Chapter Text
Beneath the city, in what he now knew as Slade’s hideout, Dick clipped his utility belt into place and waited for further instructions.
Slade said nothing. He slowly circled Dick, carefully inspecting his uniform.
Dick had been given a sleek new bodysuit, fitted with armoured plates along the legs, arms, and shoulders. It provided extra protection, but came at the cost of his mobility. The added weight would slow him down and create unnecessary drag.
Not that he’d tell Slade that. He kept his complaints to himself because, in the end, none of it mattered. He wouldn’t be there for long.
Looking down, Dick frowned at the dual-tone orange and black. It made his skin crawl. Worse still was the insignia sitting right above his heart—a symbol declaring to the world that Dick worked for Slade. Well, perhaps “worked” wasn’t quite the right word; it was more akin to “blackmailed”. Dick didn’t have a choice; he’d been tricked.
While Dick had gone after Slade, the Titans had split up to deactivate the Chronoton Detonator, but it was a trap—a decoy to lure them away from him. Instead, they’d been injected with nanoscopic probes that could, with a push of a button, destroy them from the inside out. If Dick wanted them to live, he had to obey Slade’s every command.
Slade watched him from the shadows, inspecting Dick’s new uniform and the colours that now matched his. “I know it seems bad now, but trust me, you’ll learn to like it,” he promised.
Dick glared at the floor, worried his voice would betray his bitterness.
“Come along, Robin. Your training begins at once,” continued Slade, satisfaction coating his words.
As he turned to leave, Dick looked wistfully at his Robin uniform. It’d been neatly folded and placed beside one of the moving gears. He didn’t want to part with it. Doing so felt almost like admitting defeat. But then his eyes shifted to the four large monitors displaying the Titan’s vitals, and his resolve hardened. He was doing this for his friends.
“Okay.”
Slade paused, his mood changing quickly. “What did I tell you about properly addressing me?”
Dick swallowed a biting remark. “Okay, sir.”
He followed Slade through the facility, building a mental map of its layout. They were beneath an industrial factory, somewhere on the far side of Jump City.
Dick had initially entered from the sewers into what appeared to be a large warehouse. He recognised the huge interconnected gearbox. Those types of gears were primarily used to power industrial-sized equipment. His best guess was that it was either a recycling plant or a steel mill. Either would give Slade access to the raw materials needed for his Slade-Bots, as well as provide an easy way in and out of the city.
Clever, if it had been anyone else.
Slade turned down a corridor and unlocked a plain metal door, leading Dick inside. The room was spacious, with sparring mats, a rack of weapons, and a couple of training dummies. There were no other entrances or windows, leaving him thoroughly trapped.
Dick subtly eyed the weapons. There was an array of swords, daggers, bō staffs, spears, and lances. All used for close combat; all meticulously cared for. However, he couldn’t risk making a move. Yet.
For starters, he was unarmed. Dick had been stripped of anything useful upon arrival. His collapsible bō staff, birdarangs, smoke pellets, and grappling hook (as well as his communicator) were taken from him and likely destroyed. But he wasn’t completely helpless. Dick had years of martial arts training to fall back on, in addition to his acrobatics.
But facing an opponent like Slade, especially one who was genetically enhanced, meant he’d be at a disadvantage. He was the sort of enemy he had to plan for, not one he could just wing.
“You won’t be needing any of those,” said Slade, having caught Dick staring at the weapon rack. “I’d like to get a read of your current hand-to-hand combat skills first.”
Dick kept his face deceptively blank as he joined Slade in the centre of the sparring mats. He took slow, measured breaths and stood in a forward-facing stance. If Slade wanted a fight, he’d be happy to give him one.
Slade slowly circled him in a similar stance. His single grey eye tracked Dick’s movements with a predatory glare. Dick felt the tension grow as he waited for him to make a move.
Then, in a quick burst of movement, Slade extended his arm and aimed a swift jab at Dick’s head. Dick deflected the punch, knocking Slade’s wrist aside. It created a small opening, allowing him to close the distance. His knuckles connected with a loud thump, but Slade didn’t seem to notice.
Instead, Slade quickly countered with an elbow, twisting his body to add more power. Dick barely managed to block the strike. It grazed his arm—a powerful blow that would’ve caused serious damage if it had connected. Slade was using his super strength.
He had to be careful.
It went on like that for several minutes. Slade would attack quickly and viciously, aiming for the more vulnerable parts of the body. While Dick would defend himself, redirecting blows or dodging punches, only to counter with his own strike. Their fight was a relentless blur of movement, a dance of fists and feet as they ducked and weaved around each other.
Dick tried to aim most of his hits at Slade’s blind spot, scrabbling for any advantage he could, but he was starting to tire. Most spars only lasted a couple of minutes, and they’d been at it for half an hour.
He flipped backwards, then kicked up with his foot, landing a solid hit to Slade’s chest. It made the mercenary step back, breaking his stance.
“Good,” said Slade, not at all out of breath. “That’s very good, my apprentice.”
The fight continued. Dick started taking hits. He turned his body with each blow, trying to minimise the damage and absorb some of the impact. Yet Slade never tired. Besides his enhanced strength and speed, he must also possess superhuman levels of stamina.
Then Dick faltered on one of his landings, narrowly dodging a punch aimed at his jaw. He steadied himself, pushing through the exhaustion.
Dick wanted the fight to end; he needed it to end. So, he changed tactics. No more pulling punches, no more fighting fairly. Each strike became deadly, aimed at causing as much damage as possible. His muscles screamed in protest, but he kept his guard up and eyes fixed on Slade, adrenaline surging through his veins.
He feigned to the left but then struck out to the right with a powerful kick. It successfully landed, connecting solidly with Slade’s knee. There was a terrible snap as the bone wrenched painfully to the side.
Dick faltered. He’d misjudged the force behind his kick.
