Chapter Text
Did Jon trust Damian completely? Yes. Was he worried for Wally’s health and safety? Also yes.
Both things can be true at once, no matter what Damian said.
“My God,” Damian said, rolling his eyes, “You’ll be fine, West.”
Wally remained unconvinced, crossing his arms suspiciously, and Jon decided to once again live up to his role as mediator between Damian and literally everyone he interacted with.
“Robin promised me that he’d start off combat training easy,” Jon tried to assure Wally. “No broken bones. No mortal wounds. No psychological scarring.” At some point during that list, Jon turned to give his best friend a light glare, who was currently spinning his katana in his hand as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Jon saw his mouth tick up, ever so slightly. Yep. He was enjoying this.
Wally, on the other hand, raised his eyebrows in alarm at Jon. “Why were any of those outcomes on the table in the first place??” Wally seemed even more agitated than before. Well, darn it. That didn’t work.
If the training room’s power dampeners weren’t already up and running, Jon’s sure Wally would have sped off already. He couldn’t say he blamed him.
“Just be glad Red Arrow wasn’t able to help me train you,” Damian said, then gestured to Jon. “Besides, I trained Jon when we were younger, and look at him now. All alive and mentally unscarred and whatnot.”
Jon snorted, his mouth fighting a grin at Damian’s antics. The Fortress of Attitude, Damian and Jon’s old headquarters before Damian founded the Teen Titans, came equipped with a red sun room where the boys could spar together. Well, after a certain point, they could spar together. Before that point, it was Jon realizing he knew little to no combat skills beyond being stronger than basically any other being on Earth. It was also him realizing that any of the various aliens and metahumans who could match his strength would literally be able to beat him into the ground in less than ten seconds, given that Damian did it in three the first time they tried sparring.
Damian said he already suspected Jon’s overall lack of strategic combat prowess, which was why he requested that his dad include a red sun room in their base in the first place, so he could train him. Jon hadn’t known whether to be annoyed or grateful. He now knew that he was grateful, given that Damian’s training saved his life more times than he could count.
Still, Damian had been only two years post-League of Assassins when they first started training, and it was certainly an adjustment trying to teach a boy with no more fighting experience than “punch that guy in the face really hard”. Jon could tell that Damian’s affection for him (Damian would call it “regard”, but in Damian-speak it basically means the same thing) was the only thing that kept him from bringing the full League of Assassins treatment out and sending Jon to an early grave.
Unfortunately, Damian doesn’t hold that “regard” for Wally at the moment. That's why Jon’s here, supervising.
Wally just sighed in resignation, having already agreed to the training after Damian delightfully pointed out all the ways an evil speedster could kill Wally if the former had just slightly more skill in fighting. Well, Wally is under the impression that he had a choice. Damian had fully planned on locking him up in the metahuman dampener room and randomly attacking him until Wally was sufficiently trained, but Jon had convinced him that even the illusion of choice was probably the best option.
The Titans have been established for about three years now, but Wally’s only been on the team for a couple of weeks. Jon’s the second newest recruit, joining earlier this year on his thirteenth birthday. Damian’s excuse for not bringing him on earlier was that he was in violation of the name of the team itself (Its Teen Titans, Jon, not Pre-teen Titans), but Jon was pretty sure Damian just didn’t want to risk Jon’s life with bigger threats, and didn’t want to risk Jon’s friendship by introducing him to other young heroes. Which is completely ludicrous, Jon had assured him, despite Damian not confirming this as a reason, because they were superhero best friends forever (or SBFF for short).
The team started when Damian was thirteen with Maya, Colin, and Suren, plus Red Arrow a few months later, after Damian offered her refuge from her mom who was trying to kill her. (Jon really has to get his numerous children-of-assassins friends to agree to therapy). Damian had met Colin when he was ten, and Maya and Suren the year after that. He basically one-on-one trauma bonded with all of them, which is one of the only tried and true methods to become Damian’s friend. It also means he (at least semi) respects all of them enough to (also at least semi) curb his more dictatorial tendencies. Does he always? No. But, hey, everyone has their quirks. Damian’s just happens to be of the “heir to the Demon’s Head” and “son of The Batman” variety.
