Chapter Text
Slade spots the contract completely by chance.
He's on another job when it comes in, and usually when in the middle of a job he doesn't spend any time checking available contracts (for obvious reasons). But this one was requiring quite a long period of surveillance before he could move in, most of which was quiet and uneventful. Which drove Slade, in his boredom, to scrolling through the boards of currently open contracts, just for something to do.
He had no intention of actually taking any of them, instead just using them to occupy his mind, plotting how he would do it if he were to. Thefts, hits, even bodyguard jobs...and then he sees the one about Robin.
It takes him a moment to realize that it doesn't mean Grayson, that the kid is Nightwing now and there's another little bird running around in the traffic light colors. Disappointment sparks in that regard, and there's a familiar bitterness rising on his tongue, thick and sour, at the reminder of the boy responsible for his son's death.
$50K for whoever can make Robin bleed and then put a bullet in his skull.
It's not Grayson, but it is Robin. It's a mantle that has Slade's hatred, a title that has a sneer immediately curling his lips. He might not be able to touch Grayson right now—not with Joey standing at the bird's side, ready to throw himself into the line of fire if Slade were to try to go after the Titans again—but this one...
Well, this one is brand new, isn't it? Been in the field for only about a year. Just a stupid kid who has no idea what he's stumbled into, what putting on that costume really means, the hatred that comes along with it. That as many friends Grayson made while wearing the colors, he made just as many enemies.
And, well, a bonus to taking the kid out is that it'll hit Grayson like a truck for sure. His successor being murdered because of his actions? Oh yes, the little martyr would take that guilt on without hesitation. So Slade gets the satisfaction of at least killing a Robin, and wrecking the one he can't.
So he accepts the contract, taking it before anyone else can snatch it up. Almost instantly, half the payment appears in the account information he sent, and Slade smirks, tucking his phone back away. Easy money for a job he'll enjoy.
It takes another three days before he's able to complete his current contract, and then he packs up his shit and gets the hell out of Europe, taking the first flight to New York.
It's habit, to check in on Joey. The boy might've made his choice about where his allegiance is, but that doesn't change the fact that he's Slade's kid, and like hell is Slade just going to trust that the Titans will always take care of him. No, Slade needs to see with his own eyes that Joey is still in one piece, and then he can head on to his next job.
He watches from afar, binocular pressed to his eye as he watches Joey get breakfast at some small diner with a few of the Titans. Slade doesn't look at any of them, not in the mood for the anger he knows will swell at the sight of them, instead focusing on his kid.
Joey looks—good. His hair is a little shorter than the last time Slade checked in on him, maybe a month or so ago. He's smiling, his posture relaxed, and he laughs at something one of the others says. He looks...happy, and Slade turns away, forcing himself to be satisfied.
The trip from New York to Gotham isn't too long, though traffic at this time of day is irritating. But Slade isn't in a rush, so he rolls down his windows and lets the breeze slide through his rental car, squinting at the Dark Knight's city from across the river.
The difference between New York and Gotham—and, next door, Bludhaven—is truly startling. There's a darkness to the pair of New Jersey cities that not even the dirt and grime of NYC can emulate, a smog that hangs in the air and clings to the Gothic buildings that really makes it clear why so many sickos come out of the place. It's a cesspool, practically made for the psychotic, and it's fitting that the heroes that come out of it are just as sneer-worthy.
Eventually he gets into Gotham, and he heads for one of his safehouses, knowing there's nothing he can actually do while the sun is still out—no little Robins on the rooftops when it's barely even noon.
So he unpacks his stuff, and showers, and grabs himself a bite to eat. Next comes cleaning his gear; it's been a little while since he did a full overhaul, and he wants something to focus his mind right now, so he settles in for the task. He starts with his armor, cleaning it meticulously, taking care of small nicks and making sure it's all still up to his standards.
Next comes his weapons. He lays out all his knives and guns, and slowly addresses them one by one, sharpening and cleaning each blade, breaking down each gun to clean and then build them back up again.
It doesn't take nearly as long as doing his entire armory would—this is just the stuff he brought with him on his last job, barely a fraction of what he has back in the basement of his house—but it takes long enough that by the time he's done and satisfied with the state of it all, it's late afternoon, approaching sundown.
He exercises, to release some of the energy beginning to build under his skin. He goes out and grabs dinner, then watches some mindless television to pass the time, the minutes crawling along until finally it's late enough that he knows Batman and Robin will have taken to the skies.
He suits up, the thrum rising in him with every weapon he straps to his body. He knows he won't need more than his fists and one pistol for this job, but there's a certain kind of pleasure imagining the fear in the kid's eyes when faced with Deathstroke, in all his glory. Something he can later describe to Grayson, when the boy inevitably tries to confront him about the death of his successor.
(And, well, Joey can't blame him for what happens to Grayson if Grayson is the one to attack, right? It's only self-defense, to take care of a threat coming after him. Only Slade keeping himself safe, to snap the neck of the little hero who deserves it—)
Slade keeps himself to the shadows as he stalks across the rooftops of Gotham, eye peeled for any flick of a cape, any flash of bright colors. He has no interest in drawing Batman's attention—a fight with the man is not what he's here for, and will only get in the way of his objective—which means keeping himself hidden until the right moment.
It's after maybe forty-five minutes that he finally crosses paths with the vigilantes. He watches, half-hidden by a stairwell access, as Batman and Robin fight a group of thugs down on street level. Batman is just as forceful and skilled as Slade has come to expect from the caped crusader, and his new partner is...far less so.
Still young, still new. In time, he'd become great, no doubt about that. Batman's training would ensure that, especially when mixed with the natural instinct the kid seems to possess. It would make the second Robin a great fighter, someday.
He'll never get that chance. The little bird's journey ends tonight.
The vigilantes subdue all the men, and use zipties to secure them in place, presumably for the police. Batman says something to Robin, and the boy responds with a nod, and then Batman shoots off his grapple and swings away, leaving Robin standing over the downed thugs, shoulders squared with something like pride.
Slade smirks. That pride won't last long.
He gets up onto the ledge of the roof, enjoying the chill of the night air for a moment, and then steps forward into nothing, experiencing a few moments of weightlessness as he drops down into the alley below. He doesn't bother to muffle his footsteps, allowing himself to hit the ground a few feet behind Robin with a thud.
The boy whirls around with a sharp breath, and to his credit he does immediately slip into a fighting stance as soon as he's in motion, fists raised in preparation before he's even facing Slade completely.
And then the lenses of his domino mask flare wide when he sees just who has joined him in the alley.
"Hello, Robin," Slade says, his sharp smile hidden behind his mask. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."