Chapter Text
Jason hadn’t considered Sportsmaster a serious threat.
Like, come on. Sportsmaster? By name alone, he belongs with C-tiers like Calendar Man or Condiment King.
So maybe his guard was a little too low, and maybe that was why he’d taken a hockey stick to the head that had left him so rattled it was honestly a miracle he was still conscious.
Apparently, there was a reason Sportsmaster actually ranked among the most dangerous mercenaries in the work, even if his gimmick is dumb as hell.
Jason wasn’t even supposed to be out tonight. B was off-world, and Jason had an essay due for literature on Friday so Bruce used that as an excuse to say he should be home studying and off patrols the whole week. But Jason obviously knew it was just because he didn’t want his 13-year-old Robin out on patrol alone.
Despite B’s commands, he hadn’t said NOT to go down to the Batcave, so Jay was poking around on the Batcomputer and noticed B had been documenting some suspicious activity outside Gotham city lines. Sportsmaster had been spotted on several occasions, hanging around some abandoned motel. Goons came and went with shipments of unidentified supplies.
Batman had deemed further investigation necessary, but not critical enough to warrant immediate action when the League was dealing with a crisis in space.
And it TECHNICALLY wouldn’t be patrolling GOTHAM.
So, Jason decided to take the initiative to investigate it himself. Just a little reconnaissance.
And that hadn’t worked out so well.
And so, Jason struggled to remain conscious as the hulking mercenary dragged him by his cape into the decrepit motel. The dirty old carpet scrapped against the exposed skin of his elbows as Jason was dragged through the lobby. The lobby was pretty cleaned out, all the old furniture gone and replaced with stacks of unlabeled crates (Guns? Drugs? Jason had hoped to find out, but this recon mission was certainly a bust), the dust on the floor swept aside by plenty of goon-traffic and box stacking, but the cobwebs in the ceiling corners were undisturbed.
Spooky vibes.
Sportsmaster dragged him straight through the lobby and over to an attached lounge that was similarly run-down but well-lived in. A group of generic henchs were huddled together at a table playing some sort of card game but looked up as they passed to jeer at the rattled Robin. Jason used every ounce of his power to flip them off. Screw them. He could take any of them if his brain wasn’t still bouncing around his skull.
“I got a surprise for ya’” Sportsmaster laughed mockingly and threw Jason forward into a heap at someone’s feet. A pair of black combat boots belonging to someone lounging in an armchair. He struggled to look up but winced at the movement first. Fuck, Jason’s head was spinning, hopefully not a concussion? Nah, he’s fine. Jason continued to lift his head to see the mystery man, seeing black and orange armor and an unsheathed katana being polished in his lap, until Sportsmaster pressed Jason's face down into the carpet with his heel. “I heard ya’ like ‘em young.” The mercenary increased the pressure, grinding Jason’s face into the ground. “And I heard you have a special preference for Robins.”
Jason’s stomach dropped.
What?
What the FUCK?
The pressure on his head suddenly disappeared as the mystery boot kicked Sportsmaster’s leg away. “You’re on watch. Get back outside.” A deep voice growled and Sportsmaster stumbled back having lost his balance.
“Well, you’re welcome.” The Sportsmaster snapped back irritably before stomping back out. “You owe me, asshole.”
Jason was suddenly pulled to his feet roughly, again by the scruff of his cape, and FUCK his head was trying to spin itself off his shoulders, and he found himself face-to-mask with Deathstroke the Terminator.
Fuck.
Based on the name alone, obviously an S-tier villain. Not to mention all the very express warnings Jason had received from both Bruce and Dick. Bruce had mentioned the mercenary on several occasions as a particularly dangerous foe Jason and Dick were under no circumstances to engage. If Deathstroke ever appeared in Gotham, Robin was to be instantly benched. (It hadn’t ever happened in Jason’s time as Robin, but still. B seriously didn’t want them to cross paths).
And Dick—
Well, Dick and the Titans had fought the mercenary—like, a lot of times. According to Roy, people died, people were maimed, and people were traumatized. Dick was traumatized. Even though he hadn’t shared many details—like at all.