The issue behind Damian and Wally’s relationship at the moment was that they hadn’t had any time to bond outside of the team, causing them to clash heads more often than not. Jon and Maya had considered kidnapping Damian and Wally and having them go on some sort of dangerous quest together, but they decided they weren’t that desperate yet. Besides, it’ll probably happen sooner or later without their intervention.
“Okay,” Wally said, “How will this work?” Which is when all of the lights in the room shut off, and Jon facepalmed. Oh Rao.
Damian hadn’t activated the red sun power dampeners, only the run-of-the-mill metahuman ones, so Jon had a perfect view of Damian getting multiple hits on Wally before swiping his legs, causing him to fall to the ground.
The lights came back on, and Wally glared up at Damian from where he lay sprawled out on the ground. “How the hell was that fair?!” Wally asked, voice slightly high-pitched in disbelief. “You have night vision in your mask!”
“First of all,” Damian replied, completely unapologetic, smirk getting slightly more unhinged, “fairness as a concept in our world both doesn’t exist and is completely laughable. Second, my night vision was off, and I couldn’t see anything either, so stop complaining.”
Wally looked at Jon, skepticism written all over his face, clearly not believing a word Damian said. Jon met him with a he’s most likely telling the truth expression and decided to take pity on him before he ended up with a concussion.
“As assistant training instructor, I propose,” Jon said, making sure to sound all formal, “that maybe we should start with demonstrating defensive techniques before he’s required to use them.”
Damian shrugged, most likely agreeing with Jon but not wanting to be seen as too soft on others. (Jon’s gotten sooo good at reading him, he’ll have to brag to him later). “Well, “assistant training instructor”, you can teach him those for the next”, he looks down at his wrist-computer for nothing short of performative reasons, “forty minutes. Then I can come back and kick both your asses.” Damian sauntered out, spinning his katana in his hand again. “Remember,” he said as he walked out the door, “the goal is to have fun!”
Jon heard him chuckling maniacally as he closed the mechanical door and felt the sapping of his strength as the red sun dampeners activated throughout the room.
Wally turned to see Jon smiling, raising his eyebrow at the expression, like Jon was absurd for being entertained and not unnerved. Jon lifted his shoulders in response. “He grows on you,” Jon assured him, and got to work teaching Wally defensive moves so that he survives the next hour of his life. (Wally did not appreciate that joke.)
Damian got ten seconds of peace after leaving the training center before he got violently assaulted by Maya (she put her arm around his shoulders) and verbally abused (she called him a nickname).
“Sup, Baby Teeth.” Maya grinned, continuing to walk down the hallway with Damian’s neck trapped in her elbow.
“What do you want?” Damian asked, gazing up at the ceiling in mock exasperation, whatever joy he got from antagonizing West quickly washing away as he awaited her response.
“Remember how you killed my dad?”
“Remember how you forgave me for that?”
“Remember how I said I was allowed to hold it over your head for when I want something from you?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s because I just said it, so now you do.”
They arrived in the common area, and Maya led Damian over to one of the couches the team usually uses for movie nights (which Damian only participates in against his will, for the record). As he sat down, Maya instead stayed standing and put her hands on both of his shoulders, leaning down slightly so they were face-to-face. Her eyes were scrunched up with concern, a look that Damian dreaded far more than anger.
“Okay…” Damian said, “As I said before, what do you want?”
“I want you to answer me honestly when I ask you a couple of questions.”
“And if I don’t?” Damian questioned, crossing his arms, never one to give in that easily.
Maya’s expression became slightly smug in response, but she still held her earlier levels of concern. “You get to be the guest of honor at another Teen Titans Intervention.”
