survivors before him, all of their hands bound.
“You all know who I am,” Slade says, once silence falls and all their attention turns to him. The sails whip above them, the black and yellow sigil of Wayne’s ship The Dark Knight torn right down the center from a well-aimed knife throw, useless now. “I won’t bother with any speeches about your loss. You now have a decision to make—join my crew, or meet your end. I will grant you the mercy of a quick death.”
There’s silence, but he doesn’t expect anything else. He watches some of them exchange uneasy looks, and takes note of the ones who don’t, whose expressions don’t falter from determination and anger. They are, after all, the ones he has to look out for.
“Which of you is Wayne’s first mate?”
Slade would ask the question for any ship he overtook, but it’s equally as important for this one in particular. Because the people Wayne chooses for his second in command—Grayson, Todd, Drake, Cain—tend to go on to become threats. Wayne picks his mates well, and Slade has no doubt that the current one is a protégé just like the past have been.
One of the captives pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, and Slade waves off his crewmate who was immediately moving forward to shove the captive down again.
It’s a boy, really. Couldn’t possibly be out of his teen years, but Slade won’t scoff at his age—he had the displeasure of watching Grayson in battle when the boy was still covered in spots, and he was very far from harmless. He won’t let this one’s youth lull him.
“That would be me,” the boy says levelly. His dark eyes are sharp and cold, his rage burning cool and contained instead of explosive. Slade would expect nothing less.
“And you might be?”
“Duke Thomas.”
Slade hums, nodding slowly as he examines him. High cheekbones, full lips, a thick head of hair, pretty eyes—handsome, over all, and Slade withholds a smirk; Wayne has certainly been the subject of many rumors over the years, about just why he picks such pretty boys to be his first mates. Slade has never quite believed them—having met Wayne, he found it unlikely—but it’s still entertaining to think about.
(And Grayson and Todd always turn a lovely shade of angry red when Slade needles them about it.)
Slade steps closer, standing directly before Duke. It forces the boy to lift his head to keep the eye contact, but he doesn’t seem intimidated by Slade’s height like most have been. Well done for him.
Even knowing the answer, knowing this boy’s loyalty will be deep and intense like all those before him, Slade still has to ask: “Going to join my crew, boy?”
Duke meets his eyes steadily, unafraid. One corner of his mouth tilts up in something that may resemble a smile, a challenging look that shouldn’t surprise Slade the way it does, considering the attitudes of those who have come before him. Grayson and Todd certainly enjoy challenging him, irking him in every way they can. He shouldn’t expect the newest to be cut any different.
“No,” Duke says, lifting his chin. “Are you going to get off my ship?”
Bold. Slade can certainly appreciate that, even as amusement fills him. “Not just yet,” he disagrees. “And certainly not going to just leave you all to your own devices.”
No, more than likely a majority of these people will be dead before Slade departs, and he won’t regret any of it. But it seems a waste to kill Duke—the boy does have promise, and he’s young enough that maybe he can still be influenced, shaped.
Besides—Slade certainly doesn’t carry whatever honor Wayne had that kept him from enjoying the company of his boys.
Also, Slade realizes, having Duke under his ‘care’ might discourage any rash decisions on behalf of the others. Grayson won’t test Slade if Slade has a knife to the throat of a member of his ‘family’.
Slade grabs Duke’s bound wrists and tugs him forward, ignoring the grunt to instead pull him along beside him as Slade turns for the gangplank to return to his ship; he trusts his men to handle the rest of this.
“What are you doing?” Duke demands, but his voice remains level and quiet. “I told you, I won’t—”
“Join me, yes, so you said,” Slade agrees, and Duke’s small struggles end as they walk across the thin board that connects the two ships, clearly not eager to test Slade’s grip against the long drop to the ocean below. “All in good time, my boy. All in good time.”