Jason only knew what he knew from a visit to the Titans Tower where Wally made some comment about Deathstroke being more Dick’s personal nemesis than the Titan's, and Dick had shut down any further explanation. He’d pulled Jason aside after and played it off as Wally being dramatic, laughing and explaining the Team had fought the mercenary on a handful of occasions and made him swear not to tell Bruce. He did so with a joke about brothers keeping secrets (their train surfing outing, the broken vase from the east ballroom, the joy ride in Bruce’s Maserati) and a wink, but Jason had noticed some real tension in his smile.
Dick then tried to make Jason promise to run if he ever saw Deathstroke, and Jason responded with a dodgy shrug and, “You make it sound like I’m out here trying to pick fights with every assassin that passes through Gotham.” Dick had laughed at that, ruffling his hair. “Well, you seem to have a habit of taking these kinds of things as a challenge Little Wing.”
It was only after that conversation, while Dick was distracted goofing off with Wally that Roy pulled Jason aside again and dropped some ominous warnings about psychological trauma, maiming, dead friends, and a possible(?) kidnapping? “It wasn’t long after his first big blow-out with the Bat.” The Archer whispered to him in a surprisingly serious tone. “Back when he was still Robin. He told the old man he’d be here with us. Then when he got to the Tower he told us he was going solo to follow a lead. He didn’t say on what, but we all knew it was Deathstroke. Was off the grid for a full week. Before we decided whether we should call in the League or tell the Bat, he just, turned back up. Never wanted to talk about what happened. But—” Roy shrugged, face twisted in frustration. “I just—I’m not big on people telling me what to do or what to avoid, but just know that the Terminator isn’t someone to take lightly.”
Shit.
Deathstroke was still seated, expression hidden behind his bifurcated mask, while Jason wobbled on his feet in front of him. The goons behind them seemed to find now the perfect time to wrap up their card game and scurried out of the lounge. Cowards.
Deathstroke gripped him by the chin, Jason was suddenly drawn back to the reality of the moment, and whatever the fuck Sportsmaster had just implied about a preference for young Robins, of which, there was only one other. Dick’s weird secrecy about the mercenary. The missing week.
“YHOU FUCK!”
In hindsight, it was a very dumb idea to try and punch an armored helmet, let alone an armored helmet attached to a superhuman mercenary. Regardless, his stupid attempt to punch Deathstroke never connected because the mercenary easily caught his fist, and in moments he had his other hand trapped as well, both of Jason’s wrists crushed together in a painful one-handed grip. So instead, he resorted to unleashing every curse he could think of, though it was strangely difficult for his tongue to keep up. “I’ll rhiip your fuuckin’ dick off, you fucki’n FuuCk—what did yhu do to Dick?!”
Deathstroke meanwhile seemed generally unphased by his attempts to struggle, easily pulling off Jason’s mask with one hand, and then pulling out some sort of flashlight and shining it directly in his face. Jason flinched away, hurriedly closing his eyes and trying to turn away from the burning, as pain seemed to build behind his eyes. Thankfully the light almost immediately stopped, but once again his chin was grabbed and then one of his eyes was pried open. Jason was trying to conjure up some sort of objection when all too suddenly Deathstroke stood up, and Jason’s world was turning, and then—wait. Jason was sitting in the armchair now, and Deathstroke was walking over to the decrepit bar, pulling off his helmet, setting it down, and pulling out a phone. As Deathstroke waited for—whoever—to pick up, he grabbed an ice bucket from behind the counter and walked back to Jason.
Jason leaped to his feet, ready to fight, but the world tipped and he was suddenly back sitting in the chair with the bucket nestled between his legs. He was confused for a moment about why until a wave of nausea washed over him and he nearly emptied his stomach directly into it. With a white-knuckled grip on the bucket, Jason managed to breathe through the turmoil in his gut, struggling to focus on the present and follow what the assassin was doing.
Deathstroke had moved back to the bar, pouring himself a glass of—something—while talking on the phone. “I have something of yours. I suggest you come pick him up.” He supplied an address to whoever was on the other end as Jason struggled not to heave again. “Sportsmaster is on the perimeter. Shouldn’t be an issue for you.”
“I’m gu-uonna kill yhu, yhu fuck.” Jason slurred to the best of his ability after resting his head against the cool metal of the bucket, he tried his best to stand up again.