Damian scoffed, but, internally, alarm bells started ringing. The last time his nice, caring, oh so supportive team (not) held an intervention for him was because he had just come back from a visit with his mother that had resulted in an ambush by the League of Assassins and a subsequent week-long battle. He had been more upset about the betrayal from his mother than the fighting itself (not that he would ever admit it), and, upon his return to the team, had refused to tell anyone what had happened and had maybe acted in a way that some may call “reckless to the point of suicidal” (he would disagree) on a couple of missions.
But nothing like that had happened (nothing like that had happened, I need to calm down, I’m being dramatic). He was doing fine (I said calm the hell down). He didn’t care that his father, who was supposed to stay and love and care for Damian, had abandoned him (like his mother). He didn’t care that he fired him. Didn’t care that he basically disowned him (how much of a failure do you have to be to get separately disowned by both parents?). Didn’t care that he didn’t even call last week for Damian’s sixteenth birthday.
He was fine because his memory of that entire situation had since been brutally beaten to a pulp, starved, spit on, had the life choked out of it, and then thrown into a dark, tiny box so far back in the dungeon of Damian’s mind that it will never be thought of again.
Except for right now. Because he was thinking of it. Shit, I’ll have to subdue it all over again.
He had apparently zoned out while lost in his memory, because Maya was now snapping her fingers in front of Damian’s face, looking even more concerned. “Can you hear me, D?”
Damian subtly blinked a couple of times, coming back to himself and throwing the memory back down into the dungeon. “Yeah,” he said, trying for a comforting grin. “Sorry, what had you said before?”
“I asked if you were okay, but now I’m fairly certain that you’re not. Which leads me to my questions. Did something happen recently? You’ve just been a little more distant and broody lately. You normally get like that when something bad happened that you won’t tell us about.”
Well, so much for me thinking I was doing a great job of acting perfectly normal.
“Nothing happened, Maya,” he tried to assure her, “If anything seems off about me, it's probably just residual birthday trauma.” He tried for a small joke, but he could tell his face held more of a grimace. He was worried that if she didn’t back off with the concern soon, Damian would have to resort to “asshole mode”, as Maya called it, to shut down the questions so she wouldn’t accidentally send him spiraling down into the dungeon, where he would also get starved and have the shit beaten out of him, metaphorically.
Maya, though she most likely didn’t believe him, seemed to sense his defense mechanisms rising, thank God, because Damian didn’t have the mental energy to lessen the blows that his instincts would feed to his words. He needed to find a place to be alone, meditate away his stupid problems, and apparently try to act less “distant” and “broody”, not that he had ever had much more than some luck with that last part.
“Well,” Maya said, well aware of his ‘birthday trauma’ (which is overstating it really, he didn’t think his childhood annual battles with his mother were anything of note), “you know you can talk to me if you need to.”
Damian smiled thankfully, not because of her offer, but because she was letting him off the hook for now. He sometimes wished he cared less about his teammates; if he did, he wouldn’t be in situations like this where their concern caused his throat to tighten up and the word “retreat” to start screaming in his brain.
He leapt over the couch without another word to Maya, and focused on wrapping himself in a cloak of stoicism and determination. He was fine. So fine, that Maya’s concern was frankly ridiculous and insulting. He can navigate his life alone, without Father or Alfred or Maya interfering with it, and it would turn out just fine.
Okay, maybe this is what Maya was saying about him reverting back to being “distant” and “broody”.
Damian used the rest of the forty minutes to meditate in his room, forcing all of the memories from his life that were maybe less than amazing into little boxes and locking them in his mind’s dungeon. Father’s disappointment and rejection. Mother’s abandonment and betrayal. The League. An assortment of evil adults who enjoy fucking with Damian’s already abused psyche.
He also realized he needed to stamp out any nice memories associated with people from the not-so-nice ones. Father’s pride. Telling Damian that he loved him and trusted him. Mother’s warmth. Her arms wrapping around him, comforting him in the aftermath of experiencing Grandfather’s wrath. Those memories seemed to hurt worse than others, at times, reminding him of what he failed to keep. They become poisoned, joy and comfort leaching out until they too got tossed in the dungeon for the sake of Damian’s sanity.
