Whumptober 2021- day 2

Talking is overrated

Garrotte, choking, gagged

It had been a while since Slade had a simple assassination contract; he kind of missed the simplicity of it.

just a good rifle, a decent sight, a window to point them both at until someone's head lined up, he could put a bullet in it and then leave before anyone could spot him. Simple, quick, easy. He enjoyed the complicated missions and contracts, but sometimes it was nice to do something straightforward and easy to control.

A shadow moved by the window, then a light switched on. Slade knew he couldn't be seen from the window, and he took a breath as he settled in. two security guards were moving through the room until one went to the door to invite in another person.

Slade's target came into view, just not quite in line for the shot. He rolled his eyes as he watched the politician he had to kill berate his two guards about something unnecessary.

The politician was almost in the right spot, about to sit down at his desk, Slade readied to take the shot.

The light went out. Slade frowned, and then-

Another shadow entered the room, and the two security guards were on the floor in seconds. Slade took a double-take, watching as the shadow advanced on the politician-

Someone gave out this contract to another assassin.

The sudden rage Slade felt was understandable. He clicked the safety on the rifle and swung it over his shoulder. He made a running jump and dove for the balcony, then burst through the window into the room.

The politician was already dead, his throat slit in a clean line. The assassin was wiping the blood off on their black uniform, but they stopped and readied themselves into a fighting stance, eyes levelled on Slade. Slade glared right back at the golden goggles hiding the assassin's eyes.

It was a basic courtesy to give out a contract to one person and one person only. He'd be sure to get revenge on the contractee right after he put a bullet through this guys head.

He pulled his sword from his back-sheath, watching the assassin and trying to gauge how they would move. It was kind of hard to figure anything out from him, though, because he wasn't moving. At all. He wasn't even twitching. All Slade had to figure this new player out was the pure black suit with gold detailing, strange feather-like patterns and armour.

The assassin didn't attack, didn't move, didn't do anything. He seemed to just be waiting for Slade to make the first move. He was happy to do that.

He was not so happy to do that once the fight started.

Whoever this assassin was, they were fast and strong, and they were damn good. How had Slade never heard of this guy before?

The fight quickly outgrew the small office they were in. Slade backed the assassin into the hall, but that seemed to be a mistake. They flipped and twisted out of every move, and then used the wall as leverage to spring up onto Slade and get his thighs locked around Slade's neck, slamming him into the wall with his momentum. Slade dropped to one knee and grabbed the assassin by the back of his uniform, throwing him into the ground as best he could, flicking a dagger out and stabbing it into the thighs around his throat. the assassin quickly twisted away and Slade had a chance to retrieve his sword.

Slade advanced once more, and this time the assassin dove into a different room, and the fight broke out the window onto the lower part of the roof. The assassin dodged every hit, the way their body moved was insane. Slade had to recognise the sign of pure skill. He moved like a gymnast or acrobat, limbs twisting out the way of things in impossibly well-controlled and intricate movements.

They moved across the rooftops, through the streets, jumping along cars and trains. They'd made it halfway through the city when the assassin got the leg up on him. It seemed that by managing to draw blood he'd been given a new burst of motivation.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, the assassin pinned him down, hands around his throat. Slade's head was over a 50 storey drop, blood dripping from every weak spot in his armour.

Slade was not used to this. To be completely honest it had been a long time since someone pinned him down and choked him. He scrambled for purchase on the assassin, a way to get him off or loosen his grip. Nothing worked, and his flailing just got worse and worse. Soon his hands scratched along the face of the assassin, trying to get past the goggles and make a jab for their eyes. The mask came off in one smooth movement and Slade got a full view of the assassin on top of him.

Dead blue eyes looked down on him, surrounded by skin so lifeless it could only be achieved by death. Black hair fell in strands over their forehead, a strong jawline and pale lips on a face that Slade instantly recognised.

Slade tried to gasp a breath in, pulling at the hands till he could get the tiniest bit of air in. he managed to gasp out, "Dick?"

The dead expression faltered for a moment; some tiny ounce of emotion appeared in those eyes. Slade used the chance to swing his legs up and wrap them around Dick's neck and slam him backwards.

He caught his breath as he rolled away from the edge of the roof. He cleared his throat squaring his stance as he took another look at the assassin.

And yes, it was Dick.

The amazing unique way he moved was so familiar, the body shape and type fit, everything was exact.

But if that was the case, Dick Grayson just assassinated a foreign politician.

"Who are you?" Slade asked, eyeing the man who looked like a living corpse, "Dick? What the hell are you doing?"

Dick seemed to hesitate, staring at Slade blankly. He opened his mouth but closed it before he could say anything. He pulled another knife, Slade had no clue where from and leapt on the offensive again.