Slade caught himself before he tripped, managing to stay on his feet. But Dick didn’t need to look to know that his leg was bent the wrong way.
Dick scrambled backwards, putting distance between them. “It wasn’t—” His voice caught in his throat. “I-I didn’t mean—”
Slade cut him off. “You did, though. Your strike landed exactly as you intended.” His voice wasn’t angry or even upset; instead, he seemed pleased. “You’re more vicious than I expected for a former hero.”
Dick’s temper flared. He was being honest. He hadn’t meant to injure Slade (at least not that badly). It was a mistake. But a small part of him, the part he never acknowledged, was glad. Slade was an evil man. He was a mercenary, a paid killer. If anyone deserved to be hurt, it was him.
Slade leaned against the wall, supporting himself on his uninjured leg. The pain either hadn’t registered or was inconsequential.
What was Dick supposed to do? Should he find someone to help or try to make a run for it? Maybe his communicator was still somewhere in the facility?
But before Dick could do anything, Slade shifted his position. He watched in morbid fascination as his leg snapped back into place, straightening out. Then came a sickening pop, followed by a crunch, as his kneecap and surrounding ligaments reattached.
What in the world?
His leg had been fixed.
Dick swallowed his urge to complain. Of course, Slade had a healing factor. Why wouldn’t he? It’s not like this fight was fair to begin with.
Once healed, Slade beckoned him closer. “Let's see how well you can keep up.”
It was a losing battle. Dick flipped and blocked and dodged as much as he could, but the onslaught was relentless. His body had reached its limits.
Slade swept his legs out from under him, knocking him flat on his back. Dick rolled as he hit the ground but couldn’t manage to stand back up. His legs shook with strain before he collapsed onto the mat.
He was done.
“That was an excellent start, Robin, but it seems I have much to teach you.”
Dick couldn’t answer. His lungs were in his throat.
Then there was a noise behind him, a door handle rattling. Someone was trying to get inside the room. Dick could barely lift his head to see.
“Catch your breath,” instructed Slade. “We’ll continue in just a moment.”
Dick rolled onto his back and sprawled out on the mats, drenched in sweat. If Slade was giving him a chance to rest, he’d take it. After a minute or two, he pushed himself up with shaky limbs into a seated position. Dick’s gaze flicked over to Slade, who had leant against the far wall. He took a drink from a plastic water bottle, given to him by a newcomer, a teenage boy.
Slade spoke quietly to him, whispering words too soft to hear. The boy nodded, causing his blonde curls to bounce. Dick was about to ask who he was, but then their eyes met. A deep shade of green met his domino mask. He looked young, perhaps even younger than Dick, but definitely in his mid-teens. It was difficult to tell, as his facial features were still softened from prepubescence.
The boy cautiously approached, wary of Dick and the danger he posed. In his hand, he held a second bottle of water. Unlike Slade’s, this one hadn’t been opened. When Dick didn’t make a move to take it, he crouched down low and gently offered it to him.
After such an intense sparring session, Dick was parched. He took the bottle from the boy’s hand, grateful for the water. It must have been kept in the fridge because a thin layer of condensation had formed, making it feel damp.
“Thanks,” said Dick, uncapping the lid and breaking its seal.
He finished half the bottle in one go. The boy smiled at him but stayed quiet. Instead, he got to his feet and moved to stand beside Slade.
Who was he? Another unwilling apprentice or someone else entirely? Slade appeared to trust him, which probably meant Dick shouldn’t.
He didn’t have much time to think about it before Slade pushed off from the wall and loomed over him, casting a shadow.
“Break’s over, kid. Get up.”
Dick finished his cool-down exercises, stretching out his overworked muscles to avoid further soreness. It was a familiar feeling, one he knew well from his time as Batman’s protégé. If he were honest with himself, training with Slade felt very much like training with Bruce. Both of them pushed him beyond his comfort zone and expected nothing less than perfection.
Dick balled his fists, pressing his nails into his palms. The sharp sting of pain grounded him.
He couldn’t think about Bruce. Not here, not now.
He kept his eyes fixed on Slade’s back as he led Dick past the sparring room and into a homemade shooting range. Inside, there were several firing lanes and a large area fitted with clay throwers. All of the surfaces were reinforced with concrete.
Dick spotted an open gun rack. It held a broad selection of pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles, all with different calibres, gauges, and barrel lengths. Below sat a plain beige table, likely used for cleaning and maintaining said firearms.
Dick wasn’t surprised that Slade had somehow built his own underground shooting range. The mercenary typically carried dual pistols as part of his arsenal and was known to use sniper rifles for more discreet contracts. Dick would’ve been shocked if Slade hadn’t made him train with them.
From his pocket, Slade fished out a small rectangular box and handed it to Dick. It contained a pair of black earpieces.
“These function as both commlinks and noise-cancelling earbuds,” explained Slade. “They’ll automatically connect to mine, so we’ll be able to communicate over long distances. And as a bonus, they’ll filter out excessive noise, so you won’t damage your eardrums when shooting.”
Dick slipped them out of the box and into his ears. They blended in perfectly with his dark hair.
Slade looked at him expectantly, eyebrow raised. “What do you say, apprentice?”
“Thank you, sir.” He barely refrained from rolling his eyes.
“You ever handle a gun before?” asked Slade. “I know the Bat has quite a dislike of them.”
That was an understatement of the century. Bruce hated guns. However, his ex-mentor didn’t pass on the same dislike to Dick. In fact, he remembered that part of his training had directly involved firearms…
In the cave, Bruce had laid out several guns on a table. He beckoned Dick to come closer and examine them.
“I thought you hated guns?” asked a younger version of himself, barely a year into being Robin.
“But I don’t fear them. There’s a big difference,” explained Bruce. He encouraged Dick to pick up an unloaded pistol, to get a feel for its weight in his hand. “They’re used against us so often that we need to know them, respect them. To be better than the punks who rely on them for courage.”
