Chapter Text
Dick's earpiece crackled to life.
“Robin, check the perimeter. Red Hood will provide cover outside the server room while Cardinal waits for the download to complete. I'll deal with the remaining strays.”
Dick groaned. “I always get the boring job! You promised you'd let me do maneuver seven with you!”
“I have not forgotten. Have patience, and you will be rewarded should we find time for leisure.”
“No, I wanna fight!” Dick stomped his foot, rather childishly, though he knew such displays only reaffirmed his lack of maturity in his brothers’ eyes.
But he had worked hard and wanted to taste the fruits of his labor. His Mama always told him that left on the branch, fruits would become overly sweet and rot. He was just exercising precaution, but it seemed Damian didn't want him to exercise at all!
“Robin. This is not up for negotiation,” Damian said in his serious tone. That meant he was on business.
Dick bit his lip. If he continued to complain he was sure to have his patrol privileges revoked. Twice he'd mucked up a mission this month. He was on thin ice. A lecture from Bruce or Damian would not improve his mood, or anyone else's for that matter.
Dick huffed. “Fine! But you owe me ice cream after this! Double scoops with a marachi cherry on top!”
Tim’s voice interjected, “That's ‘maraschino’, Robin.”
Now it was Jason's turn to snort. “Know-it-all.”
“I'm right and you know it. It's not my fault I read more textbooks than novels. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Aye-aye, captain!”
“Shush your mouth.”
As comms quieted, Dick begrudgingly made his way around the perimeter, grumbling under his breath. “Stupid perimeter...stupid boring trees...stupid mission...”
Red Hood and Cardinal already flattened the enemy force. Dick had seen them dragging unconscious men toward a maintenance shed earlier, leaving Dick with nothing to occupy himself with.
He sighed. “This is so unfair.”
No one answered.
Dick decided to do another sweep anyway, because that was what heroes did. And because secretly, he hoped someone was watching. Someone who would understand that he was not just a kid following the real heroes around.
He swung almost noiselessly from tree branches until he built enough momentum for a quadruple flip dismount.
“Ta-dah!” He landed on his feet and bowed to an imaginary audience, the way he used to perform at Haley's Circus. He missed the cheers and the applause. His parents, too.
He sighed, smoothing out the wrinkles in his uniform. He tugged at his leotard, which had ridden too far up his thigh again. He would never tell Damian, though. Dick hated moving around in pants. Besides, he had spent eons designing his uniform. Convincing Damian to incorporate elements from his old Flying Graysons uniform was like pulling teeth.
Damian prioritized practicality. Dick just wanted to remember his roots. His parents’ bones hadn’t bleached yet. How could he move on?
Clap. Clap.
At first, Dick thought he had been dreaming. None of the baddies appreciated his acrobatics. They only acknowledged the implication; the arrival of the Batman.
Dick turned, grinning. Maybe he'd get some recognition before he knocked them unconscious.
The smile froze.
This goon seemed farther up the ladder. Special forces? Black and orange? He couldn't identify the color scheme. The armor was certainly high-tech. He had guns strapped all over.
Dick eyed the swords criss-crossing at his back, wary. He brandished his birdarangs and braced.
“Cool costume. Your getup from the Halloween store, mister? You oughta get a refund. It's out of season.”
The strange man chuckled. He made no move to draw his own weapons, which meant he was either confident or foolish. Dick's gut told him it was the former.
“Try custom made, kid. You won't find anything like it on shelves. Manufacturers tend to value staying alive. But I do carry candy, if you've a sweet tooth.”
Dick snapped his fingers. “I get it. You're a bad touch criminal, aren't you? Well, I won't fall for it. T—I mean, Cardinal says it's bad to eat candy for dinner. You can't trick me, I've got lobster thermidor waiting at home!”
Dick rattled off a few soft curse words, like ‘damnned’, ‘hell’, and ‘bastard’. Jason used them regularly, which always made him feel so ruthless and cool.
This did not have the same effect. The strange man stepped closer.
“The Bats sent you out on an empty stomach? Shame. Five year olds need proper sustenance for growth.”
