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Gotham is a shithole. Slade slouches back against the HVAC unit on the rooftop, listening to the music and honks and shouting drifting up from the brightly lit streets. There’s a noxious green haze over the bay visible even against the smoggy, orange-tinted darkness that means he’ll have to check the emergency alerts before he gets on the road. But Slade’s an opportunist, he’ll figure it out. For now he sits and waits for his rifle to cool down before he can stow it back in its case without melting the protective foam. The out-of-hours shady board meeting in the building across the street was packed, which makes working in this grimy city worth it, but shooting off that many rounds, no matter how efficient, does unfortunately mean that he’s stuck on this squalid rooftop until his equipment cools down enough to safely pack away.
He’s not worried about it. Gotham being Gotham, anyone who might have heard the shots will barely care enough to call the police, and the police will certainly not care enough to launch an immediate manhunt. Much as he hates coming here, the general sleaziness of the city does make his job very easy. There’s a lot of business to be had in Gotham, although the Bat’s recent bid to rid the city of crime, however idealistic, is becoming increasingly irritating.
He’ll get out as quick as he can, later. Should be easy - he’s flying under the radar this time. No mask or uniform, just an arsenal of weaponry and a forgettable appearance. Until then, he shifts against the smooth casing of the HVAC, his eyes on the rooftop while his hands settle near his weapons, one by the large case, the other by the gun in his holster. His work requires a large amount of waiting around – contract killing is really quite boring, most of the time – but it’s not like he can distract himself with a book or something. Even with his enhanced senses, he can't risk it. Junkies, the cops, the Bat – he can take any of the annoyances Gotham might throw at him, but for that he needs to stay alert. The Batman and his birdie shadow haven’t caught up to him yet, but they are annoyingly good at appearing and disappearing when you least expect them. The boy, especially – Robin. He has promise. Shame it’s being wasted on Wayne’s crusade.
Slade sighs, shifts, reaches over to his rifle on its stand to tap his finger to the hot metal. A blister rises to the surface immediately, like a brand, only to heal over as quickly as it came. Slade watches it fade away to smooth skin, then tilts his head back with a quiet exhale. Time to settle in.
It’s not that late and Gotham, like any large city, never really quiets down for the night. The grimy music venue occupying the building he’s set up his hide on sends thumping bass echoing up the walls – covering the sound of his shots. There’s some loud debate going on down in the street (impossible to tell if they’re fighting or just being obnoxious); a car whining as its owner forces it into service; some kind of dump truck or delivery rattling down the road. A kid that should really be in bed by now, crying. The whoop of a police car, heading the other way.
With his head leaned back against the AC, trying to count stars through Gotham’s choking smog, he hears the new arrival before he sees them. Footsteps, light and quick. Woman, maybe. Slade stays where he’s sat. Anyone casually passing by won’t even realize he’s there – a predator in the shadows – and the person pulling themself up over the rooftop ledge from the adjoining building doesn’t either. Younger teen, he amends, watching the short, slim figure straighten to middling height. Grant’s age, probably, not that Slade’s seen his boy in a while. All black clothes. Movements almost silent.
Motionless, Slade watches the kid make their way along the edge of the roof, a dark silhouette against the glow of windows and traffic and advertisement screens coming up from the streets. The boy. At first glance, he appears to be wearing the standard uniform of any teenager sneaking out after hours, although usually they’re a little older than this kid, and not several stories high. Hooded sweatshirt, cargo pants of some kind – he had the smarts to not go for jeans, at least – and fingerless work gloves on his hands. Clever kid. Slade watches him from the shadows for a moment, but the boy trails along the parapet with sure steps, walking the delicate line between fear and recklessness. Watching him pass by, Slade upgrades him from typical Gotham teenager to trying to look like a typical Gotham teenager, although if he’s dealing with a wannabe cat burglar or a wannabe vigilante or a wannabe Romeo is anyone’s guess.
Slade shifts slightly, keeping the kid in his line of sight, one hand resting just beside his rifle. It’s a noiseless motion – he’s the most notorious mercenary in the world for a reason – but the boy whirls around like he’s been electrocuted. He takes a step back towards the edge, but just one, freezing with one foot near the ledge, like he knows exactly how far he can flee before he would fall. “Who’s there?” he barks. It’s like being snapped at by a puppy, to Slade, but give him a few more years and slightly better acting skills and his reaction has the potential to be intimidating.
And he, somehow, noticed Slade when he’s practically invisible to the naked eye, which nobody without the necessary training has ever done before. Sure, it took him a few minutes too long to be of any use to him, if Slade wanted to hurt him, but still. Most people never notice him at all.
