Chapter Text
There's almost nothing more satisfying than taking down a naval vessel.
Sure, as a pirate he doesn't much discriminate between targets, beyond which ships are more likely to have bountiful halls than others, but when he sees those red and white sails of Her Majesty's Royal Fleet, well, he can certainly never resist.
There's a distinct kind of pleasure to it that he doesn't get from other attacks he leads his crew into, a certain kind of hunger that is only satisfied by taking down ships like this. Watching proud officers and crewmen fall beneath their swords, or cower at their feet after the fighting has ended. A special pleasure in taking from the navy that doesn't hit as hard with any merchant vessels, or even with other pirate ships that fall under Slade's power.
So he takes his time strolling along the deck, sole eye sweeping over the chaos that is just beginning to die down. Bodies of naval crewmen lie across the wooden planks, either dead or dying, and the handful that have made it out with their lives are being herded together and forced to their knees. Slade trusts his crew to handle that, so instead he just breathes in the scent of saltwater and blood, feels the shifting of the ship beneath him, the lapping of waves.
It's as close to home as Slade ever feels, this mix of sensations that he'll never tire of. He gives himself some time to enjoy it, to bask in the leftover adrenaline that the fight rose inside of him.
It's maybe a few minutes later that he hears someone approaching him, and years of working together has him recognizing Wintergreen's tread before the man even comes into view.
"Captain," Wintergreen says, with a slight incline of his head, and Slade flashes twenty years into the past, when he and William were equals, soldiers, when the idea of deference between them was laughable.
But that was a long time ago.
"What is it?" Slade asks, because the look on Wintergreen's face is...peculiar. Not his second-in-command coming to tell him that the remaining navymen have officially been subdued, nor to share a report of some of the haul they've found in the officers' cabins.
"There's a prisoner down in their hold," Wintergreen says, and Slade's eyebrows arch. Well then. Slade's never taken down a naval vessel while there was actually a prisoner aboard, but it's probably not unusual for people such as that to be present. Another pirate, perhaps? Or just a run of the mill criminal unlucky enough to be captured?
"Cut him loose," Slade says dismissively. He doesn't care about what the prisoner's crime is, nor does he have any quarrel with some random individual who is on the wrong side of Queen and Country.
"That's the thing," Wintergreen says hesitantly. "It's...it appears to be a Talon."
And instantly, Wintergreen has Slade's entire focus.
The man he chose to be his second isn't stupid, and wouldn't bring such a statement to Slade unless he was actually sure, despite the hesitant tone. Which means there's actually a goddamn Talon down in this ship's hold.
Talons are...the best of the best. Assassins, trained from an extremely young age to kill and steal and carry out the will of their masters. The stories say that Talons have enhanced strength and senses, that they're imbued with special gifts. How they got those special gifts, well, there are a million versions of that aspect, which has always made Slade skeptical of if it's even true or not. (Given, he doesn't exactly have a lot of room to doubt, considering his own enhancements.)
The Court of Owls isn't an organization Slade has ever tangled with, nor has he ever had any interest in doing so. He has nothing to do with the world of assassins and missions of the sort, and he figured if he steered clear of the cult-like organization, then they'd leave him and his alone. That has, so far, been an effective system.
But now this, a Talon captured. How did that even happen? As far as Slade knows, that's never happened. Talons are nearly impossible to take down, the few who have tried either not living to tell the tale or just barely making it out with their lives, if the Talon in question was feeling magnanimous. And yet, this.
Slade gives Wintergreen a short nod, and then turns, heading back across the deck to where the door to the rest of the ship lays. He glances over at their prisoners as he does so, and finds that his men have them well in hand, allowing him to dismiss their presence for the time being.
He passes a few more of his crew members as he heads through the bowels of the navy ship, and then all nod to him, a few murmuring out Sir or Captain as well. He nods back to them, or simply acknowledges them with a flick of his eye, and then it isn't long before he's reaching the hold deep in the bottom of the ship.