“I'm eight, not five, you dummy! Get that through your thick head!” It occurred to Dick then that he shouldn't have given away such crucial information. He couldn't help it, it grinded his screws when others treated him like a baby.
He raised his birdarangs. “Leave. I'm not feeling nice tonight.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you three chances. If you can land a hit, I'll leave.”
“Yeah? How do I know you won't cheat?”
“I won't defend myself. I'll stand right here. Remember to breathe out when you throw.”
Dick's first shot glanced off his shoulder. The second skimmed his thigh, though it did make an interesting sound. Something akin to the rattle of a washboard as clothes dragged along the ridges.
The man didn’t budge as Dick closed the distance. Usually crooks retreated when they saw him rush forward, knowing he had something outrageous in store. This was different.
Dick crouched at his leg. He ran gloved fingertips across the impact point. No damage? Not even a scuff mark?
That couldn't be right. Dick's birdarangs were the result of the latest R&D project at Wayne Tech, headed by Lucius Fox and Tim Drake himself!
Dick refused to believe the man was unaffected. Perhaps it was an elaborate illusion.
Wally told him stories of the rogue Abra Kadabra, who had a similar gimmick. Dick wasn't a skeptic like Wally, though. Gotham was swimming with the strange and mysterious. Heck, his big brother came from a family of immortals! And his other brother was murdered and came back from the dead!
But this man was definitely more grounded in realism than the supernatural. He screamed ‘soldier’, and wore none of the flashy magician clothes Dick was used to seeing, and he wasn't as good as Cass when it came to body language.
“One more shot, little bird.”
Dick saw red. “Don't call me that!”
He hurled his birdarang in a blind rage. It whizzed through the air, arching toward the man’s uncovered eye.
Dick gasped and tried to deflect it with his grapple. The man was faster, plucking it out of the air before it met its mark.
“Are you trying to blind me, boy?” the man growled.
Blanching, Dick curled in on himself. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I mean, I have, um, anger issues. I'm working on it, though! I wasn't gonna hurt you forever. I swear!”
Dick twiddled his fingers, too mortified to react to the man's swift approach until he was nearly standing on top of him.
“A word of advice: don't make empty promises. A man isn't worth anything if not his word. Isn't that why you're angry with your brother?”
Dick's jaw dropped, momentarily forgetting the hand on his shoulder. “I wasn't talking loud. Are you a meta? Superman can hear far away too. He tries not to listen hard because it drives him nuts.”
“That’s sensitive information. Can you keep a secret from your family, or do you tell them everything?”
While it was true Bruce and his brothers had access to all of his documentation, Dick was careful to keep some information tucked into his brain.
He never shared the memory of eating goulash and playing cribbage at the dinner table, Dick zipping his lip as his father snuck a jack under the table. The lullaby sung by his mother during sleepless nights, passed down for generations. Or the times where he reassured Zitka before shows, sneaking her extra peanuts and a fresh bed of straw to rest on afterward.
As much as he loved his new family, he selfishly wanted to keep a piece of the family he lost.
“See?” said the man. “This is no different. I’m a mercenary by trade. I've never once broken a contract.”
Dick tugged his arm, throat tightening. “You can't tell my brothers. If they know I almost…I’ll be grounded. I won't be able to go on patrol anymore. They'll make me see that awful shrink again. She’ll badmouth me and send me to juvie! Or…” he squeaked, “Arkham!”
Dick dreaded the day the Waynes lost interest. What if they found another boy as entertaining, as skilled? Who could he depend on then? He had no other relatives, and the circus had already been deemed too unstable an environment for a traumatized boy.
He knew it was a largely overblown concern. There was no limit to the strings Bruce would pull to keep him. But Dick was not his ‘son’, like the others, just a ‘ward’. His heart tightened.
“How cruel of them.”
Dick had the impression the man was smiling under his mask. Strangely, he didn't feel afraid or threatened. The man didn't seem to have any intention of harming him, otherwise Dick would be lying in chunks.
“You have my word, little bird. That's worth its weight in gold.”