Dick held the pistol in his hand, examining it up close. It was almost too easy to use—a frightening thought.
From there, Bruce taught him how to shoot. He learned the proper grip and stance, trigger and muzzle discipline, and how to disarm a gunman. It’d been fun, a nice change of pace from his usual training.
Dick schooled his expression into one of nonchalance. He shouldn’t be thinking about Bruce, not whilst Slade studied his face for a reaction. Dick buried the memory, forcing himself to stay present.
“I know the basics,” he answered, refusing to give any more details.
“We’ll see about that,” said Slade.
He was handed a Beretta M9. Small bits of trivia flooded Dick’s mind from his past training. He knew that the M9 was the standard sidearm for Marine Corps officers. It would make sense if Slade had served in the military. The man seemed quite disciplined and had shown extensive combat and tactical knowledge. Dick mentally filed away the information for later.
After a quick demonstration, Slade stepped back and watched him. Dick lined up at one of the firing lanes and checked the setup. Several targets were attached to running tracks on the ceiling, and a steel-plate backdrop was angled to catch any stray bullets. Slade had built an almost professional-quality shooting range. Dick wondered if he had received any outside help. Surely, this was the work of more than one person.
Slade had him load one round into the magazine to start with. Dick got into position and carefully aimed his pistol, aware of the mercenary breathing down his neck. For a wild moment, he contemplated shooting him, but let the thought pass. A single 9mm bullet wouldn’t be enough to take down someone like Slade. It might not even pierce his armour.
Dick flicked the safety off. The targets were made of corrugated cardboard with a printed image of a silhouette. There were two scoring zones, one in the chest and the other in the head. Dick aimed for the chest.
“Remember your fundamentals,” lectured Slade.
Dick exhaled and took the shot, remembering to follow through. It hit the target, slightly off-centre but within the smallest ring.
Slade nodded, pleased. “Good, let’s get you some more rounds.”
Pretty quickly, Dick upgraded to shooting ten rounds at twenty-five metres. He kept practising until they all hit the bullseye within a thirty-millimetre grouping.
“I believe you’ve proven your adequacy,” said Slade. “Tomorrow, we’ll see how you go with shooting moving targets.”
Dick’s body became impossibly still. Moving targets? He hoped Slade didn’t expect him to shoot people.
“I’m not going to shoot anyone,” Dick said stubbornly.
That was the one line he could never cross. He’d come close with Zucco, his parents’ murderer, but in the end, he chose to spare his life. From that day on, Dick always picked justice over vengeance.
A dangerous glint flickered in Slade’s eye. “You say that now, but when you’re out in the field, you won’t always have a choice.”
“I won’t do—”
Faster than he could react, Slade smacked Dick across the face with the gun. Dick turned his head with the strike, mitigating the damage, but it wasn’t enough.
Pain bloomed from the point of contact. His teeth had cut the inside of his cheek, filling his mouth with blood. It trickled down his chin and dripped onto the floor. Bright red droplets stained the concrete.
“You do as you’re told. Do you understand that, boy?” Slade’s voice promised worse if he disagreed.
“Yes, sir,” Dick bit out through his bloodied teeth.
With inhuman speed, Slade grabbed Dick’s jaw and forced him to look up. His fingers pressed in deep, smudging blood across his face.
“I won’t tolerate any backtalk from you,” growled Slade. “Unless you want to test my patience.” In his hand, he held the detonator.
A threat. Not directed at him, but at his friends.
All it would take was a push of a button.
Dick backed down. He couldn’t risk his friends' lives. “I’m sorry. I-I’ll use the gun, but I won’t kill. I can’t—” His voice cracked. “Please, Slade. Don’t hurt them,” he begged.
Slade stared at him thoughtfully before quietly slipping the detonator back into place. “Very well, apprentice. I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”
Dick’s eyes widened in alarm as Slade moved closer, invading his personal space. He swallowed thickly against a dry throat, mouth tasting of iron. His cheek throbbed.
Slade bent down and attached a thigh holster to Dick’s uniform. The brush of his glove almost sent him into a panic. He was too close for comfort. His senses screamed danger at him.
A Beretta M9, the same one used to hit him, was shoved into his hands. “Field strip and then clean it,” ordered Slade. “This’ll be yours from now on. I expect you to take good care of it.”
Dick did as he was told. After reassembling the gun, he slipped it into his new holster. The weight felt heavy on his side. Unbalanced. Slade hadn’t given him any ammunition and probably wouldn’t. Not unless they were training or out in the field. He likely thought that Dick might shoot him if given the chance—a fair assessment, considering their apprenticeship.
Cutting through the silence, Dick heard footsteps approaching. The door swung open, revealing the same teenage boy he’d met earlier in the day.
Slade barely acknowledged his presence. “Treat his injuries. I’ll take him to his quarters afterwards,” he demanded.
The boy gave Slade a questioning look.
“No, he won’t be joining us tonight,” Slade pre-emptively answered. “Dinner is a privilege, not a right.”
He was baiting Dick, hoping to provoke a reaction from him. But Dick stayed silent. He wouldn’t give Slade what he wanted. As he watched the boy pull out medical supplies, his stomach rumbled. He should’ve eaten breakfast with the Titans when he had the chance. It was too late for regrets now.
A gentle hand reached out and tilted his face, checking for damage. Dick held completely still. His heart pounded against his ribcage. The boy dampened a cloth with water and wiped away the smeared blood.
Dick suppressed a groan of pain, remaining statuesque. His cheek felt swollen and was probably going to bruise. He was given a small square of gauze, which he pressed into his mouth to soak up the excess blood. Thankfully, the worst of the bleeding had already stopped.
Hyperaware that Slade might be listening, Dick whispered to the boy, “Who are you? What’re you doing here?”