Grant is standing in the doorway of it, arms folded loosely over his chest and eyes fixed onto the cells further down. He looks over when he hears someone approaching, and then straightens when he sees it's Slade, fiddling a little with the leather strap across his chest that holds one of his pistols.
"He's down there," Grant says with a jerk of his chin, not bothering with pleasantries like Joey might, knowing what Slade is here for and not wanting to make him wait.
Slade nods back in thanks, and then moves forward. It's a little dark down here, only a minute amount of sunlight making its way through the small portholes. A couple candles are lit near the entrance, but none actually near the cells. Probably an attempt on the navymen's part to forcibly deprive their prisoner of a crucial sense, but if anything Slade's heard about Talons is true, he doubts a little bit of darkness is going to mean much to the captive.
When Slade reaches the cell with a figure in it, he stops, looking inside appraisingly.
The Talon is sitting on the bench against the wall, a porthole shining a foot or so above his head. His hands and ankles are chained together, and chained to the floor as well through a sturdy iron loop bolted there. Despite the binding, the Talon's back is perfectly straight, his neck much the same, his chin just slightly dipped downward. It all feels like a practiced—trained—posture, and yet the Talon makes it seem perfectly natural.
And it is a Talon, just as Wintergreen said. Golden eyes gleam out at Slade, pupils slitted like a cat's. He's even wearing the leather and metal outfit that's been described in hushed whispers, the uniform of a feared assassin, though the weapons that are said to be proudly displayed are instead missing. Not surprising; it would be stupid to allow your captive something they could use to kill you.
The Talon's eyes lock onto Slade's, and his blank expression doesn't shift at all, not even when those eyes flick over Slade's body in a quick and clearly calculating gesture.
"You're the captain, I take it?" the Talon says. His voice is hoarse, as if from disuse, but there's no real tone to the words. No indicator of what the Talon might be feeling about the presence of a pirate captain in front of him.
Do Talons even have feelings like regular humans? The stories about them are mixed in that regard, but a majority of them paint the assassins as emotionless machines, all humanity trained out of them to leave behind nothing but a perfect weapon to be wielded by their masters. Slade admits he's curious if that's actually true.
"I am," Slade confirms. "And what is a Talon doing trapped on a naval vessel? I thought you all were supposed to be too good to be caught."
The Talon's eyes flick away for a moment, and then nearly flinch back, as if remembering that he's not supposed to look away for some reason. The eyes immediately drop, however, instead landing somewhere between the two of them. His chin dips a little lower, and the combination is...submissive, despite how the rest of his body language hasn't shifted at all.
"I made a mistake," the Talon says quietly. "And when I return to the Court, I will be taught better."
Slade highly doubts that the Talon's definition of 'taught' is similar to Slade's own. Probably closer to punishment, or even torture. The stories about the Court's cruelty even to their own prized pets is certainly never lacking.
"Do you want to return to the Court?" Slade asks curiously.
"Yes," the Talon says, and there's conviction in his voice, but Slade's senses are good enough that he noticed that infinitesimal hesitation before the Talon said yes, the brief moment where he might've even thought no, before reminding himself that he's a loyal little weapon with no goal in life other than serving his masters.
Hm. Interesting. Useful, even, if Slade plays his cards right. After all, if the Court was stupid enough to lose one of its assassins, why shouldn't Slade snatch it up?
"You don't have to," Slade says, gentling his tone to one more similar to what he used to use with his boys when they were very little and skinned their knees. He steps closer to the bars of the cell and adds, "My ship is always open to wayward little birds."
The Talon's eyes flicker up, but lift no higher than Slade's stomach before dropping again. "I want to return to the Court," the Talon says firmly, and Slade simply doesn't believe him. But hey, he can't say he actually thought it would be that easy.
"When was the last time you ate a real meal?" Slade asks.
At the sudden topic change, the Talon hesitates, and then says, "A few days, maybe."
Slade hums sympathetically, and Talon's eyes flicker again. Slade looks away for a moment, towards where his son stands down the hall, and calls, "Do you have the keys to the cells?"