“Pinkie promise?”
The man chuckled, the sound warm and deep. “Pinkie promise.”
Dick was ecstatic. Tim at most tolerated his antics and would go through the motions. Jason used to entertain him, but his patience waned after he turned over a new leaf. Damian and Bruce would indulge if they weren't busy, except that was all the time these days. Something about an evil scheme brewing in the background that they were digging into.
“As a way of showing my gratitude, I suppose I should tell you my name. I go by a few, but you can simply call me ‘Slade’.”
Dick stared blankly, wondering if he should share his real name. He quickly squashed the idea. No names in the field, under any circumstances. “Robin.”
“That your real name?”
“Yes. My mother called me that.” Dick gave himself a pat on the back. And it had the added benefit of being untraceable to his identity.
That seemed to appease Slade.
He held his hand to his ear. “I'm afraid I have to cut our time together short. I enjoyed speaking with you, Robin. I'll leave you with something you'll find useful. Reinforcements will arrive from the east. Get your brothers and scram.”
Robin scrambled to contact his brothers. He paused, remembering his manners.
“Thank you, Slade.” Alfred would be proud.
“It's nothing. Remember, this is between us men, hm?”
Dick turned to leave, then paused. He raised an eyebrow. “Why did you call me ‘little’ bird, then? Aren't you a hypno-crit?”
In his defense, English wasn't his first language. Not his second or third either. It was also well beyond curfew and he was drowsy. Slade’s voice was low and rich and soothing, a great substitute for melatonin tablets. Dick suppressed a yawn.
“I was referring to your stature. You come up to my waist, shorter than my daughter was. A term of endearment. It has absolutely nothing to do with maturity. Age is but a number.”
Dick wondered what exactly prompted him to earn Slade's affection. But he liked being given due respect, even if the rational part of his brain prickled in alarm.
“Like when grandmas call me ‘honey’ even though we aren't related?”
“Precisely.”
Dick contemplated his words. The logic seemed sound enough. His expression became serious. “If you're wrong and I find out you tried to trick me, I'll tell my brothers and they'll feed you to the sharks, you hear?”
“I wouldn't dream of it. I've heard Gotham has very hungry ones. Until next time, Robin.”
The Batmobile clattered ominously, the wheels working overtime to tread potholes and roads in disrepair.
Jason flipped his mask over his head and craned to stare out the back. He whistled. “Damn. How many Humvees does a guy need? I mean, sure, it's Black Mask, but c’mon. That's overkill. Did he keep the nuclear launch codes there or what?”
Tim plugged the USB into his laptop. “I'm not seeing anything like that. But I am finding evidence of a large drug operation. Not what I was hoping for, though. It's too easy. He's hiding something.”
“Maybe you're being paranoid.”
Damian set the Batmobile to auto. He turned to Dick and frowned.
“You're down three birdarangs.”
Dick shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “I got bored. Target practice. Can I drive?”
His obvious attempt at distraction failed miserably.
Damian continued to fix him with a skeptical expression. Dick had to hand it to the official face of disappointed guardians. Should get it patented—not that he needed the gratuity. His allowance was unlimited.
Dick threw his hands up. Tumultuous emotions erupted to the surface. “I had to! You weren't letting me do anything else! You said I could fight! You lied.”
Dick blinked away hot tears.
Damian, bless his soul, did his best to pull him into an embrace and pat him on the back. Sadly, he'd spent years growing under the League of Assassins and Bruce, which was about as emotionally repressed it could get. It felt like an octopus tentatively prodding his shoulders with featherlight touches.
“I apologize. I may have been overzealous bringing you into field operations. Father and I had a discussion. After what happened with Jason, we debated whether it was in your best interest we shield you from serious threats. You're young—”
Dick interrupted. “I'll jump out. I don't care.”
“Doors have a child-proof lock,” Tim pointed out, fingers dancing over the keyboard. His nails clicked rhythmically.
Jason racked his pistol, eager for a challenge. There was a reason doctors diagnosed him with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. “How much sustained gunfire can the windows take? I'm dying to know.”