The boy flicked his eyes over to the mercenary and subtly shook his head. He couldn’t answer. Not whilst Slade was in the room.
“Please, at least tell me your name.”
His mouth remained tightly shut. Dick mentally sighed. He’d try again later when they weren’t being watched.
“That’s enough. I’ll take it from here,” Slade said, shooing him away like he was a stray dog. The boy left the room without a word. How exactly did they know each other?
“Follow me,” he ordered Dick.
Slade led him through the facility, down another level, to a long, curved corridor. He unlocked a large metal door and pushed it open. Dick walked inside, checking out what would be his new sleeping quarters.
There wasn’t much to see. The small room was mostly empty, with just a single bed in the centre. The walls were bare, and the only source of light came from a mounted bulb on the ceiling.
“This is where you’ll be staying. Lights go out at twenty-one hundred. Training starts at oh-six hundred sharp. I’ll collect you in the morning.”
Slade turned to leave.
“Wait!” called Dick. “What about the bathroom? There’s nothing in here.”
The door slammed shut behind him, and the lock clicked into place. For the first time since he entered Slade’s hideout, he was alone.
Dick approached the door and checked for weaknesses. The lock was on the outside and required a key from Slade. There wasn’t even a door handle for Dick to pick. He was trapped. A tight knot constricted his throat, making it difficult to breathe.
No.
There had to be something he could do.
Dick examined every corner of the room. He combed the walls for openings or hidden cameras and even tried to unscrew the light bulb to access its wiring, but it was too high up. The bed was also a dead end. It consisted of a mattress, a blanket, and a pillow. Even the frame had been bolted to the floor. There was nothing in the room that he could repurpose.
Resigned, Dick took off his boots and gloves, lining them up against the wall. He flexed his toes and fingers, utterly bored. Then, when he had nothing better to do, Dick unlatched the plated armour and tossed it aside. It was a relief to take it off. The bodysuit, although not ideal, was a lot less restrictive.
Dick performed a series of stretches to loosen his cramped muscles. After about an hour, he laid down on the mattress and closed his eyes. It’d been a long day. A cold emptiness filled his chest.
He hoped the Titans were doing alright. His team meant everything to him. He wondered if they were still searching the sewers, or if they had expanded the perimeter to include Jump City. Knowing Starfire, she wouldn’t rest until Dick was safely back at the Tower.
But what if they weren’t? He’d told them to go on without him. It had been the last thing he’d said before they separated. Maybe they thought he’d purposely disappeared or pulled another Red X on them? The team had to know that he’d never willingly abandon them. They were his family.
Dick pulled the blanket up and over his head, covering his eyes. The bright light was starting to give him a headache. Unfortunately, if Slade were telling the truth, he’d have to wait until nine o'clock for the room to be shrouded in blissful darkness.
With nothing to distract him, the aches and pains of his body were hard to ignore. He wished Slade had let him use the bathroom at least once before locking him in here. The sweat had long since dried on his skin, leaving him feeling sticky and gross.
The other glaring issue was the lack of a toilet. Dick could ignore the pressure in his bladder for now, but for how long? He shouldn’t have been greedy with the water. If he’d known he wouldn’t be allowed to use the bathroom, he would’ve rationed it.
Tomorrow during his training, he’d need to be more careful. That is, if Slade would even allow him a drink. He already withheld food, deeming it a “privilege”, so who’s to say he wouldn’t do the same with water? Whatever happened, Dick wouldn’t go down without a fight.
The little sleep he’d gotten had been laughably bad. His once comforting dreams of caves and bats quickly turned into nightmares. When he woke, the image of Bruce and his disappointed face was burned into the back of his eyes.
From then on, Dick forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the mattress, staring at the unloaded gun Slade had given him. What would Bruce think? Would he have blamed him for falling into Slade’s trap so easily? A small part of him feared he would.
Then, finally, after hours of nothingness, he heard a soft click from the lock. In the doorway stood Slade, key in hand. He was dressed in his armoured uniform, including the black and orange mask he never took off.
“Sleep well, Robin?” he asked, his tone slightly mocking.
“It’s been a real five-star experience,” Dick replied sardonically. His sleep-deprived brain had forgotten to be polite.
Slade huffed a laugh. “I’m glad it was to your liking.” He pointed to the plated armour stacked in the corner. “Grab your uniform. We’ve got work to do.”
Dick picked up the armour along with his gloves and boots, then followed Slade down the corridor. The concrete floor felt cool under his feet. Much cooler than the stuffy room he’d been locked in all night.
When they reached a plain-looking door, Slade roughly shoved Dick inside.
“You’ve got ten minutes. Use your time wisely.”
He’d been pushed into a white tiled bathroom. His eyes flicked to the toilet. The unbearable pressure in his bladder made itself known, but he kept his composure. Dick casually strolled to the sink and dumped his uniform beside it. His neck prickled. Slade hadn’t gone yet.
Dick turned around and glared at the mercenary, arms crossed. “A little privacy, if you would.”
“Sure, kid. There’s a spare bodysuit on the counter. Clock’s ticking.”
As soon as the door shut, Dick immediately beelined to the toilet. Only once he’d relieved himself did he think about the possibility of hidden cameras. He hadn’t found any in his sleeping quarters, but that didn’t guarantee they weren’t there. Dick swallowed his pride and stripped off his clothes. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
There wasn’t enough time to wait for the water to heat, so his shower was lukewarm. Dick scrubbed away all the grime and sweat built up from training, feeling a lot better for it. He only slowed down when he cleaned under his mask, mainly because he had to make sure his upper face stayed covered at all times. His secret identity compromised more than just himself if it were to be revealed.
Once finished, Dick reached around the shower door and grabbed a folded towel. When he shook it open, something clattered to the floor. Curious, Dick picked up the object. It was some sort of ointment. He opened the lid and sniffed.
