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“Here I am, trying to keep you in my line of sight
I'm never certain that you read me right
Sometimes you don't want to see me”
“It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”
Slade Wilson rolled his one good eye. Jobs like this were getting old, just like him.
“I get that a lot.”
The sleazeball chuckled as he continued leading Slade down the dimly-lit hallway.
“Yeah, I suppose you do.”
Slade couldn’t say he minded getting calls like these; it was easy money, after all. Idiots like this were desperate to get stubborn captives to talk and they’d give Slade their life savings if it meant they got the information they needed. Despite this, Slade couldn’t help but feel annoyed every time he was brought in to break a prisoner. Jobs like this were getting more common than hits as of late, and while they could be fun if there was a particularly tough nut to crack, more often than not it just took Slade getting his hands a bit dirtier than his employers were willing to and he was home in time for dinner.
Boring. He missed the good old days.
“The guy doesn’t have a face,” the guy who hired him continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So you’ve said,” Slade replied coolly.
“You’ll have to see for yourself, I can’t even begin to describe it!”
“And he won’t talk?”
“No,” the man said, turning a corner to approach a door guarded by two armed men. He nodded his head at the men to move and they obeyed, one reaching over to move the latch off of the door, unlocking it.
“Just keeps saying shit is classified and giving us a code name. We’ve been working the asshole over for three days now. Won’t break.”
Slade watched as the man pushed the heavy steel door open, beckoning Slade to enter first.
“They all break eventually. You just need to figure out what they fear most and use it against them.”
“That’s good,” the man smirked. “You should put it on your business cards.”
Slade ignored the man as he entered the room, looking around to see what he had to work with. There were half a dozen hired guys in the room, all with their own arsenals. It was a pretty small room to begin with, so having that many guys made it rather cramped and stuffy. In the middle of the room sat a metal chair, bolted down to the blood-stained cement floor. As Slade took in the prisoner restrained to the chair, he suddenly understood what the man had meant by their captive having no face.
The man had tanned skin and unruly black hair, but those were the only traits Slade could discern. Where his face should have been was a spiral. The guy was right; Slade hadn’t seen anything like it before, had only heard rumors…
His limbs were restained to the arms and legs of the chair. He was shirtless, giving Slade a clear view of what they’d tried so far. His torso was a mess of blood and bruises, hardly a clean piece of skin to be seen. He was barefoot and Slade could tell someone had taken a blowtorch or something similar to the sides and possibly the soles as well. His head hung limply and Slade wasn’t sure if he was conscious until his head perked up half an inch, a small huff echoing off the cinder block walls that turned quickly into a wet cough. Slade didn’t move as a glob of blood was spat on the floor near the man’s feet.
“You ever see a face like that?”
Slade set his work bag on a nearby table, most of the real estate already taken up by bloodstained tools.
“No,” Slade admitted, unzipping the bag. “This is a new one.”
“And… here I… thought…” the prisoner’s words were cut off every so often by more coughs. “Nothing surprised… you.”
Slade froze, his hand hovering over a well-sharpened knife. He knew that voice. He knew it quite well.
That was the voice of a dead man.
“Give me the room.”
“That’s not how we-”
“It is today,” Slade replied, his one blue eye icy as he looked at his employer. “Get out. And turn those cameras off or you’ll regret it.”
The man looked like he wanted to argue more, but the rational part of him was leaning more towards self-preservation. He barked a few orders at his men and soon Slade was left alone in the room with his latest job. Slade pulled the knife out of the bag, lifting it so it gleamed in the light emitted from the single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“What’s with the face?”
The prisoner chuckled softly, but there wasn’t any humor in it. He turned his neck to the side, eliciting a loud crack from his bones.
“Classified.”
Slade scoffed at that. He rested the knife against the faceless man’s neck. Slade had to give him some credit; he didn’t even flinch. In fact, he almost leaned into it.
“And your name? Is that classified too?”
“‘Fraid so.”
“So what’s the code name this time, Grayson?”
That finally seemed to get a reaction. The man froze, the cocky aura he’d been giving off falling away as his heart began to race. Slade smiled, retracting the knife as he watched Dick Grayson start to squirm a bit in his seat.
“How did you-”
“Please. You can’t con a con man, kid. You should’ve learned that by now.”
“But my-”
“It’s a nice touch,” Slade interrupted once more. “The whole face swirl. It’s a new one.”
“I thought the point… of this was that I talk.”
