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Arkham City is a pain to get in and out of. The place was locked down tighter than a convent. The only reliable way in and out she'd found was the buried Wondercity below. Inhabited by killer clockwork robots, a giant lizard, oh and Ra's Al Ghul's assassins.
Jacelyn did not want to know why Ra's was here or if he had any involvement with Strange. The egomaniacal ancient likely did, but she knew better to get involved with that mess. If Ra's was around, then Talia was not far away. And if Talia was around, then she'd be trying to get her 'beloved's' attention. And the pieces weren't in place yet to face Batman.

In short, she was tired, grouchy and needed a shower after a foothold had given out. Oh and preferably to get Arkham City's walls back between her and 'him'. Wilson on the other hand was in no rush as he sauntered over from the nook he'd waited in, tucked away from prying eyes.
"I found something I think you'll like. Consider it a gift." She hated it when Wilson was cryptic. The man was lucky he was good at what he did and was somewhat decent company. Among other things.

"It better be worth it." Despite the mask, she could tell Wilson was confident that it was worth her time as he gestured to a rusted roof hatch. To any normal person, Deathstroke was an unreadable goliath. But if you watched, if you had spent months training under the man. Then you could spot the subtle changes. She'd learned to read him in a short amount of time. Though she was unsure if that was from learning to speak emotionally constipated dramatic furry or from her time on the streets. Either way, Wilson's posture was relaxed, alert for any threats of course, but at ease. Not tense, taut like a bowstring whenever he sensed trouble.

The hatch screeches as she wrenches it open, ignoring the hiss of pain from Deathstroke. In one fluid movement, she jumps down, catching the ladder midway down and sliding the rest of the way.

Turning around, Jacelyn peered into the gloom. The smell of damp leaking through her filters. It hurt. Seeing what her childhood streets had been condemned to. Sure it had been a shithole and unsafe for anyone. But it had been her shithole. A shithole she'd been trying to save. And Bruce just let it be turned into this. Abandoned it, just like her.

Slade drops down with a thud. The floor groaned at his combined weight of armour, weapons and muscle. The sudden noise prompted something in the darkness to gurgle. A horrible, wet noise. Akin to one choking on blood.
The darkness lifted as her helmet's night vision gradually turned on to reveal a hunched figure in a chair, the head flopping to the side. Rusted, spiked wire was wound tight around flesh and wood.

It was then she recognised what the captive was, what her gift was, and her heart nearly stopped. Blood cakes a bony chin and obscures the exaggerated smile. Paperwhite skin is blotched with sores, some scabbed, some weeping. The obnoxious purple suit was filthy and torn.
Its eyes locked onto her, scrutinising the armour she wore, focusing on the Arkham emblem. A manic glint blooming as the monster of her nightmares gurgles again, goblets of blood spewing out.

"I cut its tongue out, I had the feeling you wouldn't want to listen to its drivel." The deep baritone jolts her out of her stunned state, Wilson moving to check the thing's restraints. Satisfied, he returns to her. "Apart from that and some bruises, it's all yours."
He waves a hand to a nearby rotten table, nonchalant as if he's directing her to a buffet at a gala. It takes a moment for her to get moving, her feet feeling encased in cement. Reaching the table, she trails her fingers over the reminders of twisted memories. Her own breaths deafening as they come to rest on an old friend.

'What hurts more? Forehand or backhand? A? Or B?'

Slade doesn't say anything, lets her ponder the choices. But she doesn't miss the gleam of approval in the sole eye as her fingers wrapped around the rusted tool. Nor does he question her order.
"Wait outside." Doesn't insist on staying, just nods and leaves her to it.

The seconds it takes for Wilson to climb back up the ladder seemed like hours. When the hatch finally shuts, she releases the breath she'd been holding and hefts the crowbar. She tests the weight against her palm as she approaches her nightmare, her demon. Its brow creasing as it scrutinises her. It's curious, wants to know the why, the who, the punchline.

And it's not going to get it. It's taken enough. Poisoned enough, tainted enough.

Now. Now it's time to destroy it.