Arnica cream.
Something he often used as Robin to ease muscle aches, swelling, and bruising. Had Slade meant for him to find it? Or had someone else slipped it in? Thoughts of the blonde-haired boy drifted to mind.
After dressing in his uniform, Dick rummaged through the cabinet above the sink. There was a comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. That’s it, that’s everything he was given. He picked up all four items and balanced them on the counter.
When Dick wiped away the condensation on the mirror, he nearly stepped back in shock. The entire right side of his face, from his cheek to his jaw, had blossomed into a dark purple bruise. It looked terrible and felt just as sore.
Dick purposely ignored his reflection as he brushed his hair and cleaned his teeth. He had maybe a minute left when he decided to use the Arnica cream, rubbing it hurriedly onto his bruised face. Then he slipped the ointment into one of his pockets, just in case.
Seconds later, Slade opened the bathroom door. He inspected Dick from head to toe, smugness radiating off him in waves. “All done? Good. Come this way.”
Even though his hair was soaking wet and he hadn’t tied his boot laces, Dick obediently followed him. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time, but he’d done his best to look presentable.
As they moved through the facility, Dick ran his hand through his damp hair. He hadn’t failed to notice the lack of hair gel in the bathroom, a product he used on a daily basis. It was such a small thing. Inconsequential when compared to everything else Slade had taken. But it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt indicative of something bigger, something sinister—one of the many choices made for him.
Slade led Dick down to the surveillance room, where his unwanted apprenticeship had begun. The gears in the room spun faster, matching his quickened heartbeat. His eyes flicked up to the monitors, half expecting to see his friend’s vitals, but they were turned off. Slade sat down on the only chair in the room, leaving Dick standing awkwardly behind him.
“Take a seat,” directed Slade. He gestured towards an empty spot on the floor.
Dick’s cheeks burned. There was no way in hell he’d sit by Slade’s feet like a dog.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Have it your way.”
Slade casually pressed a button on his console, releasing the mechanism for a hidden compartment. Inside was a stack of well-worn books. Some of the subjects were quite innocuous, such as “The Beginner’s Guide to Russian”, while others were more obscure.
Dick glanced over at Slade, not sure what was expected of him. He thought his days would be filled with hand-to-hand combat or weapon training, not studying.
Slade noticed his hesitation. “What are you waiting for? Get reading.”
A dozen questions swirled in his mind, but Dick didn’t voice any of them. Slade, ever the strategist, kept his cards close to his chest, and he’d learned very quickly that information wasn’t freely given, at least not without an ulterior motive. Dick pushed aside his burning curiosity and cracked open the first book.
Only sheer stubbornness kept him standing.
Once he finished the book, Dick grabbed another from the pile. His eyes flicked over to Slade, who wasn’t paying any attention to him. The mercenary had only gotten up once in the last hour, and that was to procure a cup of tea. Dick’s stomach ached with emptiness. As the gnawing hunger grew, it became increasingly difficult to ignore. Dick wasn’t a stranger to discomfort (or to skipping meals), but the intense training he’d undergone with Slade had completely drained him.
Swaying slightly on his feet, Dick skimmed through the Cyrillic alphabet and pretended to memorise the letters. Not that it was too difficult a task, as Russian was one of the twelve languages he was already fluent in. He could also converse in very basic Tamaranian, which often delighted a homesick Starfire. If Slade had bothered to ask, Dick might have told him, but since he hadn’t, he kept his mouth firmly shut. Plus, most of his knowledge came from his circus days, long before he became Robin.
Slade took a small sip of tea and typed one-handed into his tablet, oblivious to Dick’s inner thoughts. Dick wondered what he’d say if he told him he was a polyglot. Maybe he’d make him prove it? Most people didn’t believe that a fifteen-year-old, especially one with his background, could speak so many languages. He figured Slade would be the same.
Dick flipped another page, keeping his eyes glued to the familiar verbiage, but his thoughts strayed to Slade. He didn’t really expect him to become a mercenary, did he? Training was one thing, but heading out into the field was another. Dick didn’t want to hurt anyone, and surely Slade was aware of that. But the M9 strapped to his side begged to differ.
And what about the other teenager? How did he fit into all this?
Dick knew that Slade liked to outsource. He’d witnessed it enough times with both Cinderblock and H.I.V.E. operatives. However, hiring someone for a job versus having them live with you were two completely different things. Maybe once he got a chance to speak with him, he’d be able to get a proper read on the situation.
A faint buzz broke the silence. Someone was calling Slade on his tablet. Dick dog-eared his current page and put the book on the pile. He subtly glanced at the screen, but the caller ID was hidden.
“Robin, listen to me very carefully,” ordered Slade, his tone direct. “I’m going to answer this call, and I expect you, as my apprentice, to behave accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”
Dick didn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, sir.” He stood behind Slade like a shadow, doing his best to blend into the background.
Slade swiped up, switching the call to one of the many monitors in the room. A man in his late fifties appeared on the screen. He had grey hair and sported a thick handlebar moustache.
“Billy, to what do I owe the pleasure?” greeted Slade, with a hint of fondness.
The old man—Billy—tilted his head towards Dick and spoke with a British accent. “This the apprentice you were telling me about? He’s a bit young, don’t you think?”
Dick glared at the floor, biting his tongue. Being made to stand next to Slade, dressed in his colours and carrying his weapons, made him feel small. He’d give anything not to be there.
“He’s not that much younger than we were when we started,” said Slade, keeping things vague.
“It was a different time back then.” A glint of wistfulness flashed in Billy’s eyes. “The youth of today wouldn’t cut it.”
Slade snorted. “You’re not wrong.”
Dick let the comments wash over him. They weren’t important. Still, he managed to learn something new: if Slade and Billy were from the same generation, then Slade must also be in his fifties and a lot older than he first thought.