Slade hummed to himself as he tossed the knife aside on the table. He returned to where Dick was sitting and crouched down, studying his hand. All his fingernails on both of his hands were gone, bloody nubs where each should have been.
“They did a number on you, Grayson.”
“37.”
Slade looked up at where the man’s face should have been.
“What?”
“I'm not Dick Grayson anymore,” he sounded sad about it, like it pained him to say the words. “They call me… Agent 37.”
“That’s fucking stupid. You do realize that, right?”
Dick chuckled but he started coughing again. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Explain the face to me.”
“It’s a really, really long story.”
“I’m assuming the whole death thing is too?”
“Bingo.”
Slade reached up towards Dick’s face, pausing for a moment at the way the younger man flinched. Dick had flinched away from him before, of course, but in more recent years, ever since he’d traded the red and yellow for blue and black, Dick had started standing his ground with Slade. The mercenary assumed it was a weird power move of sorts. He couldn’t say he hated it, especially since they’d stopped gunning for each other. No, Slade doubted he was the issue here.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, kid. If I was, I would’ve already. You know that.”
Slade tried again, pushing back Dick’s sweaty and bloody hair. Not being able to see his face put him at a huge disadvantage; he wouldn’t be able to check him out as thoroughly as he’d like.
“Anything hurt, besides the obvious?”
Dick sighed deeply. “They’ve been aiming for the… head a bit more than usual. Maybe they think if… if they hit hard enough… they’ll be able to break through my Hypnos.”
“Are they right?”
“No. It’s an implant, in my eyes.”
Slade didn’t look impressed. “Can I take it out?”
Dick shrugged and then immediately regretted it as pain shot up his back and shoulder blades. “I have no idea. It’s kinda a new toy.”
Slade had some experience with implants, but nothing on this level. He didn’t want to risk hurting Dick more, even if the kid was a pain in his ass. Slade was starting to put two and two together now; this whole situation had Spyral written all over it. He hadn’t even believed the organization existed for a good portion of his career, had thought it was a myth. Their agents were good, it was rare they ever got themselves caught and when they did whoever took them never remembered doing so after the fact. Spyral agents were ghosts, which Slade supposed was a fitting role for the deceased Dick Grayson.
“Is this what you’ve been up to since the Syndicate?”
“You know about that?”
“Grayson, everyone knows about that.”
“I suppose they do… You ever heard of Spyral?”
“Of course. I’d be a terrible mercenary if I hadn’t. I’ve just never seen the tech in action before. It’s rather unsettling, actually.”
Dick huffed at that. Slade raised his pointer finger, placing his hand in front of Dick’s face.
“I know I can’t see your eyes, but can you follow the finger anyway?” Slade asked.
“Yeah…”
Slade moved his hand back and forth in front of Dick’s face, and then up and down.
“Anything hurt when you do that?”
“Nothing new.”
“Good. Now, where’s Batman? Does he know you’re playing super spy, Little Bird?”
Dick was silent for a moment. Slade must’ve struck a nerve with that one.
“He’s busy.”
Definitely struck a nerve, then.
“This isn’t your op, is it?”
Dick laughed cynically before groaning, letting his head hang over his lap. Slade was suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t unlocked Dick’s cuffs yet. It seemed like a stupid oversight, all things considered. He stood, going back to the table to retrieve his lock-picking kit from a side pocket in his bag. He didn’t use them often; he preferred just shooting locks off most of the time, but some missions called for more precision and he was like a Boy Scout: always prepared.
“No, this is my op,” Dick continued, forcing himself to pick his head back up. “I’m dead, remember? Not many career paths for a dead man.”
Slade knew Dick was lying, or at least not giving him the whole truth. He could hear his heart beating like a jackhammer. There was definitely something the kid was hiding, but whatever it was he obviously wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. That, or he couldn’t. Yeah, that was probably more likely.
“So this isn’t just some shit he doesn’t want to deal with himself? You’re serious about this spy bullshit?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, ‘shit he doesn’t want to deal with?’”
Slade turned to look at the man, the lock pick kit in his clenched fist. He was used to Dick getting defensive when his adoptive father was brought up. It’d been like that for over ten years now. No matter what those two were going through, no matter how much it seemed like Dick hated the man’s guts, he always would go out of his way to defend the guy. Slade couldn’t say he totally understood it; he could only guess that Dick felt like he owed the guy for taking him in when his parents died. Still, if it were Slade in his situation, he would’ve killed the guy years ago.