Now Slade knew there was more to this he had a lot more of a stake in it. If this was the real Dick Grayson... well, he had a lot of problems with it. Dick Grayson was a lively and independent hero, an inspiration, a leader, a lot of things. And even if Dick Grayson decided to turn to the dark side and become an assassin, he would never do it like this. He'd have style, and he'd have horribly ridiculed everything Slade did, and he'd be saying stupid funny snarky comments that drove Slade crazy but were still oddly charming.

"Okay Grayson," Slade said, taking a deep breath and getting ready to attack again, "you're coming with me."

"The serum will give you a healing factor, Slade," he mumbled, putting some antiseptic on a cloth, "it'll make it almost entirely unnecessary to have to rest or get stitches, or deal with the feeling of peroxide killing bacteria- fuck you doctor Smith." He screwed the cap back on the antiseptic and began cleaning the slashing wound along his torso that was four inches deep originally and now only a healthy two inches.

His wounds were healing, slowly, way too slow for his preference. Slade had taken a look at all the weapons still on Dick's person once he got him down, and almost all of them were poisoned. His healing factor was trying its best, and yet here he was, splinting his wrist, bandaging his torso and trying to decide if he could fix the many new holes in his suit or if he should just get a new one.

As he put everything back in the first aid kit, he saw that Dick was now conscious. He was all too acquainted with Dick's ability to worm his way out of anything, so he'd taken no shortcuts in tying Dick down. He would admit, over the years when he'd thought about tying Dick Grayson to a chair, it usually wasn't because he'd suddenly turned into a dead-looking assassin he intended to interrogate.

"Good morning," Slade said, standing up and putting a shirt back on over his still stinging now-bandaged torso.

Dick blinked, looking Slade up and down. If Slade hadn't been well acquainted with Dick Grayson, he wouldn't catch the slight frown on his face. His eyebrows were just the tiniest bit knit, and that was something promising that made Slade completely sure there was still something between Dick's ears.

He pulled a chair out and sat in front of him.

"So," he hissed a breath out as sitting made every wound sting a bit more, "I did some research. Dick Grayson has been missing for thirteen months, one week and three days. Your family is worried sick." He levelled a blank look on him.

Dick levelled one back at him.

Slade narrowed his eyes, "Do you know who you are?"

The only thing that moved was Dick's eyes, going between Slade and the window and the kitchen.

Slade hated this. Everything about this. This isn't who Dick Grayson was supposed to be and he refused to let it continue.

"Do you need me to give you permission to speak? Is that it? talk to me, Grayson, do you remember who I am?"

"You're Slade Wilson," he said, face still blank. His voice was scratchy, Slade couldn't be sure if it was from misuse or... something worse. "You're known as Deathstroke the Terminator, you're a world-class mercenary. A highly trained master strategist with enhanced abilities caused by a military serum. You have three known children and no surviving family members. Known affiliates are William Randolph Wintergreen, Alexander Peabody, Angela-"

"Yeah, okay, I'm gonna stop you there kid," Slade said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, "do you know anything about me that doesn't sound like it's coming from a well-informed Wikipedia article?"

Dick didn't say anything, going back to glancing between the window, the kitchen and Slade once more.

"Okay, taking that as a no," Slade sighed, "how about this: who are you?"

Dick blinked at him.

Slade made a 'go on' gesture with one hand. Dick was still silent.

"You..." he frowned, "you don't know."

Oh, he did not like this. At all. He eyes Dick, looking him up and down once more, thinking about the suit he'd been wearing. Someone was behind this.

"Who do you work for?"

"I am a talon of the court of owls," Dick said, that same emotionless tone still present in his damaged voice.

Slade's anger dialled up to one hundred and he grit his teeth, "right."

He turned towards the hallway, with every intention of planning several murders, he was almost out of sight when-

"Wait."

It was quiet, slightly broken, a little hopeless. Slade turned, looking back at Dick, still tied to the chair.

"Don't leave," he said, and his eye's emptiness had been replaced with a deep fear that made Slade's gut wrench.

He sat back in the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees, "I'm going to go, I have some calls to make. But I promise I won't be far."

Dick's confused look was back, and this time it was more obvious than just a slight knit to his brows. That's not what worried Slade, the fact he wasn't asking questions was.

He sighed, standing and walking around to the locks holding Dick to the chair. He undid them and helped Dick to his feet, then folded his arms around him in a hug.

"I'm not leaving you; I'm going to fix this."

Dick's hands raised, and Slade thought he was hugging back, then a knife slid in between his ribs.

Slade hissed in pain, wincing away and eyeing Dick with a surprised and betrayed expression. Dick was back to the blank stare. He turned to the window, and Slade tugged the knife from his body.

So it was that bad. Okay.

Dick grabbed the window, pulling it open.

"Sorry, kid, this is gonna hurt you more than me," he said, sitting back down by his first-aid kit.

He pressed the button he'd previously left on the table and Dick tensed, collapsing to his knees and shaking before he completely dropped like a sack of bricks.