“Is there a reason you called?” asked Slade. His shoulders bore a hint of tension. A certain weariness lingered where there wasn’t any before.
“Yes, I’m afraid the client from the Wright contract has asked for an amendment. He wants to add the brother as well.”
Slade leaned back, hands clasped as he considered the news. “We’ll need to shift our timeline if we want to take out both. Have you charged him an extra fee for the short notice?” he asked.
Billy nodded. “Check your accounts.”
From his vantage point, Dick couldn’t quite see the exact figure in Slade’s bank account, but judging by his expression, it was a decent amount. His stomach clenched. They talked about committing double homicide as if they were discussing the weather. It felt surreal.
For the next few minutes, the two men talked back and forth about some of the finer details but didn’t mention any names or places. Dick wasn’t sure if this was because of his presence or if they naturally spoke in code.
When the call ended, Dick waited a total of fifteen seconds before asking one of his many burning questions.
“What’s the Wright contract?”
“That’s none of your concern,” answered Slade. He eyed Dick with something akin to amusement. “You’ll have to prove your loyalty before I let you anywhere near my contracts.”
Dick frowned. He didn’t want to offer his assistance, but he also couldn’t stay locked up in the facility forever. The only chance he had to escape was to gain Slade’s trust, access the outside world, and send a message to the Titans.
If they knew about the nanoscopic probes, then they’d be able to figure out a way to disable them. It’d be risky, though. One wrong move, and it wouldn’t be him suffering the consequences, but his friends.
Slade’s earlier promise echoed in his mind…
“If you join me, if you swear to serve me, if you never speak to your friends again, I will allow them to live. But if you disobey, even the smallest request, I will annihilate them, Robin, and I’ll make you watch.”
Dick was caught between a rock and a hard place. He’d never felt so trapped.
“You already have my loyalty, Slade. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise my friends.”
“Patience, Robin. You’ll get your chance, don’t you worry.”
Somehow, the sentiment didn’t settle Dick’s nerves.
After their study session, Slade took Dick to the sparring room and told him to pick any weapon he wanted from the rack. He’d chosen the bō staff, something he was intimately familiar with. They fought until Dick was gasping for breath, utterly exhausted. Even though bruises covered every inch of his body and small tremors shook his hands, he never gave up. Fighting against his body’s limits was equally as taxing as fighting against Slade.
At least Slade was impressed with his efforts.
(“Excellent work, Robin. You’ve yet to let me down.”)
He hated that he'd received more praise from Slade than he’d ever gotten from Bruce.
One break later, Dick was standing in the middle of the shooting range watching Slade pack the clay throwers. As promised, they were progressing from stationary to moving targets. Slade picked up a shotgun from the gun rack, loaded the barrel, and then closed the break until it clicked shut.
He would be demonstrating first before letting Dick handle a shotgun.
“Keep your eyes open and focus on the target,” instructed Slade. “Have your feet planted apart like this, move the gun from a low position to the shoulder, remove the safety, rest your cheek on the comb and then pull the trigger.”
Dick readied the remote, waiting for Slade to say the word.
“Pull!”
He pressed the button, activating a fully automated thrower. It launched five clay targets in quick succession, all within a forty-five-metre range. They each fired at different speeds, directions, and heights, keeping it varied. Slade shot all five, spraying them both with clay.
He lowered the shotgun and turned to speak with Dick.
“Now it’s your turn.”
Dick found it more challenging to use a shotgun than a pistol. For starters, it was heavier and bulkier, fitting awkwardly in his arms, and secondly, the recoil kicked against his shoulder, battering his already bruised body.
During his first round, Dick only managed to shoot two out of the five targets. He quickly reloaded and tried again. After his second, third, and fourth rounds, Dick could hit three out of five targets, but Slade wanted perfection. He kept at it until he could consistently hit all five targets with the first shot. By then, his arms ached, but he refused to show any weakness. They only stopped when the clay throwers had run out of targets.
At some point during his final round, the teenage boy from yesterday snuck inside the range. He patiently waited off to the side and watched him shoot. Dick was secretly glad he hadn’t embarrassed himself by missing any of the targets.
Slade waved his hand to beckon the boy forward. “Load the throwers,” he ordered, then turned to face Dick. “We’ll take a five-minute break.”
Dick drank just enough water to quench his thirst and not a drop more. He watched as the boy packed what must’ve been a couple of hundred targets into the thrower.
“Who is he?” asked Dick, his curiosity getting the better of him. Slade didn’t answer. Undeterred, Dick asked a follow-up question. “Is he another apprentice?”
“No,” Slade said firmly, also watching the boy.
There was something familiar about his gaze that resonated with Dick. It was similar to how Slade had looked at his associate, Billy. But it wasn’t just fondness; it felt protective, instinctive, yet also possessive—almost as if the boy belonged to him.
“He’s your son,” said Dick with sudden realisation.
As he said it, he knew he’d hit the nail on the head. All this time, Slade had a son—one he kept so thoroughly hidden that not a single Titan knew he existed.
Slade's eye pierced Dick, appraising him. “He is,” he agreed after a brief pause.
“What’s his name?”
For a moment, Dick thought he wouldn’t answer him. But then, in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear, Slade replied.
“Joseph.”
Dick securely stored the shotgun after giving it a thorough clean. His second day of training was over, and he was left feeling as drained as the first, if not more so. He dragged himself over to the waiting mercenary, hoping to be dismissed for the night.
Slade stood silently, scrutinising him. “You’ve done well today, Robin. I believe you’ve earned a place at our table tonight.”
Relief washed over him. It'd been two days since his last meal, and he was running on fumes.
“Get washed up and meet me in the foyer at eighteen-thirty hours.”
