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Renegade had been exceptionally good today.
Well, when had he not been? He always knew how to please his master. To serve him—to listen to him. He followed Slade’s wish quite well.
Slade chuckled to himself as he drank tea—the expensive kind that Wintergreen liked. The two adults were sitting at a table, talking casually, while Renegade sat quietly nearby on a chair.
As much as Slade liked Renegade being obedient, it was a bit tedious to have to order the boy to do everything.
Too bad Slade hadn’t worded his wish better with the willow. If only he could alter it.
Slade eyed the boy, tilting his head. “You can drink the tea, apprentice.”
Renegade blinked, before dumbly nodding. “Thank you, master.” He raised the cup and took rapid sips of the hot liquid, not caring how much it scorched his tongue.
While doing so, Wintergreen watched silently from his spot at the table.
It had taken Slade a good few hours to convince Wintergreen to accept his new apprentice. The man had been skeptical, judging Slade for taking away a boy’s autonomy like that.
But it wasn’t like Slade knew the One Wish Willow was real, so how could anyone blame him? Wintergreen couldn’t come up with an answer.
And so, the three had spent a month together now at Slade’s new haunt—a place more homey and far away from Jump City.
After all, why stay in Jump if all the Titans were dead? There was nothing interesting there anymore.
Slade felt a smile grow on his face as he watched his apprentice. He was much older now—almost eighteen. His features had grown well, including his beautiful blue eyes. It was unfortunate that the boy didn't really care for his appearance or identity anymore.
Sometimes, Slade mourned Robin. Mourned Dick Grayson.
But then he would remember the sight of Renegade fearsomely stabbing Starfire over-and-over again in the chest, and all the feelings would dissipate as fast as they came.
It was beautiful.
The way Renegade had tricked Beast Boy into a trap, bullets piercing the young boy’s heart. The way Renegade had deactivated all of Cyborg’s parts, cutting them off and presenting them to Slade. The way Renegade had drugged Raven, stitching her mouth shut so she couldn’t utter a spell.
And the way Starfire had given herself up without a fight, as Renegade twisted his knife deeper-and-deeper.
Slade remembered how proud he felt as he watched Renegade stab her for a total of sixty-five times. It had been brutal, aggressive, and breath-taking. Starfire was on the ground, no longer able to fly, and the green in her eyes was faded. Renegade was laughing, his eyes dazed as he kept sinking the knife in.
Once he was done, he placed his hand on her chest, painting his fingers red. There was no pulse.
Then, he stood up slowly, knife still in-hand, as he turned around to face Slade. Tears silently ran down his face as he reported:
“I’ve killed her, master.”
Slade had been happy, so immensely happy, that he took off his mask to show how satisfied he was. “Well done, Renegade.”
Slade had approached him, ready to ruffle his hair fondly, before the boy suddenly went haywire.
This was the part of the memory Slade didn't like.
In a split second, Renegade—Robin—had raised the knife and stabbed himself in the chest, sobbing as he bled out.
“IT’S NOT ME! IT’S NOT ME!“ The boy curled up on himself as blood started to pour out from his chest.
“STAR! I’M SORRY—I’M SO SORRY—“ The boy cried, crawling towards Starfire’s corpse. He touched her skin softly, as if she was a delicate flower. One that had been pulled from the garden too soon.
Slade had cursed aloud, picking up a bloodied, confused apprentice as he ran to the jet Wintergreen had prepared.
Robin continued to whisper weakly in his grasp. “I’m so sorry Star—it wasn’t me! I didn’t want to-I…I didn’t—”
Sometimes, very rarely, Robin would slip out again. It annoyed the mercenary much, but what could he do about it?
Slade couldn’t fix this issue, even after he contacted the phone number on the box of the one wish willow. All he had gotten were screams from Richard, which were upsetting.
It was a persistent side effect.
Robin would sometimes hurt Renegade, scratching his arms as he started to cry helplessly again. Robin would try to kill Renegade, throwing himself off of buildings and smashing objects.
Slade was used to it by now, and luckily he shared the same blood type with his apprentice.
Wintergreen had sighed as he saw a pale Renegade in Slade’s arms, tears staining his swollen cheeks.
