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“Chum, tell me who's forcing you to do this,” Bruce pleaded.
He couldn't believe that Renegade, the criminal wreaking havoc in major cities, leaving a trail of violence and blood in his wake, was none other than his own protogé.
Or that he would point a gun at his heart.
Dick’s lips were drawn taut as he fixed his eyes anywhere but his former guardian’s beseeching gaze.
Light glinted off the metal plates of his armor. It was clunky compared to his old uniform, not to mention constrictive.
It broke Bruce's heart to see his wings clipped. His boy loved to move. Jumping, flipping, cartwheeling through the air. He was born to fly. Now he was weighed down in more ways than one.
“I made a pact with Slade.”
“Deathstroke?” His tone hardened.
When had he been in contact with the mercenary? He should have disregarded Dick’s request for privacy. His lax parenting style had cost him greatly. Now his ward was beholden to some madman with nefarious designs.
“You're fifteen,” Bruce reminded, “Any contract you signed isn't legal. And if you're running around breaking and entering with a gun, it was null and void from the start.“
Dick tensed his grip on the trigger. Bruce could almost hear his glove creak.
“Robin, please. It doesn't have to be this way. We can fix this.”
His attempts to reason might have worked if Dick was younger. But he had grown away, out from under his shadow.
“Robin is dead,” Dick declared. His eyes finally met Bruce’s. There was no childish spark left. “And you, Batman, are about to join him.”