Instead of walking him back to his quarters, Slade stayed behind to organise the boxes of ammunition. He slid them into locked compartments only he had access to. Dick glanced at the door then back at Slade. Was he allowed to leave? He edged forward, and when Slade didn’t say anything, he slipped out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind him. He peered down the darkened hallway, squinting his eyes at the flickering shadows. A sudden prickling sensation crawled up his spine, sending him into high alert. He turned around, searching for the source.
No one was there.
Deciding the best course of action was to do as he was told, Dick walked back to his sleeping quarters, wary of watchful eyes.
Inside his room, lying neatly on the bed, was a fresh set of clothes. There was a plain white button-up shirt, dark brown slacks, and a pair of polished dress shoes. Dick picked up the shirt and rubbed the fabric, feeling its softness. It had been tailored to his exact measurements and tapered in at the waist, so the material wouldn’t billow.
His lips pressed into a thin line, unsure how he should feel about it. These kinds of clothes were something he would’ve worn back at Wayne Manor. It unsettled him.
Taking the outfit with him, Dick entered the bathroom he used earlier that morning. Without the need to rush, he carefully checked every inch of the room to ensure he wasn’t being recorded. There were no hidden cameras or wall compartments, but he noticed someone had taken the time to tidy up. His dirty uniform and towel were gone, replaced with clean ones, and the counter had been scrubbed spotless.
Dick cleaned himself up then dressed in the clothes provided (plus his domino mask). He took his time brushing his freshly washed hair, letting the strands fall naturally onto his face. It helped hide the massive bruise on his cheek. The mottled purple looked just as bad as it did that morning, but at least the swelling had eased. Dick fished out the arnica cream from his uniform and rubbed a generous amount into his face.
Thinking about it further, Dick doubted that Slade had been the one to give it to him. It’d been folded into his towel, hidden out of sight. Probably done by the same person who had cleaned the bathroom. Most likely Joseph. He was the only other person in the facility with the means to do so.
But why would he want to help Dick? They were essentially strangers. Also, Slade was Joseph’s father. Wouldn’t they be on the same side? A small voice whispered in his head that he and Bruce constantly butted heads. It might be the same for them.
Dick wandered towards the foyer, past a hallway of identical doors. The facility's design was intended to be as disorienting as possible. You’d have to either count the doors or memorise the locations of each room, as they all looked exactly the same.
When Dick reached the foyer, no one else had arrived. He had about forty-five minutes to himself. He could spend the time mentally preparing for dinner with Slade, or he could take the opportunity for what it was: a chance to explore the facility unhindered.
Dick chewed his bottom lip, contemplating the consequences of getting caught.
He steeled his nerves and walked back the way he came. Door by door, Dick tested each handle in the hallway. Nearly all were locked, except for a plain metal one near the surveillance room. Dick eased it open, revealing a very bare-bones kitchen. He eyed the set of butcher’s knives on the counter but decided not to take one. There were better weapons in the sparring room.
Dick took another step inside but then froze. Someone had recently been cooking. There were half-washed dishes in the sink, a chopping board on the benchtop, and a delicious smell wafting from the oven. Whomever it was must’ve briefly stepped away.
Dick opened a couple of drawers and a cabinet or two, but found only crockery, utensils, and appliances—nothing of interest. Not wanting to push his luck any further, Dick quietly left, closing the door behind him.
He continued down the hallway until he reached the surveillance room. Dick peered inside. All of the monitors had switched over to standby mode. Without a proper light source, the room had been bathed in darkness.
Sinking into the shadows, Dick embraced the dark, wrapping it around him like a cloak. He may primarily operate during the day, but Robin was born from the night. It was second nature to him.
Dick beelined to Slade’s chair. He trailed his fingers along its metal frame, feeling for inconsistencies until he found the hidden console. Once he prised it open, he took note of the buttons inside. There were three rows of four, totalling twelve potential inputs. He already knew that one of them opened a compartment containing books, but maybe another could serve as a communicator?
His hand hovered over the first button. He couldn’t be certain he wasn’t triggering a silent alarm, but there were no rewards without risk.
Dick pressed it and heard a soft click from high above him in the ceiling. A latch connecting to the factory popped open. If it weren’t for the nanoscopic probes, Dick could’ve used it to escape then and there. Instead, he pressed the same button again, and the latch shut with a resounding bang. He cringed at the noise, which echoed loudly throughout the room. Dick froze, listening for any footsteps approaching his whereabouts.
It was silent. He decided to try one last button.
Pressing the second one did nothing. Dick looked around the surveillance room but couldn’t find a single change. There were no secret compartments, hidden doors, or unusual noises. It might not have been connected to anything. He pressed it again, hoping whatever it did hadn’t alerted Slade to his presence.
Dick decided that enough time had passed. He quickly closed up the console and removed any evidence of his tampering. With a minute to spare, Dick entered the foyer.
Slade stood to the side, dressed casually in a grey suit with a dark maroon turtleneck. He, too, kept his two-tone mask on, as neither trusted the other with their identity.
“Right on time, Robin. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be joining us.”
In the centre of the dining table was a roast chicken, accompanied by a selection of vegetables and freshly baked dinner rolls. Dick’s mouth salivated at the sight. Whomever cooked it had done a good job as everything looked delicious. Slade sat at the head of the table and then directed Dick to take a seat to his immediate left.
Without his armour, Dick felt terribly exposed. At the Titans Tower, he usually wore his Robin uniform or hid his utility belt under his street clothes. But here, he didn’t have anything. If, for some reason, he needed to defend himself, the nearest possible weapon was a carving knife next to the chicken. Not ideal.
Joseph joined them shortly afterwards, glancing briefly at Dick before heading to the table. He sat in Slade’s blind spot, directly to his right. Once settled, they each served themselves a portion of roast, piling it high onto their plates.
Dick tried not to fidget in his seat as he patiently waited for permission to eat. His eyes shifted to Joseph, who was staring intently at Slade with a pinched expression. When Slade met his son’s gaze, Joseph raised his hand, palm facing inwards, to his chin and then moved it forward.