“Another blood transfusion?”
“Another one.”
The good thing about being a meta-human with faster healing abilities was that he could transfer his own healing capabilities to others, if needed.
And so, Robin would just have to live alongside Renegade. Slade had hoped that the teen hero would've learned to adjust by now, but clearly not.
However, today he did decently well. After killing the Titans, Robin stopped showing up often, meaning that today’s contract went just as expected.
Slade had subdued his target, allowing Robin to do the killing. He loved killing for Slade, it made him giddy, begging for his master’s praise.
Pulling himself out of his memories, Slade checked his watch. It was about time for Renegade to sleep, considering it had been a long action-packed day. The mercenary stood up, gesturing for Renegade to follow.
The boy immediately stood up, almost knocking down the chair he was previously on.
“I’ll be taking him to bed, Wintergreen,” Slade announced nonchalantly.
The man nodded. “Very well, sir. Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
Slade grunted, making his way out of the room and into the hall.
Renegade followed dutifully from behind, until he stopped midway in his tracks. A haunting smile was on his face, his teeth exposed and glimmering.
“Master, can you hold my hand?”
Slade sighed, offering his arm. “Fine.”
The boy giggled, before running up to hold Slade’s hand.
After the wish, he sometimes got clingy. Possessive. The boy was always striving to make his master happy, loving to use physical touch as a way to ensure Slade’s satisfaction with him.
Perhaps it was another side effect—a piece of Richard that wouldn’t quite let go.
Slade walked Renegade to the bathroom, pushing him inside. “Brush your teeth and use the bathroom. Piss or shit or whatever.”
Slade had learned his lesson from not being specific, as one time Renegade had wet the bed from not being ordered to explicitly do so in the bathroom.
Renegade nodded, a grin on his face. “Yes, master.”
As the boy started to undress, Slade had to close the door himself.
His apprentice was daunting sometimes, a little lost and dumb, but when ordered to, he could come up with amazing plans. Amazing murders.
Having to watch over Renegade was a sacrifice Slade could make. The man clicked his tongue as he waited, making sure his breathing was loud enough for Renegade to hear.
The boy got excessively rowdy whenever he was apart from Slade, so much so that the mercenary had to surgically implant an ear piece into Renegade’s ear so he would never feel alone. It had worked well, but Slade still crept by the bathroom door, just in case, because he didn’t want to deal with another broken door and bloodied fists for what had to be the twentieth time.
Once Renegade finished using the bathroom, the water turning off, the boy stepped outside and turned to face Slade. He smiled again.
“I did it, master.”
“Yes, you did. Now let’s get you to bed.”
The two walked to Renegade’s bedroom, the space being rather bare.
Slade had offered Renegade to decorate it with anything he wanted, but he knew the boy would probably come up with nothing.
Surprisingly, he ended up actually having an answer.
But it was just for posters of Slade all over his walls. Slade had given him one, but only one. He couldn’t spoil him.
He pushed Renegade into the room, closing the door as they entered. “Now, get into your bed and sleep.”
Renegade nodded. “Yes, master.” He stiffly walked to the bed, raising the blanket, and forcing himself inside. He pulled the blanket on top of himself, and proceeded to stare at the ceiling. Waiting.
Slade sighed, walking over to a nearby desk. The mercenary picked up the laptop he had left there from the night before, and sat down on the chair.
“Renegade, close your eyes and steady your breathing. Just like how I tell you every night.”
“Yes, master.”
The boy closed his eyes, breathing manually. His chest rose and fell in consistent patterns, the action clearly deliberate and not relaxed.
Slade frowned, before getting back to work on his laptop. Renegade always took awhile to sleep—especially after the Titans died—so Slade had made a routine of sitting next to him for an hour every night.
He was in the middle of reading the terms for a new contract, when he heard the boy mumble to himself.
“Slade.”
The mercenary looked up at Renegade, ready to order the boy to sleep once again, before realizing Renegade still had his eyes closed.
“Slade,” the boy said again, his lips departing slightly.
Slade narrowed his eyes.
Renegade was…definitely sleeping. His chest was rising and falling in a way only sleep could muster. And yet, he was calling out for Slade.