So he stands vigil as the prison bustles beneath him as gangs squabble over the rare drops of food and territory. While inside the building, bones crack, blood paints the floor and organs rupture. A pleasant melody.

It takes a while but the room falls silent before two shots ring out. One to the head, one to the heart. He didn't need to confirm it. Jacelyn was, among many other things, a diligent student. The countless times he'd caught her stripping her pistols in her free time, napping with a Spanish book balanced in her lap or practising her katas.
If anyone asked him to sum The Arkham Knight in one word, he would choose determined. If Billy had still been around, he would have been getting a raised brow over a glass of whiskey. Followed by either silent judgement or a knowing remark.
'When will you learn Wilson?'

The hatch thuds open and Jacelyn hauls herself out. Her breaths laboured and gloves slick with blood. He offers a hand when she pauses at the top of the ladder, helping her up. Jacelyn's knees threatened to buckle for a brief moment.
Blood covers her visor in splotches. Softly squeezing her hand, he pulled out wipes from his belt. He'd learned quickly to carry them after his first jobs. Depending on where you cut or shot someone, you could get a trickle or a geyser. Or you were ensuring no one questioned the target's manner of death.

"Focus on my voice Sư tử and breathe. It's gone now. You did well. I'm going to clean your gloves and visor, is that alright?" A non-meta would have missed the subtle dip of the helmet. But as a meta, he can see every move and knows what means what it means, even when hidden beneath the padded suit; something Slade personally dislikes though he understands the reasoning.

Slade takes great care as he cleans, making sure there are no smears on the visor before moving to the gloves. All the time, giving gentle instructions, telling her what he was doing. "Spread your hand out for me please, Sư tử. I don't want you to lose your grip." Crooking a finger under her chin so he could tilt it up, Slade looked into the digital eyes of the helm. "AK. Talk to me."

Jace's breathing has evened out, not to a normal standard, but it's best it's going to get this soon and close to that thing. "I'm..I'm okay. Let's just. Just go back to base. Please." The modulator almost hides how quiet her voice has gone. A hand meets the one under her chin, giving a gentle squeeze before pulling it away.

"Okay, I'll take point."

Slade wouldn't lie, he had been intrigued when he'd seen the Shadows. The tattoos marking some as royal guard, others marked as guardians. Giving him two crucial pieces of intel:
1) Ra's was overseeing this operation in person. So Talia, the new heir, was around too. He'd heard of the changes, of Nyssa heading a splinter faction.
2) Gotham had a Lazarus pit underneath it. Which explained a lot about the city and its propensity for crazies. And why the goons could survive having their heads shoved into a fuse box.

Soon as they crossed the threshold of their safehouse, Jacelyn had beelined for her workbench. Her helmet was discarded to reveal short, black curls. The pistols put aside followed by pieces of her suit. He copied her, moving to his workbench. The mood was clear, she did not want to talk right now.

Once they were down to the base layer, he stepped over. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he leaned down and whispered,
"Go take a shower. It'll make you feel better. I'll sort your gear out." There was a numb nod, eyes still glazed over. The last hours were still sinking in. While her heart had returned to its usual rhythm, her blood hadn't. The marks Joker had left stood out, bold against pale skin.

Slade waits until the shower starts before he starts cleaning Jacelyn's gear with the utmost care. She knows how crucial their gear is. Their tools of the trade. It's not only skill that keeps you alive and fed in this profession. It's a shared sentiment.
A grapple gets you out of danger quick or grants a brief respite to plan. Armour keeps a lucky shot from ending your career. A sword can end a threat silently. A well-cleaned firearm won't jam on you at the worst time. But you also can't be reliant upon your gear. And the best of both doesn't guarantee victory. Something Jacelyn learnt the hard way.

He finishes up, leaving the pistols untouched. His Sư tử preferred to clean them herself and she would smack him if he tried. Speaking of Jacelyn, she's still in the shower. Water splashing. No red flags that he could hear. But there were many yellow flags. He ponders as he goes out into the nighttime chill of the balcony. Leaning against the railing, he stares out at the skyline.
Had he moved too soon? Would it have been better to suggest killing Joker? Perhaps to allow Jacelyn to prepare herself more for the act. Had he been too hasty? Seizing the opportunity when it had presented itself?