The Talon goes tense, but Slade pretends he doesn't notice as Grant nods and approaches, offering a pair of keys to Slade before backing up a few steps. He doesn't return to his previous position, instead looking curiously at the Talon, and Slade doesn't tell him to leave since he's staying quiet and unobtrusive.
Slade unlocks the cell and swings the door open on creaky hinges. The Talon has gone completely rigid now, hands curling into loose fists as he actually lifts his gaze, golden eyes level as he looks at Slade's face.
"There's plenty of food aboard my ship," Slade says simply, but doesn't enter the cell yet, wary of potential attacks. The chains look sturdy, but he's heard enough about the skills of a Talon that he's not eager to put himself in striking range just yet. "You can have as much as you want."
The Talon's expression is perfectly blank, but his eyes search Slade's face, looking for some hint of deception or ulterior motive. "And what would that cost?"
Yes, Slade supposes the Talon hasn't experienced any generosity in a long time, if ever. Slade doesn't know how young the Court starts training its assassins, but he knows it's young, and that this Talon has certainly spent at least a decade under their 'care'.
"If you want a price, then it will be helping to defend my ship against any attackers for the duration of your stay on it," Slade says easily. "But I'm simply offering you a hot meal and a place to rest your head that isn't a cold, damp, dark cell."
The Talon's lips press into a thin line. Despite the blankness he's trying to continue to embody, Slade can see the cracks in it clear as day. The Talon is exhausted, and hungry, and maybe even afraid. He's spent probably a few days, maybe longer, trapped in the prison of a navy ship, knowing that he's headed towards his execution. There must be some part of him—maybe even a large part—that is desperate for just a little bit of safety.
Slade is oh so happy to provide. The Deathstroke can be this assassin's safe haven, can be the best damn place to live for a tortured, brainwashed weapon, can allow him to experience some freedom that he certainly has never had under his masters. What scared kid could turn that down?
Slade wouldn't mind having his own personal assassin.
When there is still no response from the Talon, his hesitation continuing, Slade decides that attack is very unlikely, and strides into the cell. The Talon twitches, but doesn't flinch back or move at all other than that, holding perfectly still as Slade approaches him. Slade doesn't say anything, simply inserts the second key into the locks on his cuffs, releasing them and allowing them to clatter to the ground.
The Talon immediately jerks his hands back, curling his arms against his chest in an extremely vulnerable action that the Talon doesn't seem to be able to stop himself from doing. One hand clasps loosely around his opposite wrist as he watches Slade kneel down to reach for his ankle cuffs and undo them as well, completely freeing the assassin from his bindings.
Slade doesn't get back to his feet, instead just lifts his head to meet the Talon's gaze again, holding it steadily. The Talon's eyes are wide now, his shoulders the slightest bit hunched, and those golden eyes search Slade's face almost desperately.
This close up, he really does look young. Around Grant's age, maybe, or even a little younger. Maybe he's not even out of his teen years, considering the slight softeness to his cheeks. His black hair is unruly, and the way it curls against his forehead and over his eyes is not unattractive, if still contributing to the appearance of youth. He looks...vulnerable, and small, and not like a ferocious assassin that is feared by so many.
Just a lost little boy, with an offer of warmth and safety being dangled in front of him.
Slade stays where he is, forcing himself to wait, keeping his expression calm and open and honest. Thankfully, his patience eventually pays off, because the Talon begins to uncurl, body relaxing until he shifts forward and nods jerkily.
"Alright," he says. "I—accept your offer."
It takes effort to keep the satisfaction—the victory—from appearing in the smile he offers the Talon, but he manages it, slowly pushing to his feet and stepping back to not crowd the assassin as he too stands up.
"Good," Slade says, shifting his tone to pleased, and the Talon twitches for some reason Slade doesn't understand. It doesn't seem bad, though, so he lets it go for the moment, heading back out of the cell.
Grant falls into step beside him with only one quick glance over his shoulder, and faintly Slade can make out quiet footsteps following after them, the Talon light on his feet just as Slade would expect an expert assassin to be.
Father and son share a glance, Grant uneasy and Slade satisfied, and they lead their new companion out into the sunlight.