Soon, the only memories he could hold on to were the ones of him and his team. They were all he had left to keep him steady and breathing.
Five minutes before he had to leave, he heard Emiko’s footsteps approach his room, so he got up and opened the door before she could knock. She also wore her uniform at the tower like Damian did. He was the only one aware of her secret identity, as she wanted to keep who her mother was from the rest of the team (Damian could relate). Jon was the only other person who knew her mother was an assassin, as he had helped Damian and Emiko defeat Shado the first time they fought.
Damian also kept his identity a secret, except from Jon and Maya. After Father fired him he left the manor, he considered revealing his identity to his team. Both as a fuck you to Father and also because he trusted his team, and since Father’s paranoia was no longer a factor in his decision-making, he was tempted to just get it over with. He supposed he’d get around to it sooner or later.
Emiko greeted him by lifting the manga he had given her (in the original Japanese, of course) up to his eyeline. “Got the next volume?” She questioned, quirking her eyebrow and leaning against the door frame.
“Yeah, come on in.” He led her to his bookshelf and switched out the volume. “You sure you don’t want to help me kick that crap out of Kid Flash?” he questioned. “It seems like something you would enjoy.”
Damian’s seen the way those two look at each other and has since delegated the assignment of light-hearted teasing to Jon, who both of them know is much better at it. Still, he can make one or two comments if he feels like it; he’s gotten much better at being good-natured than automatically going in for the kill if he does say so himself.
Emiko rolled her eyes. “Normally, yes, but I’m too close to finding the safehouse Deathstroke is staying at to stop now. The computer’s almost done running through the most likely properties. Hence the manga,” she said, holding up her new volume, “until it's done.”
All of Damian’s blood seemed to rush up to his head and ears all at once. He felt his muscles tense and his vision tunnel. He was vaguely aware of Emiko continuing to talk, but memories sprang from the dungeon against his will. (God, he needs better locks.)
Wouldn’t want you to sleep through your own death scene.
You’re one of them - one of the League of Assassins lost boys.
I know the League. I know what they can do. I know how they do it. What happened? What did they do to you?
I almost pity you. A child this corrupted - first by the League - then by that caped lunatic. Almost makes me forget how big a threat you are. Time to do the world a favor. Last thing we need is kids like you growing up.
Take care of your dad, boy. Whether they admit it or not, fathers need their sons.
Any idea what being an assassin does to a ten-year-old? Of course you do. Morgan Ducard. Drilled your fingers into the man’s head like a bowling ball.
Nothing will change…unless you change it. Jail is a revolving door. Half measures are a waste of time.
You still heard me. Thought it was your imagination. I’ve camped out inside your head. It’s the kind of thing they do: Batman. al Ghul. Puh-pah and Gramps. The two guys you're actually pissed at.
Damian began to feel nauseous on the inside while tensing up on the outside. It's completely ridiculous how, when he comes face-to-face with Slade, he becomes brash and violent, but when his name is brought up, it feels like he’s just been dunked in cold water (appropriate, given that the second time they met, Slade had him chained up on the floor with water rising around him, drowning him). Thankfully, the thought of Slade also pisses him off so much that any lingering trauma Slade may have given him gets quickly swallowed up in a red haze.
Damian shoves the memories back down while simultaneously trying to crush the complicated emotions flying through him into objects so dense they're basically rocks. Rocks that he then throws at any memories trying to break free.
The imagery amuses him and distracts him from the chaotic whirlpool that is his mind enough so he can refocus on what Emiko is saying. It seems he didn’t outwardly show his alarm as much as he thought. Good.
“When we find his safehouse, we can break in and possibly find clues on his newest contract. Any research or other evidence he may leave there.”
Damian nodded assertively. “Good work. Let me know as soon as you find anything. You, Maya, and I can infiltrate the safehouse, given how the rest of our team is dreadful at stealth.”
Emiko laughed at that. “Hey, they’ve gotten better. Well, maybe except for Kid Flash, but he’s still new.”