“You always come running when he calls, like a loyal little lap dog.”
Slade had a feeling Dick rolled his eyes at that one.
“You’re so predictable.”
“And you’re one to talk, Grayson.”
“Must we always do this?”
“Do what?” Slade asked, faking innocence as he crouched down once more to start picking Dick’s handcuffs.
“The whole ‘join the Darkside’ routine, the ‘leave Batman, he doesn’t deserve you’ bit you’ve been doing forever now,” Dick said. “You’re always working an angle.”
“I don’t have an angle. In fact, I haven’t tried that shtick in a while, thank you very much.”
The cuff on Dick’s right wrist fell free and he started moving his hand around, trying to get some feeling back in the limb.
“You always have an angle, Slade.”
Slade unlocked the other cuff, moving down to Dick’s legs.
“Not this time, kid.”
Dick didn’t seem like he believed what Slade was saying. Slade couldn’t say he blamed him.
“You know, the girls at St. Hadrian’s take crossbow shots at a target shaped like you.”
Slade raised an eyebrow at the younger man.
“Should I be honored?”
“I would be.”
Slade couldn’t help but smile softly as he finished freeing Dick from the chair. Now that he was getting a closer look, Slade realized Dick’s feet looked a lot worse than he had originally thought. There was no way he was walking out of that room on his own.
“You can leave now, if you need to,” Dick said as if he’d read the mercenary’s mind. “I should’ve probably called for an extraction ages ago, honestly.”
Slade stood back up, his hands on his hips sternly.
“Yeah, I was wondering where your little spy friends were.”
Dick seemed to be thinking over his next words, which was highly unusual for him. Dick was more of a talk first, think later kind of guy. Getting him to shut up was usually the trick.
“I think… I think maybe I didn’t call them because…”
Slade knew exactly what Dick was trying to say. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know what he was feeling. He’d felt it himself, a lifetime ago.
“You don’t want to go back, do you? You wanted to die here. It’s why you haven’t made the call.”
“Look, I shouldn’t even be talking-”
“They’re listening, I assumed as much,” Slade turned away from Dick, his hand rubbing the back of his neck roughly. “I’ve seen you like this before, kid, and it’s never pretty.”
Dick sighed, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees. He started rubbing his forehead and Slade couldn’t help but imagine the look on his face. He’s seen it a million times. That little defeated look Dick always got when things didn’t perfectly go his way. It never meant the end, of course, it never meant he stopped fighting; it just made him look like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy looking to bite its shitbag owner.
“He’s always listening,” Dick’s voice was soft, like his volume would stop whoever ‘he’ was from hearing them, like the strange ‘he’ hadn’t already heard everything.
“Dick,” Slade took a deep breath, turning back. “If you need an out-”
“No,” he said quickly, his head shooting up. “I’m in enough trouble as it is, I can’t make it worse.”
Slade hated this. He hated caring about Dick Grayson. He missed the days where he hunted the kid for sport over Jump City rooftops and manipulated him into becoming the perfect apprentice. Things used to be so simple. It used to be so clear what their relationship was those days. Dick was the hero and Slade was the villain. It worked. Nowadays, Slade wasn’t so sure.
“Talk to me, kid.”
“I can’t. You know that.”
Slade was getting annoyed, though he hated himself for it. He wasn’t annoyed with Dick, not this time around. It was more so the situation the man was in and the fact that Slade could do nothing about it.
“You know, my last mission… I walked for days through the desert with an infant. Almost two weeks. I had no food, no water, just that baby. I couldn’t feel my legs by day four. But I kept going, not for me, but for her. I just kept walking, telling this baby all these stories about my time as Robin, just trying to keep her from crying. Even though I knew they were just gonna take that baby’s heart when they got their hands on her. I kept going. Why’d I keep going, if I knew she’d die anyway?”
Slade wasn’t sure what point Dick was trying to make. He hardly ever did.
“You kept going because that’s who you are, Grayson. You’ve never been one to back away from a fight, so why would Spyral change that?”
“I dunno. I just… I don’t feel like myself these days, is all.”
He said it so nonchalantly, like it didn’t even matter, but Slade knew it did. Dick’s identity always mattered to him, always would. It’s why it had been so terribly delightful to take it from him back in the day. But now? Slade would do anything to give Dick back his life. It was funny, how much things had changed between them.
“Did the baby survive?”
Dick tilted his head slightly and nodded.
“No. She died in my arms. By the time I got rescued she was gone.”