The mercenary was about to leave the room, closing his laptop, until he heard Renegade speak again.
“It’s me.”
Slade halted in his movements. He turned around slowly, staring at the closed-eye boy.
“…Robin?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
Slade raised his eye curiously, before sitting on the side of the bed softly. It was silent for a moment.
Robin spoke first. “Renegade…he is asleep right now. I’ve been trying to talk to you all this time—but he makes it hard. I can’t keep him under for long enough.”
Slade hummed. “Interesting. Why do you want to talk to me?”
Robin stirred slightly, his eyes still closed.
“Please kill me.”
Slade simply blinked at the request, not reacting in any way.
Robin begged again. “Please, Slade. Please kill me.”
Slade merely crossed his arms, leaning back on the bed’s headboard. “No, I won’t.”
Robin didn't talk for a moment.
Then, he cried out again.
“Why?! Why Slade—please just kill me. You already took everything away from me—don’t do this. Please—if you have any respect for me, any respect for Robin, please end my life.”
Slade chuckled, petting his apprentice’s hair. His bed head was always all over the place.
“I’m afraid that Robin is already dead, and there is no need to respect a boy who’s been dead for years.” Slade lifted his hand from Renegade’s hair. “And what's so bad about being with me? You have more power than you ever have before. You’re impressive now. Efficient. Everything I wanted you to be.”
Robin sobbed, and yet no tears came out.
“I fucking hate you. I hope you die. I hope someone hurts you the way you did to me—I hope you go to hell and get your skin flayed. I hope you get your remaining eye gouged out. I hope all of your bones get broken one-by-one. I hope the face of your tormentor is me.”
Slade smiled amusingly at that.
“Well, I look forward to it, Robin.”
The mercenary checked his wrist. “Ah, it’s about time for me to go now.” He stood up, the floorboards creaking as he moved.
He heard Robin cry again as he opened the door.
“No—Slade! Please! Kill me! Please, please, please, PLEASE—“
Slade closed the door.
He ignored the muffled screams as he walked down the hall, ready to immerse himself in more work once again.
He had no need to spend time dealing with measly side effects—they just simply weren't worth entertaining.
Slade hummed to himself as he walked to his office, simply noting that Robin’s crying had finally faded away.
Batman didn't know what to do. He had never once felt so powerless—so stupid— so ashamed.
He was at Titans Tower now, his face grim. He was walking up the emergency stairs, the elevator no longer working.
He remembered being at a Wayne gala, laughing at platitudes with his arm around a woman, when a guest had suddenly gasped loudly.
“Oh my god—the Teen Titans just died!”
Immediately, everyone at the gala started to gasp and pull out their phones. They all talked to each other—gossiping.
“The ones in Jump City?”
“Damn, all of them are dead?”
“How sad…well, that’s what happens when a teenager puts on a cape.”
“Hey, wasn’t Robin on that team? The one from Gotham?”
Bruce felt his blood turn cold. He stopped breathing at some point, his fingers mechanically moving to check the news. He read every letter as fast as possible, uselessly hoping the news report had a hidden code. A hidden signal that the Titans were okay. That Robin was okay.
There were none.
However, near the end of the report, there was a statement that changed everything.
All the Titans bodies were recovered, except for Robin. His body was missing.
Missing.
Bruce didn't remember how he ended up in the Batcave, but he assumed Alfred had come up with an excuse for him. Everything had been a blur, that day.
Sure Dick and Bruce weren’t on good terms—but that was still his boy. His ward. His son. If there was any possible chance Robin was still alive, Batman would find it.
And so, after visiting the Titans graves, he was now at the Titan Tower.
The police had wrapped the building with yellow tape, JCPD cars surrounding the perimeter, but had let Batman inside wordlessly.
They knew. They all knew.
Batman and Robin….
Bruce clenched his fist. Now was not the time to get sentimental. He needed to find things—evidence—fast.
He hacked into their files, trying to find evidence, security footage, anything.
Unfortunately, the security footage had been wiped.