It had almost been too good to be true. Joker taking a stroll on top of the ruins of Sionis' empire. Harley dismissed despite her protests, likely to keep a meeting secret. If the words it had uttered before the pommel of Slade's sword had any indication.
"About time Kar-" Karlow. That was the only person, in the loosest definition of the word, he could think of. What did the clown want with Clayface?

While he's thinking, the water shuts off, followed by a door opening. He listens as she pads around, rummaging through drawers before shelving that line of thought. Whatever Joker had planned, it couldn't be enacted anymore. Or to its full extent. Whatever pitiful attempts Quinn made to carry out her 'pudding's last wish', Batman and Strange could deal with it. Their prison. Their city. Their problem.

Behind him, the balcony door slides open. A warmth appears at his side, dipping under an arm that he raises on instinct.
"Feel better?" He asks, pulling his Sư tử close. A mingled scent drifting up, wood sage and gunpowder. The primal part of his brain preening at the realisation that Jacelyn was wearing his sweats. Her hands bunched up in the long sleeves as she rested them on the railing.

"Yeah." She whispers, voice timid as she tucked her head under his chin. The curls were still damp, same as her eyes.

"You sure?" He prods gently.

"It... just ...seemed impossible for that monster to die." She shuffles closer, either for warmth or for comfort. Or both. A dry, bitter chuckle bubbles out. " Y'know, always springing back despite how many bones B would break. Pop back up like a Jack in a box."

"It only seemed that way because it was allowed to go on that long." While Slade could understand why Batman did not play executioner. It was after all quite difficult to reform the system in the first place, with said system with you. With the system against you? Fat chance. What he could not understand though was why that thing was permitted life. Why were they convinced that it could be cured despite all the atrocities it committed?

"Slade." She moves, forcing him to take a step back as she turns to face him. Looking him straight in the eye.
"Why?"

It's a loaded why and not a singular one.

'Why did you do this?
Why now?
Why let me do the deed?"

"Because it hurt you." He cups her cheek, not the branded one, thumb idly tracing a minor scar. She leans into the touch. "Because that thing ripped so much from you. It only felt right that you were to do it. To destroy it on your terms."

"There's something you're not saying."
Perceptive as always, people always focused on his Sư tử being more emotional than her predecessor. No, Jacelyn had been the Robin that had cared. Cared about her community. Something Joker had taken advantage of. They forgot she was just as capable as the others. Perhaps better. She knew the underworld intimately, had been born and raised in it. No fancy tutors or world trip to learn the trade. Just survival, knowing the signs from experiences she'd been lucky to survive. If there was an angry Robin, it was Grayson.

"Your nightmares. They were getting worse." His Jacelyn flinches. It's not something she likes to talk about. She hates showing weakness. Yet the nightmares had become more and more frequent whenever they were running ops in Gotham. Countless nights of no sleep, of choked gasps and screaming. Tense whenever they had to go in or near Arkham City. That lingering fear Joker would learn she was still alive and come to collect his lost bird. Which is never going to happen ever. She's his. Not Joker's. Not Batman's.
"And because I don't like seeing you in pain."He whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Every word the truth.

Just not the whole truth.

Thankfully she doesn't pry, doesn't realise he's still withholding. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, a rare sight before she reaches up. Scarred hands come to rest on his shoulders as she presses a brief kiss to his lips.

"Thank you." He almost misses the words, the silent whisper. Jacelyn rested her head against a shoulder, arms sliding around his neck. He returns the gesture, arms around her waist. Loose but secure. He holds her as the city below quietens and the chill grows.

"Come on, in the warmth before you catch a cold." He states when a shudder ran through Jacelyn. She doesn't protest as he bundles her under the duvet and into his arms. Just a soft hum as sleep took hold, ignorant to the real reason he ripped Joker's tongue out.