“Too bad,” Slade said, playing along.
“Yeah,” Dick replied. “Too bad.”
They were silent for a moment. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been. Slade busied himself with packing his bag back up and Dick seemed to be trying to put weight on his injured feet, though he wasn’t making much progress.
“So, what now, kid?”
“Now you get out of here, before Tiger or Helena decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Slade scoffed. “You really think I couldn’t take them?”
“No, I’m sure you could, but they play dirty.”
“So do I, kid.”
Dick chuckled, a weak arm wrapped around his ribs. “Yeah, but they play dirtier.”
“I find that hard to believe, but consider me gone.”
Slade grabbed the bag, hesitating a moment.
“You’ll be okay?” he asked, turning back to look at Dick. He wished he could see the kid’s face, but if he could he might not be able to walk out that door.
“Always am.”
“Yeah, I suppose you are.”
With one last look Slade turned and left, despite every bone in his body telling him not to. He should have done more for Dick, should have convinced him he didn’t need to keep torturing himself, but Slade knew nothing would have worked. The only time he’d been able to convince Dick Grayson to do anything was with blackmail.
“Matron, this is Agent 37,” Dick’s faint voice said from inside the room. “Requesting extraction.”
Slade paused, turning back towards the door. It was slightly closed, but he could still see where Dick remained sitting, his hand to his ear as he talked into his comms.
“Copy, 37. Sending in Agent 1, ETA three minutes.”
Slade was glad for his Meta hearing; he wouldn’t be able to hear the woman speaking to Dick otherwise.
“He’s been waiting, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. You are aware we’ll have to take care of Mr. Wilson, correct?”
Slade heard Dick chuckle to himself.
“Good luck with that.”
Slade felt himself smile at Dick’s confidence in him.
“37, I had a feeling you’d behave this way. Tsuchigumo.”
There was the faintest of buzzing sounds, like an electrical current, and Dick was out, his body slumped back in the chair. Slade wasn’t stupid enough to stick around and wait for Dick’s agent buddy to show; he turned and continued down the hallway, trying his best not to keep thinking about Dick Grayson as he took out the men who had hired him instead of his intended target.
Funny how life worked out.
“You’re an idiot on a good day, but this is just pathetic.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed from behind his cowl as he turned to face Deathstroke.
“I thought I told you to-”
“-stay out of Gotham? Yeah, does that usually work for you?”
Bruce scoffed at the mercenary. It’d been a while since Slade had confronted him, and he wasn’t quite sure what brought him to this particular rooftop, especially without his usual array of weapons.
“What do you want, Wilson? Is there a hit on me?”
“Oh, there’s always a hit on you, Wayne,” Slade chuckled. “I’m just never stupid enough to take it.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To tell you that you’re an idiot.”
"And now you have," Bruce turned away, his hand already reaching for his grapple gun.
“Have you talked to Dick lately?”
Bruce paused for a moment, dropping his hand away from his utility belt.
“Dick is dead.”
“Hmm, he looked pretty alive last time I saw him. Well, as alive as a man with a spiral for a face can look, I suppose.”
“How do you-”
“Not important,” Slade walked closer to the vigilante, a scowl on his face hidden by his mask. “What’s important is that you threw your son to the wolves and then rang a dinner bell.”
“Dick knew what he was getting into.”
“Did he? Does he ever? Because I know the kid’s track record, and he’s usually biting off more than he can chew.”
Bruce was closer to Slade now, trying his best to establish dominance, but Slade wasn’t rising to the man’s bait.
“This is none of your business, Wilson.”
“It was my business the moment I got paid to beat information out of him. It was my business when he told me he wanted to go home.”
“He… he said that?”
Slade clicked his tongue. “Not in so many words, but the kid’s like an open book to me. He’s struggling, hanging on by a thread, and you’re letting him. Like usual.”
“I don’t recall asking for your two-cents.”
“Not many do,” Slade tilted his head. “I give it freely.”
Bruce watched as the man backed away towards a ledge, his boot already propped up on the lip.
“Look, communicate with your son or don’t, I don’t give a shit. But whatever issues you have, don’t make them Dick’s too. He’s had to deal with your problems his entire life, so don’t make him deal with them during death too.”
With that, Slade was gone. He couldn’t help but think about where Dick was by now, if he was even still alive or if Spyral hadn’t liked his little talk session with Slade. He supposed it didn’t matter, one way or another.
If Dick was still breathing, he would figure it out. He always did.