“Relax, kid,” he says, flicking on his lighter to let the red glow pierce the darkness. He doesn’t smoke – why announce his presence with a cloud of stink? – but it’s given him plausible deniability for being out of bounds on rooftops more than once. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Oh.” The boy bounces on his heels, peering into the shadows where Slade sits. Then: “Are you sure?”
Despite himself, Slade laughs, gravel deep. Gotham, swear to god. “Pretty sure, kid,” he says, gently touching the barrel of his rifle in the darkness with his other hand. The burn is less intense this time. Just a few more minutes and he’ll be good to pack up. “Unless you’ve done some real messed up shit.”
“Oh,” the boy says again, quieter now. Slade would love to know what messed up shit this kid thinks he’s done, and what he’d think of the things Slade’s imagining. More than that, though, he wants this kid gone.
“Whoever you’re gunning for,” he says, because there’s always somebody to impress or get away from or kill, “you’re not gonna find them on this rooftop.”
“I wasn’t gonna stay here,” the kid snipes, wrapping one arm around himself before he remembers himself and lets it drop. Acts casual, bouncing on his heels again, low-key but ready to move. He casts a quick glance into the street below. “Why are you up here, then?”
“I told you,” Slade says, edge creeping into his voice. He flicks the lighter again. He doesn’t want to shoot the kid, but he will. “Weren’t you listening?”
The boy takes another peek over the edge of the roof, a black silhouette against the city lights. He’s good. Slade doesn’t even realize what he’s looking at, with no change in demeanor, until he hears him ask, evenly, “Did you kill those people?”
With a sigh, Slade sits up, seeing the kid go pale when he realizes just how big the assassin in the shadows actually is. Watching him take a few more skittering steps back. He really is a smart boy. Not necessarily brilliant – a more intelligent kid, faced with a potential murderer three times the size of him, might have chosen to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe that’s just the Gothamites and Slade’s getting too used to this city.
He sweeps his gaze over the boy’s face – muscles tense, ready to spring into action, but not stupidly scared. Certainly not stupid.
Because maybe the kid isn’t afraid of confronting Slade because this isn’t his first rodeo. Because everything about him, from the way he moves, shifts on his feet – the way he keeps a steady eye on Slade even when Slade is practically melting into the shadows says trained rather than lucky.
Realization comes like a wash of strong liquor, warm and sudden and delightful. The height, the broadness in the shoulders, the dark hair. The confidence in his movements, the calmness at being up so high, the lack of panic at figuring out what Slade’s doing up here – figuring out what Slade’s doing up here, in the first place – coupled with a lack of self-preservation. Slade’s gone and caught himself a little bird.
Curling his hand around his rifle, he bites down on a smirk. Well now. Out of hours, no uniform, no Wayne lurking nearby. Slade is an opportunist, and he knows what opportunity looks like.
He’s seen Robin fight before – watching from the shadows, unnoticed. The boy’s tendency to run his mouth is a bad habit the Bat should be breaking him of, but the flips and tricks, the jumps and strikes and kicks, Slade definitely has use for those. And if there’s trouble in Gotham’s bat house, it might just be Slade’s time to swoop in.
Lightly, though. Wouldn’t do to scare the kid off, now that he’s suddenly close.
“What are you doing up here, then?” he asks instead. “Pretty sure it’s past your bedtime.”
Dick Grayson scowls. “I used to stay up this late all the time to perform,” he says, whatever that means, before remembering himself. Bounces, glances at Slade, then away again. “I’m looking for someone,” he says then.
That means nothing. Particularly in Gotham, where people go missing or to ground at an even more ridiculous rate than in other large cities. Could be a parent, a friend, a drug dealer. Anyone Wayne isn’t willing to help him find.
“Who?” he prompts, when the silence drags on for an annoying length of time.
“Oh, uh.” The boy answers, perhaps shocked into honesty by Slade’s blunt question: “Tony Zucco.”
Well, okay. Slade hides his grimace in the darkness of his perch. Tony Zucco would eat this kid alive.
“He doesn’t scare me!” Dick snaps, apparently catching Slade’s doubtful expression anyway. He huffs a little, like an offended kid, chest all puffed up. “I’m good enough now!”
Ah. The boy might not be ready to come out and say it, but Slade can read between the lines. Wayne’s Robin doesn’t just want to find Zucco, he wants to take him down. Some personal vendetta probably, which isn’t surprising considering Zucco’s tactics. Slade hears things, even if he’s never personally been involved – partly because it’s as brave as it is foolish to go against a man like that, and partly because Zucco’s targets are people who have neither the lack of scruples nor the money to hire someone like Slade. So that explains the solo flight. Dick wants to retaliate, and the Bat won’t let him.