Tim groaned. “Quit messing around, Jason. I value my eardrums.”
“Fuck you. Tell Damian to stop talking about me like I'm not a person. I'm tired of being a cautionary tale.”
The bickering continued, Damian mediating to no avail.
Dick angrily stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, wondering where Slade was. There was a bubbling desire to see the mercenary again. At least he took Dick seriously.
Dick realized he didn't get the chance to find out if he really was a meta. He also should've tried to find out who hired him. Then again, that would've been asking too much on a first meeting.
Dick felt a little guilty for blatantly lying in Damian's face. He'd have to do Bruce the same when they returned, and he was even more difficult to convince. His only reassurance was that Bruce didn’t have a Lasso of Truth.
Dick shifted in his seat, playing with the flaps of his utility belt. One of the pockets was open.
Dick's heart stuttered. He hoped he hadn't dropped his smoke pellets. He dug inside.
Everything seemed in place, except his fingers clasped a lollipop. Dick swore he hadn't brought any. Tim was usually in charge of snacks. Alfred didn't approve of the artificial chemicals that made things tasty and addictive so stocking had to be done discreetly. The only person who got a pass was Bruce, but he was away with the Justice League and would return with Cass later.
Dick and Jason had raided every candy store in Gotham, and he'd never seen the brand. Cyrillic, produced in eastern Europe.
He peeled the wrapper and took a tentative lick. He nearly gagged. Blegh. Coffee flavored?
It was mystifying how Tim and his ilk tolerated and even acquired a taste for coffee. The beans themselves seemed to weep from the tortuous practice of dehydration and roasting and grinding to dust, only to be discarded in the bin at the end of the process. Humans must be the vampire of coffee beans.
Dick huffed. There were many tastier beans. For example, lobio or fasole bătută. His stomach growled. He remembered tearing soft bread with his hands and dipping it into the warm mixture.
Saliva gathered in his mouth. Dick forced the lollipop against his tongue. Perhaps he could convince himself he liked it.
The bitterness was repulsive. Dick preferred sweets. It wasn't impossible to follow in their footsteps. He couldn't touch the coffee machine in the kitchen, but he could have this lollipop.
When that didn't work, he spat it out. He would have hurled it at Damian's head, but knew better than to draw his ire.
He composed himself and held the stick delicately between his index and middle finger like Jason used to—until he transitioned into actually smoking cigarettes.
He pushed down a flare of anger. What did he care about their rules! He was a free spirit.
Matter of fact, he planned on doing everything they did that they forbade him from. Stay up past three in the morning, play violent video games, watch movies rated where the characters did more than kiss and hold hands.
He was a man, after all.
Dick was relegated to comms for disobeying orders. He cried, threw tantrums, broke chandeliers and vases, begged—the whole playbook—it didn't work, not as well as it used to.
“Those who can't follow instructions can't come along,” said Damian.
Reasonable? Not to Dick.
Dick scraped a container of hummus with a wheat thin.
Alfred typically supervised Dick in case of emergency; yet another display of skepticism. However, as it was a quieter night than usual, he had gone upstairs to finish the laundry, giving Dick free reign to dirty the workstation with his snacking. A lecture was definitely waiting in the wings, but he put it out of his mind.
He watched the trackers of his adoptive family converge at Robinson Park. Poison Ivy’s protest of new condominiums by way of kidnapping contractors was certainly attracting attention. Whether it served her purpose remained to be seen.
The screen flickered. Dick thought it might have been faulty wiring. It was raining as the Gotham weather tended to permit. The howling wind was lashing at the windows upstairs.
Dick was dazzled by static. He slammed his palms on the keyboard, hoping a bit of percussive maintenance would sort the issue. He only smeared oil over the keys.
He cursed inwardly, and made to fetch a rag, only stopping when he heard a tinny voice emanating from the speakers.
“Good evening, Robin.”
Dick said nothing, dumbfounded. He stood frozen, half-perched on the chair. The seat, which had been sent into momentum by his previous attempt to abandon it, continued to swivel against his will, dumping him to the ground.