“Maybe you could give him some pointers,” Damian said, smirking. Emiko lightly punched his arm in retaliation and snorted.
“Try your best not to kill him,” she said as she walked away, Damian trailing behind her on his way to the training room.
“I make no promises.”
After twenty minutes of kicking Jon and West’s asses (although West had improved in his forty minutes of lessons, but anyone would after starting at basically zero, so Damian wasn’t about to do anything as absurd at compliment him), Emiko sent an alert on his wrist computer that she had found something on Slade’s possible safehouses. At some point, Suren and Colin had joined them in the training room, so Damian left all of them to continue sparring.
He made his way down to the tech room, where Maya and Emiko were waiting for him. He glanced up at the giant computer mounted on the wall. It had three houses, all located in San Francisco, that presumably could be housing Slade Wilson.
“I’ve checked the CCTV,” Emiko said, “There’s no one in any of the houses right now, but all three of them have had men the height and size of Slade Wilson enter. No faces could be seen from any camera, and none of the names that are connected to these properties are completely airtight.”
Damian nodded in response to her information. “Three houses. Each of us can go to a separate one and search for evidence of his presence and contracts. Do you have alerts set up in case the men come back to their respective houses?”
“Yep,” Maya piped up. “All set up. It should give us enough of a head start to copy any evidence and escape without them being any the wiser.”
Damian doubted that Slade wouldn’t notice any sort of tampering with his safehouse, but he trusted Maya and Emiko to break in without setting off any alarms and to make a quick getaway if need be.
“Alright, let's do this.”
“Titans! Go!” Maya cheered, causing Emiko to laugh and Damian to groan. “Oh, what?” Maya said, hands on her hips. “It's funny when Jon does it, but not me?”
“It's not funny when either of you does it.”
Maya shrugged. “It’ll grow on you, I promise.”
Damian didn’t think so, but he settled on rolling his eyes and stalking off. “I’ll take the one in Nob Hill. Maya, you take Parkside, and Emiko can take Portola.”
“Aye aye, cap’n,” Maya saluted, and the three took off from the tower.
Damian parked his motorcycle five blocks away from the possible safehouse in Nob Hill. He wore a black baseball cap and sunglasses, plus a jacket that covered his utility belt. He felt this mission wouldn’t end well if people saw Robin randomly enter a house in broad daylight.
Should I even keep calling myself Robin? Damian wondered. Maybe given…everything…it was time to find a new identity. Something completely his own that no one could take away from him.
Everything he’s ever had and everyone he’s ever been has belonged to someone else. In the League, he belonged to Grandfather and Mother. Everything he did, said, or thought was dictated by them. His training, his ideals, his entire view on the world. Damian supposed most young children’s views on the world are shaped by their family, but he doubted that complete control over their children’s actions through harsh training and mind control was the way other parents went about it.
Climbing to the top of a mountain at four with a broken wrist. Mother teaching him how to set the bone once he made it to the top, then telling him to climb back down.
Bleeding out from a stab wound in the throat at six, after Grandfather lost himself to overwhelming rage at his grandson's failure. Waking up drowning in the green waters of the Lazarus Pit, water so hot it felt burning cold, knowing better than to scream.
Being forced to murder his teachers after they had nothing left to teach him. Feeling white-shock horror every time the life drained out of their eyes. The last thing they teach him is that all lives are secondary to that of al Ghuls.
Damian finds himself three houses away from the possible safehouse, not remembering the last four blocks. He shook his head sharply, internally chastising himself for getting distracted, locking his mind back up. That’s been happening too often, he thinks. This is what happens to people without League discipline. Utter chaos.
Ignoring the strange feeling of nostalgia that thinking of the discipline he had in the League brought him, which always worried his father, he made it to the safehouse. In the kind of impulsive mindset that Maya would get concerned about and his father would scold him for, Damian opened up the door, not caring to deactivate any alarms that would alert Slade to his presence. Damian wouldn’t particularly mind a good fight at the moment, not to mention getting the shit beat out of him may turn his head back on right.
Wow, thinking of the League really isn’t good for me.