Slade doubts he and this borderline cocky do-gooder kid have much in common, but there is one thing they share: He’s not scared of Zucco either.
“I killed those people,” he confirms, belatedly, casually, as he shifts his attention to his case.
From his peripheral vision, he can see Dick deflate. “Wha-what?”
Slade doesn’t look at him. With quick, practiced movements, he slides the optic off his rifle, then the top cover, the carrier and the stock, slotting each into its custom mold in the foam. All of it packs up neatly into a road case, like the ones the club downstairs uses, complete with scratches and beat-up stickers. Wearing nondescript black clothes, he’ll leave the building through the fire exit beside the stage door, get into a nondescript, beat-up van like any roadie, and get out without anybody taking a second look at him. If he plays it right, no one will even notice the boy he’s planning to take with him. “You were just lamenting that the Bat isn’t letting you do any killing, weren’t you? I kill people.”
“A lot?” The boy flutters over to perch on his heels beside him, looking – curiously, not scared – at the artillery he’s taken apart.
“A lot.” Slade stows everything except for the barrel, which is still just a smidge too heated. “For money. Sometimes even for guys like Zucco. Don’t touch that, it’s hot.”
The kid, predictably, touches it. He draws away with a hiss.
Slade smirks to himself. “You always listen that well?”
“I’m a great listener,” Dick says, with a smile somewhere between self-depreciation and a smirk, as he shakes out his hand.
Slade finds himself grinning back on instinct. The kid is charming, even if he seems to be intent on getting his way. It’s not ideal, but no matter. Slade can train that out of him.
“Like, I noticed you mentioned Batman just now even though I didn’t.”
“Did you now?” Slade, perversely, suddenly feels a twinge of understanding for old ladies who squish babies’ faces together. The kid is so proud of himself. It’s cute.
Instead of falling for the charm layered thick, he taps the rifle barrel one last, performative time. “Not a lot I can’t figure out.” He deems the metal cool enough and stows it away, too, ignoring the twinge in his fingers. It’ll pass. “Name’s Deathstroke, kid.” He flicks Dick a two-fingered salute. Then he stands, lifting up the road case with ease – ignoring the half-step Dick takes back before he remembers he isn’t scared – and starts heading towards the back staircase.
And right on cue –
“Wait, wait.” Light footsteps rush after him, hooked. “You can’t just say all that and just – leave.”
“Why, you want to kill someone too?” Slade asks, casually – calculated – without stopping. He slows down though, imperceptibly. The kid is short and the roof isn’t that big. Give him time to catch up.
The boy does, dithering – immersed in the Bat’s morals, but not beyond saving yet. His young face is an indecisive grimace.
“Because I could help with that,” Slade says, lightly, easily. Just a breadcrumb at a time to lure him in. “I’m good at finding people. And killing them.”
The little bird’s eyes brighten at that. Just a little, still clouded by morality, but he knows what he wants underneath it all. He wants Zucco. And Slade wants the kid.
He sighs, mock put-upon, and turns back to the boy. “I’m gonna need some help in return, though. Somebody to watch my back.” He pulls his lighter from his pocket; flicks it. “You any good at that?”
Unsurprisingly, Dick nods, proud.
“Good.” With a nod towards the exit, he, casually, hands the kid the lighter. Such a small thing. Slade’s not gonna miss it if the kid does change his mind and bolt, but propriety says he’ll try to give it back before taking off, giving Slade a chance to intercept. Or he’ll run but attempt to return it later. Or he’ll keep it, but think of Slade every time he sees it. Opportunities every time.
Dick takes it from him, hissing through his teeth when it bumps his sore fingertips. He tilts them into the hazy glow of Gotham at night to inspect them. “Do you think that’ll scar?”
It probably won’t, but: “Might.” Slade ushers the boy into the stairwell with a hand just behind his shoulder, leaving the clamor and stink and dangers of the city behind them. Gotham is a shithole, but if this is how the city is going to reward him, he’s not about to complain. He’d like the boy even if he didn’t delight in stealing the Batman’s little bird away from him. But he does, and so he does, smirking to himself as they descend towards the thumping music.
“We’ll get you your Zucco, don’t worry,” he promises, low, and grins at the thrilled glance he gets in return. Yeah, he’s in. Even if the kid runs right back to Wayne after getting Zucco’s head on a platter, Slade will have left a mark on him forever.