He rubbed his bottom, tender. “...Slade?”
“I'm pleased you remembered. Did you enjoy the candy?”
“Sure,” answered Dick noncommittally, not wanting to sound picky or immature. “Why are you on the screen?”
“I was in the area and I thought I'd pay my favorite Bat a visit.”
Dick crossed his arms. “Yeah, right. I wasn't born yesterday.”
Slade chuckled. “That was my first reason. My client, a high-publicity politician, has received numerous credible threats. I was brought on to protect him and his family. Unfortunately, I find myself spread too thin. I have yet to uncover the culprits threatening his life. I could only think of turning to you for assistance.”
“Why not ask Batman? Or my brothers?”
“Our relationship is…tenuous. I am invariably looked upon with skepticism even when our interests align. Ah, but then I remembered that from this family of the World's Greatest Detectives is a little bird. He might be inclined to help safeguard a few lives. How about it?”
Dick couldn't think of any reason not to agree. If anyone came to harm because he refused, it would be on his hands.
His blood boiled thinking of Tony Zucco, how that low-level monster extorted the circus and murdered his parents. Dick clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. He was furious that the bastard was still at large, wasting oxygen and continuing to ruin lives.
He would be remiss if he let a tragedy happen twice.
“Okay. I don't have anything to do anyways. What do you want me to do?”
“How much experience do you have in tracing encrypted emails?”
Dick scoffed. “Oh, that? Please. I can do it with my eyes closed and my hands tied. Did you know I can type with my feet? Alfred won't let me, though. It's ungentlemanly.”
Slade wasn't fazed by his minor tangent. “You're very talented. It's a shame you're hardly able to exhibit such skills.”
“I know, right? I thought Cardinal would let me do the detective stuff when he goes off with Young Justice. He gave it to Ba—Oracle instead! She’s newer than I am!”
Dick continued to rant for a few minutes, smoke practically billowing from his ears. Then he remembered his audience. He cleared his throat.
“Send what you've got.”
“You're in a good mood,” remarked Jason. His eyebrows shot up as Dick took his jacket and put it away.
“How can you tell?”
“For one, you never take my jacket. And you're grinning harder than Tim under Joker Venom. What’ve you been up to? Didn't smash another chandelier, did you? I'm not covering again. Polishing the bathroom with a toothbrush ain't worth it.”
Dick giggled at the memory. “No, silly! I just…made a new friend.”
“At school?”
His claim was exceptional. Unlike Jason and Tim, Dick was a non-native. He spent most of his life touring various parts of Europe and America before his parents were slain.
His unfamiliarity with Gotham customs made him stick out like a sore thumb. Children were quick to hone in on his eccentricities. Dark skin, circus background, the language barrier—he may as well have been an alien. He lamented that he had no powers to speak of; flying would be nice. He liked being flown in Uncle Clark's arms.
On many occasions he ran home in tears. Damian empathized; his school years were looked back upon without fondness due to similar ostracization.
Ashamedly, Dick still hadn't any friends his age outside of the Matheletes, whom he shared a fleeting yet polite acquaintanceship, and Barbara, his rival.
Dick nodded shyly.
Jason was ecstatic. “That's great! What's their name?”
Dick's eyes widened. Think, Dick, think! It was futile. His mind went blank.
“I…don't know. I didn't ask.” He deflated.
The silence made him want to tear his hair out. The prevailing theory that Dick was immune to awkwardness fell to pieces. He should sew his mouth shut. Maybe he could ask the Tibetan Monks for a vow of silence?
“I guess you can ask next time,” said Jason finally.
He gazed at Dick with pity. That annoyed Dick more than anything. He wanted to shout that he did know his friend's name, but he was under oath not to tell. He made a man's promise. There was no reneging.
Jason ruffled his hair and guided him upstairs. They passed by Tim, who dragged his feet through the hall, dark bags prominent under his eyes. Jason's gaze lingered until Tim’s door clicked shut, probably weighing whether he should announce the good news. He decidedly chose not to say anything. It wasn't like he had any proof of this supposed ‘friend’.