Not feeling in the mood to analyze whether his current thoughts were self-destructive or not, Damian plowed ahead, searching the house like the detective he was trained to be. He also replaced his sunglasses with his mask and its extra capabilities. After moving through the living room and kitchen and finding a hefty assortment of weapons, he came upon an office with a safe beneath the desk. He used equipment from his utility belt to figure out the combination and then opened up the safe to find a laptop. Bringing it up to the desk, he opened it to reveal a lock screen that required a passcode.
If I were a physically and mentally enhanced assassin with a high-bordering-on-strange reverence for contracts, what would my password be?
After a little more deliberation, he decided to try “Rose”. Hyperprofessional and borderline psychopathic assassins were actually a largely sentimental lot. (And no, he wasn’t going do any introspection on that, thank you very much.)
Just as he assumed, it worked. Lots of weapons plus a laptop with “Rose” for a password means that this was most likely Slade’s safehouse.
After nearly fifteen minutes of digging through the laptop, he learned multiple things. The first, this was definitely Slade’s laptop, which means this is definitely Slade’s safehouse. He also learned that Slade had a contract out for a woman named Elenore Fisher, who was currently running for mayor of California.
Damian patched through to the team comms, informing them of Slade’s target and ordering them to get to her first and get her somewhere safe.
“Is it necessary to send all of us to find Fisher?” Colin asked. “Do you want one of us to meet you at Slade’s safehouse in case he comes back?”
“Negative. Fisher has already hired a metahuman bodyguard to protect her. This means that the more Titans there to convince her of the magnitude of this threat, the better. Also, Slade may have teamed up with another villain due to the added hindrance of the metahuman, so all hands on deck is best, even if it is just Slade. I’ll meet you at the compound where we can keep her safe after I finish casing the safehouse. Then we can break into teams to protect her and go after Slade.”
“And you’re sure you’ll leave the safehouse if there’s any sign of Slade, so you don’t have to fight him alone?” Colin asked, slightly suspicious.
Damian knew it was a reasonable question, given his history and two-sided obsession with Slade, and none of the Titans even knew the full story. He had tried to control Damian’s body through his spine, tried to kill him and Maya, drugged him, kidnapped him, nearly drowned him, and Damian had taken him prisoner more than once, where Slade would then begin to mess with his mind. Still, Colin’s questioning of Damian’s skills and agenda grated on him, even if that wasn’t his friend's intention.
Not to mention, he wasn’t necessarily wrong about Damian’s intentions.
“You all have your orders,” Damian said sharply in response. “Go.”
A round of affirmatives was spoken, and Damian turned off his comm, setting it so it would alert him if his team needed anything.
Taking the laptop with him, Damian continued to search the house, stealing a beautiful scimitar that reminded him of home. After concluding his search, only finding more weapons, he went to the kitchen and started peeling apples with his knife, making carvings of animals and taking his sweet time doing it, making sure not to run out. He had made two swans, an owl, and a sea turtle by the time he heard the door open. Despite his adrenaline skyrocketing and feeling his heart beat much faster, he continued to appear unbothered as he worked on his crab apple carving, seeing in his peripheral vision as Slade stalked into the room.
“Ah, Slade,” Damian said, finally deigning to glance up after a full ten seconds, “look what hell just spat out.”
Damian didn’t know what it was about Slade that made him say things he knew he was gonna get punched in the face or shot at for, but he also honestly didn’t care. The more he learned to hate Slade, the more he felt inclined to antagonize him at every turn. It was something his father and his team definitely did not appreciate.
Slade, choosing to take the verbal sparring route before the real battle, set his duffel bag down on the ground and leaned against the wall. “Well, birdie,” Slade said, wearing that self-satisfied smirk that he always had on when speaking to Damian, and that Damian wished he could permanently rip off his face, “you’ve found me. What’s the plan now? Distract me while the other kids put my target into protective custody?”
“Basically,” Damian agreed, taking a bite out of one of the swans. “You missed the part about me kicking your ass and bringing you in, but you were close enough.”