But…Batman did find something. Apparently, Robin had been missing for much longer. Closer to a year. The Titans had been trying to find him, visiting coordinates and tracking down suspicious activity. In a report, Cyborg had listed down the name “Slade” as a main suspect.
Batman didn't know who Slade was.
He grumbled, opting to search another room.
The man found himself in some sort of personal lab, one that didn’t belong to Cyborg. It was dark and messy. Was it Robin’s?
There were gadgets all over the table, and newspaper clippings pinned to the walls. There was also a large map of Jump City on the floor with red circles on it.
Batman hunched over the map, a paper note posted to it, which appeared to have scribbled writing all over it.
It read: “Slade’s potential bases. Must be underground.”
Batman almost cried as he recognized the handwriting. It was Robin—Richard—his son. He had been here many months ago.
Bruce had to hold himself back, breathing deep breaths manually. He was the world’s greatest detective. He needed to think.
Robin had been tracking down Slade. This lab was clearly all for Slade.
Batman hurried to the newspaper clippings, trying to find any pictures. At last, there was one photo, a small one, with a blurry picture of a man. It was nighttime, so the picture was mainly black, but in the dead center was a mask half-orange and half-black.
Batman’s eyes widened.
“Deathstroke.”
Deathstroke was the one behind all of this—it wasn’t 100%, but it was the only lead Batman had. It disturbed him to know that the mercenary had used a separate alias to toy with the Titans.
One that was possibly his real name.
Batman took some things from the room, locking them away in bags to take to the Batcave, before continuing his search.
He checked the rest of the rooms—all of them meaningless—before eventually ending up at Robin’s bedroom.
Bruce had to close his eyes for a moment. Batman couldn’t hesitate like this—he needed to be strong. He needed to be the hero that Richard had desperately needed those months ago when he went missing.
He opened the door.
His eyes scanned the bedroom. It was chaotic. Broken pieces of tech were all on the ground, a naked mattress was on the bed-frame, and a chair was abandoned on the floor sideways.
Batman stepped inside cautiously.
His eyes softened as he spotted a Flying Graysons poster, hanging from one of the walls. However, his gaze hardened once again as he spotted drops of blood aligning the ground. Batman followed the bloody path.
The dried blood had started from the bed, staining the torn-off bedsheets, before making its way to the desk, and then to the door. They were small to see, but Batman found all of them and took pictures. He also made sure to take one of the blankets back home, where he would test the blood to see if it was even Robin’s.
From the state the room was in, it was apparent that if Robin was last here, he had struggled. He had fought something, crashing and stumbling into walls and furniture. It pained to know that Robin had been hurting without Batman even knowing.
Batman searched the room more. He opened the closet, greeted by the sight of pristine Robin uniforms. It made his heart tighten painfully, and he had to force his eyes to move and look away.
He stumbled upon a suitcase and opened it up. Besides a plush of an elephant—Zitka, if he recalled correctly—were photos. Photos of the Teen Titans all together—the dates ranging from the beginning of their journey all the way to the end. Batman shuffled through them quickly, hoping to find any clues, when his breath completely stopped.
There was a photo of Bruce in here.
His eyes darted to another one.
There was a different photo, one with a young Richard sitting on Bruce’s shoulders. They were both smiling…happy—
He almost crumpled the photo in anger.
Robin would never leave these things behind. Batman knew that for a fact. Bruce knew that in his heart.
Robin had been taken. Deathstroke had taken him.
Batman hurriedly placed everything back in the suitcase. He decided to take it back to Gotham as well, as he didn’t know what would happen to the Tower in the near future. It could be demolished—or maybe another team would step up and replace the empty hole in the heart of Jump City.
Batman made his way to Robin’s desk next. He grabbed his abandoned laptop, knowing that it likely had already been erased. The process went on for a while, observing things, taking pictures, gathering samples and valuable objects.
About to leave, Batman noticed one final thing on Robin’s desk.
There was a piece of fabric, one that had been evidently torn off. Batman picked it up, his breathing unsteady.
It was the Robin emblem. The symbol that Richard proudly carried on his chest—it was left here in the decaying Tower.
Batman knew that no matter who had done this—no matter what had done this—the emblem was a sign.
A sign that the Robin he had once known was already dead.