It was Wednesday night, which meant it was Jason's turn to tuck Dick into bed. He stood by as Dick flossed and brushed his teeth. Dental hygiene was not always enforced when touring the circus, but in the Manor it was unavoidable, sensitive gums or not.
Dick shook with laughter after a chase around the manor with Jason, as was tradition. It burned energy, which meant Dick wouldn't constantly be looking for ways to make mischief in the dead of night.
Jason heaved him over his shoulder and slammed him into bed. He was testing a wrestling move he’d seen in passing on television. Though he was bookish, he didn't shirk in training either.
Jason tightly wrapped Dick in his Superman-themed covers, burrito-style.
Dick's spirits lifted. He had a different nighttime routine with all his family, and by far Jason's was the most fun.
“‘Night, Dickie.”
“Good night.”
Jason’s hand was on the doorknob before Dick spoke.
“Jay?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you turn off my nightlight?”
Jason paused. “But you'll have a nightmare.”
“I'm a big boy, I can handle it.”
Jason hesitated, then reached for the switch. “You sure?”
“Mmm hmm.”
His room plunged into darkness. Glow-in-the-dark stickers gleamed faint green.
Dick glanced at his closet. He didn't see red eyes peering through the slats. He calmed his racing heart. Monsters weren't real. Except the Joker. And Two-Face, and Bane, and Killer Crock, and the Penny Plunderer—dozens and dozens. No, that wasn't right.
Bruce said monsters weren't real, and if they did, they deserved redemption. Plus, the only person the Condiment King scared was Alfred.
None of them were in his room, though. That counted for something.
Dick begged Jason to look under his bed and rejected two more appeals to turn his nightlight on before Jason relented.
Once Jason left, Dick finally let free the joy that he'd kept simmering under the surface.
Slade was impressed by how quick Dick triangulated the location of the email sender. In truth, it was an intermediate-level trick Tim taught Dick about a week prior. Dick ran it using Tim’s pre-written code, so there was little effort on his part aside from a handful of minor adjustments.
Nevertheless, Slade heaped on the praise. His thanks played like a broken record.
“If I'd known you'd get the job done this well, I would have come to you sooner,” said Slade.
His words made Dick’s heart skip a beat.
Weeks passed. Dick’s attitude toward working comms was noted by the rest of the family, but since his defiant streak had diminished it wasn't seen as a problem.
Dick’s silent appointment as the man behind the chair hadn't changed. Everyone seemed on eggshells around him lately, finding excuses to keep him from the field. Dick would’ve been offended if his fixation on Slade were any less.
Unprompted, Dick volunteered to stay behind and coordinate efforts.
Tim raised an eyebrow, detective senses tingling. Dick averted suspicion by divulging information on several cold cases.
Dick was selective on the tidbits; they needed to be believable enough for him to have dug up. Indeed, he had contributed to many. Others were tips from Slade. He was Dick’s personal insider, with knowledge beyond the reaches of Red Hood’s underground network.
Dick knew he couldn't hide from Tim forever. Tim was a bloodhound, one sniff and he was on the trail. Dick wasn't concerned. A confession wasn't required for Tim to uncover the truth. He'd keep up his end of the bargain.
Besides, he was having fun. Where was the harm in enjoying himself while upholding justice?
Slade continued to bypass the Batcomputer’s firewalls, always with a new issue only Dick could solve. Slade might be in Metropolis, Santa Prisca, Jump City—but mostly Gotham. It came to the point where Bruce commented on his increased presence.
Slade was clever enough to avoid Batman's crosshairs, taking only security or consultant roles. Bruce was not as naive as to believe Slade had turned over a new leaf. A criminal with a rap sheet as long as his wouldn't make such a drastic heel turn.
Dick was also not to be outdone. Over several hours he unfurled the paper stick of his lollipop so he could lift a fingerprint. It came back as a near-perfect match for Deathstroke the Terminator, alias of Slade Wilson.
He was quick to confront.