Another reason Damian enjoys antagonizing Slade is that he’s pretty sure he won’t actually kill Damian. Like 80% sure. Maybe 70%. Anyway, Rose had told Damian once that Slade treats him about the same way he treats her. He mostly chooses not to think about that little tidbit, but it also reassures him that while Slade would 100% put him through some of the worst shit imaginable, he most likely won’t kill him.
And hey, it's not like Damian’s ever known when to shut the hell up when it comes to pissing off adults. Most of them enjoy his sparkling personality anyway. Well, some of them.
Slade took a step forward, causing Damian to slide out of his chair and get into a fighting position with his newly stolen scimitar, but Slade simply grabbed a bottle of gin from his liquor cabinet and sat down on a stool. Damian would have started fighting anyway, but for some reason, it felt rude to start fighting before Slade wanted to. They had the weirdest fucking relationship.
“What the hell are you doing?” Damian asked, growing annoyed. He had been itching for a good fight, but all Slade was doing was looking at him, contemplating.
“Waiting,” he responded.
“For…”
Slade's phone started beeping, causing Damian to cover up his flinch with a shift of his sword and a step forward. The waiting was making him more and more on edge, making it harder for his rage to smother his fear. Stupid survival instincts.
Slade grinned at whatever notification was on his phone and met Damian’s glaring eyes. “Bats has ruined you, you know.”
Damian blinked once, twice. That statement was so far out of left field that Damian didn’t know how to respond. He also did not want to think about his father (who he had failed, who abandoned him) while he was making horrible life decisions and putting himself in danger.
“You were heir to the League of Assassins,” Slade continued, sensing Damian’s incredulity. “You’ve killed hundreds, maybe thousands. You were bred to reshape the world. All Bats has done is put you in a multicolored costume, made you too weak-kneed to do what needs to be done, and made you become soft. Also,” Slade stood up and took a step closer while Damian took a step back, “after all of that, he threw you out like yesterday's trash.”
Damian’s blood ran cold.
How the hell did Slade know about that?
Damian’s breathing quickened at the reminder of his failure. To be his father’s Robin. To be a son he could be proud of.
Damian steeled his mind, grip tightening on his sword as he glared harder up at Slade. “Oh yeah? And what the hell is all that to you?”
Slade’s smirk widened as he replied, “I can fix you. Reshape you into something better than the al Ghuls or Batman ever could. Let’s be honest, kid,” Slade chuckled, “your mind’s already screwed up to hell. What’s one more person going in there and messing with it?”
Damian yelled out in rage and charged at Slade. Damian slashed his sword as expertly as Slade dodged it. The few cuts he could get in were useless given Slade’s healing factor. Just as Damian was given the edge, the shock of a taser ripped through his body, causing him to fall to the floor, but he refused to cry out. He glared up at Slade, who kept a steady hand on the trigger of the taser.
“Here’s what's going to happen, Damian,” Slade said, mocking him with the knowledge of his name, “I’m going to take you on as my apprentice. I’m going to make you into one of the greatest fighters known to man, like me. And you are going to obey everything I saw, because…” Slade gestured over to the giant flat screen TV that Damian had to twist his neck up to see from the floor. On it, he saw a video of his team escorting Fisher away from a crowded metropolitan area. Seemingly out of nowhere, the metahuman hired by Fisher started attacking the Titans, blasting them with some sort of ray that erupted from his hands. The ray didn’t seem to accomplish anything, and the team took down the metahuman. The video stopped, and Damian glared questioningly back up at Slade. He also noticed that the taser had stopped, and now his muscles were behaving as near-useless meat sacks, keeping him from rising.
“That metahuman,” Slade explained, smugly, “works for me. His ray injected your team with nano bots that are near untraceable. I can control them with a remote and can cause your team to experience great pain or even death. But I don’t have to. All you have to do to stop me is do anything and everything I say.”
“Fuck you,” Damian cursed from the floor, before seeing the bottom of a boot above his face, and then everything went black.