Sign language.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Joseph never spoke a word, yet he followed Slade’s verbal commands. He was mute.
No wonder he didn’t answer Dick’s questions. He couldn’t.
Dick watched as Joseph signed something to Slade. He didn’t know ASL or any other variation, but he could guess a few of the meanings. One of the signs mimicked eating, so Dick figured he’d said something about their dinner.
Slade nodded before turning to face Dick. What was he supposed to do? He peered over at Joseph, who was deliberately looking at the food on the table. A hint.
“Oh, uh, thank you for the meal…” Dick trailed off. “...sir,” he tacked on lamely at the end.
“You’re welcome, Robin.”
Dick could sense Joseph watching him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Slade. No one reached for their cutlery. The tension grew palpable.
“Oh, there’s just one last thing I wanted to discuss with you,” Slade added.
An uneasy feeling gripped Dick’s chest. What else could he possibly want?
Slade lowered his voice, the threat clear in his tone. “When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.”
“What do you—?”
“Sneaking around the facility, rifling through drawers, prying open control panels. You’re not very subtle. Whatever information you’re searching for doesn’t exist.”
Dick’s face went pale. He’d been caught.
A thousand excuses flooded his head, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate.
“Oh? Did you think you weren't being watched?” sneered Slade. “That I wouldn’t monitor what my apprentice does in his free time? There’s nothing you can do without me knowing about it.”
So, there were cameras. Dick would’ve felt vindicated if he could feel anything besides dread. He thought he’d been careful, that a preliminary check would be enough, but it was all for nothing. Slade had known. He’d known the whole time.
“I wasn’t—” started Dick, but he was quickly cut off.
Slade pushed off from his seat and closed the short distance between them. He loomed over Dick, forcing him to wrench his neck up to keep eye contact. His entire body screamed danger. Slade was too close. He felt boxed in. A bead of sweat trickled down his back.
“You’re my apprentice. You belong to me.”
The breath was stolen from his lungs. He wanted to yell that he didn’t belong to anyone, but his throat had closed shut.
Opposite them, Joseph pushed back his chair with a loud scrape, attracting Slade’s attention. He signed with stilted hands, the fear showing in his movements.
“Sit down,” ordered Slade.
Joseph glared. The defiant look on his face contrasted with the slight tremor in his fingers. But he didn’t budge. He stood his ground.
“You’re just as stubborn as your mother, but at least she knew how to follow a simple order.”
Joseph flinched at the mention of his mother. His head drooped, eyes fixated on the table, unable to look at Slade. Then, slowly, he returned to his chair, defeat written across his face.
Slade followed suit, sitting down at the head of the table. Tension bled from the room. Dick remembered how to breathe.
Slade’s demeanour switched, and the faux calm came back. “Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s enjoy our meal before it gets cold.”
Dick reached out his hand to pick up his fork, but Slade slapped it away. He slowly slid Dick’s plate out of reach.
“Uh-uh, Robin. I said you earned a place at the table, not the food on it. If you wanted to eat dinner with us, you should’ve thought about that before disobeying direct orders.”
Dick silently stared at his plate, at all the food gone to waste, but he refused to beg. The human body was tough and could survive for weeks without sustenance. If Slade wanted him at his lowest, to push him to his breaking point, he’d have to do better than that.
Slade ordered Joseph to clear the table after they’d finished eating. All the leftovers were stacked onto one plate and taken away. As soon as Joseph left the room, Slade grabbed Dick’s arm and squeezed tightly, forcing him to his feet.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Robin. Naughty children get sent to bed without dinner,” he taunted.
A deep red blush heated his cheeks. “I’m not a child.” Dick winced at his retort. He’d meant to sound more mature than that.
“Then act like it,” growled Slade. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of what's at stake.”
His grip tightened to the point of bruising. A faint noise of pain escaped before Dick clamped his mouth shut. Slade threw open the door and manhandled him down the hall, half-dragging, half-pulling when he couldn’t keep up. Then he was tossed carelessly into his room, nearly crashing face-first into the bed frame. Only his natural sense of balance, honed from years as an acrobat, saved him from toppling over.
Slade slammed the door shut, locking Dick inside. The last thing he saw, before being bathed in darkness, was the rage burning in Slade’s eye.
Dick slowly lowered himself onto the mattress and cradled his bruised arm. The thin material of his shirt hadn’t offered any protection from Slade’s grip. By morning, he’d have finger-shaped marks wrapped around his bicep. He performed a couple of tentative stretches. Thankfully, nothing had torn or broken. Just more bruising to add to his already battered body.
He’d been stupid. Completely and utterly stupid.
Of course, Slade wouldn’t have let him have free rein of the facility. He tried to control and manipulate Dick from the moment they met. Everything was either a test or part of his plan. He should have known he’d bugged the base. Slade was technologically minded; he had both the means and the knowledge to do so. Usually, Dick wouldn’t take such risks without a backup plan, but his situation was far from normal. He’d never felt so powerless.
Dick yanked his boots off and threw them across the room in a fit of anger. They hit the wall with a dull thud. Then he collapsed backwards onto the bed. But the moment his head hit the pillow, Dick shot straight back up. There was something lumpy hidden underneath.
He lifted the pillow to find a slightly squashed bundle of paper napkins. Inside were the leftover bread rolls from dinner. Dick stared in shock. Joseph must’ve snuck into his quarters after Slade made him clear the table. Warmth flooded his chest. At least he wasn’t alone in this hellhole.
He bit into the bread rolls, savouring their buttery taste, finishing them off within minutes. It wasn’t much, not even enough to truly satiate his hunger, but it was better than nothing. Dick hid the balled-up napkins in his pocket and then fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of a rescue that wasn’t coming.