“I know who you are,” Dick stated one day, unprompted. “You're Deathstroke.”
“I don't refute that,” responded Slade. “You must have gone to great lengths to uncover my identity.”
From his tone, Dick knew he was humoring him. Dick hadn't needed to go to extremes. Comparing each Slade Wilson in the national registry would have sufficed. But he liked a challenge. Slade was aware he would try something outside of the norm.
Strangely, even though Dick hadn't told him what method he used, he felt that Slade knew, and thus appreciated his hard work. The idea he had been watching was…tantalizing.
Dick blamed his lifestyle. He was a thrill-seeker, always craving danger. He bloomed under an audience. He wanted to captivate and be chased, but never caught. He was free, always and forever.
“Have you considered leaving Gotham, Robin?”
Dick wrinkled his nose. “I've already been to over fifty countries. Some of them don't even exist anymore. And I'm going on a vacation to Barbados this summer. We're going diving to see the ship wrecks. Aquaman said he'd come by with the Kraken.”
“Not in that sense,” said Slade. “Would’nt it be nice to expand your horizons? You've trained with the Bats for some time now.”
“A year and two months,” corrected Dick. He reflected thoughtfully.
“How are you faring, little bird? You've been cooped up long enough I think you've forgotten how to fly.”
Affronted, Dick slammed his hands on the desk. “I have not! It's not my fault they don't let me patrol.” He pouted, cheeks flushed pink.
“Why do you follow their instructions? It doesn't benefit you. If you slip out now and return early, they will be none the wiser. In any case, if you are caught they cannot do much. They have already confiscated your uniform and your weapons.”
Dick blinked. “What?”
“I know how the Bats think. They will tell you one thing and act in another, all in the guise of protecting you. Go on, check, then report to me.”
Dick didn't want it to be true.
But the secret compartment in his closet was empty. His equipment, save for his grapple gun, were gone.
Heartbroken, Dick sank to the carpet. His vision blurred, yet no tears were shed.
They didn't trust him.
What was all the talk about ‘family’? They hadn't meant a single word. Damian was the blood son. Tim, Jason, and Cass were adopted.
Dick was just a guest.
The cool wind brushed against his skin. Dick hadn't bothered changing out of his t-shirt.
He already missed the temperature controlled environment of the cave, but he could breathe easier. No more stuttering, choked sobs.
Trees flashed by, filling his lungs with a woody earthen aroma. They were miles outside Gotham. The landscape bore superficial similarities to European forest. The quiet nature, the glittering stars unobstructed by harsh artificial lights.
They stopped at a convenience store in Blüdhaven for snacks. Chips, fizzy drinks, candy with enough sugar to rot teeth packed to bursting. Dick got to jump on the hood of the trunk, cramming everything inside.
Dick's tried to keep his drooping eyes open. The sun was breaking over the horizon.
“Are you tired? Sleep.”
“I can't,” said Dick. “I'll miss all the sights.”
Eye focused on the road, Slade reached into a duffle bag and pulled out a compact camera.
“Polo-roid?”
“Mm.”
“Take lots of pictures,” said Dick drowsily. “I wanna see later.” He was asleep the instant the words left his mouth.
“Already ahead of you.” Slade aimed the shutter. He framed the boy’s slumped form, face pressed against the window. Drool was already tricking out of his mouth.
Click. Click. Click.
The camera whirred, spitting out slides that Slade aired out on the dashboard. One would go to Dick, the other to the Bats, and the last for his personal collection.
They were close to reaching the tarmac. Wintergreen had prepared the private plane in advance. They'd reach his hunting lodge in no time. Slade almost couldn't believe it, his plans were proceeding faster than anticipated.
Slade slipped one of the photos into his pocket, tucking it into a stack with the others. He'd been taking snapshots of the boy before they formally met.
Photos of the boy in the heat of battle, blood speckling his face and a wild look in his eyes. At school, receiving awards for mathematic excellence. Eating ice cream, out on the boardwalk. A few of the boy weeping in bed when he thought he was alone.
He cherished each one. After all, what hunter didn't appreciate his trophy?