Even in his compromised state, Jason could clearly catch the Terminator’s amused tone as he said to the phone, “Better hurry. The kid plans to kill me. We’ve got an attempted murder in progress.”
Jason allowed his eyes to drift close for just a moment, just to better visualize murdering the merc.
Just a for sec—
He was jostled back to wakefulness by an armored hand knocking on the metal bucket. “Eyes open kid. Keep talking.”
Glaring, half because he hated the man and half just because it blocked out some of the light.“Dhid I mention I-I’mm gon’ kill yhu?”
“Yes, you did mention that.”
“Ghooona punch yhur face in.”
“You’re welcome to try kid.”
Time passed like this for... dunno. Some time? Felt like a while. Jason’s head was pounding. He made threats until a kick or a nudge would bring him back into focus and he’d realize he’d been drifting to sleep where he sat. At some point, he actually did vomit. But only once. He thinks?
“Hey, Little Wing? How are you feeling buddy?”
“Diihck?” A familiar, and very concerned-looking masked face appeared before him. His big brother was kneeling in front of him, domino mask on and in full Nightwing costume. Oh, wait, no real names in costume. “Nigh’whin’?”
“Yeah, I’m here Little Wing. I heard you took a pretty rough hit.” A gentle hand softly slid through his hair and Jason leaned into the touch. It eventually brushed against the point of impact and he couldn’t resist wincing. “Yikes, you’ve got quite the goose egg there—or should I say Robin egg?” Jason groaned (at the bad joke not the throbbing pain in his head).
“He’s been nauseous. He’s sensitive to light, slurring his words, and generally hazy. Hasn’t lost consciousness and his eyes are equally dilated.”
Jason furrowed his brow in confusion at the second voice, before remembering Deathstroke was here.
And so is Dick.
Jason dove forward out of the armchair, wrapping his arms around his older brother’s neck.
“Woah, there Jaybird!” Dick laughed, easily pulling Jason up into his arms still lightly carding fingers through his hair. “Take it easy.” Although Jason had finally started filling out after being fed and doted on by Alfred for a year, he was still pretty small for a 13-year-old, and as much as Jason puffed up and snapped at any jokes about his size, he really didn’t mind getting scooped up by his brother or father. But now wasn’t the time to cuddle. Jason resisted the urge to just drop his face into Dick’s warm, familiar shoulders so he could glare over them instead. Flipping off the mercenary smirking at them from the bar.
“Ih’m gon’ kiiill ‘im” Jason proudly announced to his brother.
“Robin!” Dick gasped scandalized while the mercenary just laughed.
“What did I tell you? Attempted murder is in progress. Though he hasn’t made much progress.” The merc laughed gruffly, and Jason narrowed his glare and tightened his grip on his brother. The Terminator wasn’t taking his threats seriously.
“Thank you, Slade. Really.” Dick sighed, rising to his feet.
“I’m not interested in your gratitude,” Deathstroke replied, voice cold as steel. “You know what I want, Renegade.”
Concussion or not Jason was going to kill this meta-human with his bare hands. Releasing his hold from around Dick’s neck, Jason instead tried to launch himself over Nightwing’s shoulder at the mercenary. “Staay t’a fuck ahway from ma’ broother.”
“Woah there Little Wing!” Dick struggled to contain him, catching Jason as he pitched upside down over his back. And the world was already starting to spin again. Maybe moving so fast wasn’t the best idea right now. Maybe a concussion was enough to stop a 13-year-old from murdering a meta-human. This time when Dick managed to maneuver Jason back into his arms, he let his head drop into his brother’s shoulder.
“Illl kill ‘m nehxt time.” He grumbled into the black Kevlar, and Dick ran a hand softly through his hair. He let himself drift now, safe in his brother’s arms. When he got bigger, he’d protect Dick too. But for now, he’d have to leave it up to him.
The rest of the conversation grew indistinct. Words washing over his ears, but no meaning.
“Kid’s got drive at least. Maybe I should be considering taking on a different apprentice.”
“Slade, if you even so much as—”
“Don’t worry Renegade. I wouldn’t replace you like that.”
“Fuck. You.”
“Take your little Robin back to the nest if you insist. You'll be back.”
“I do insist, and I won't. I'm never going to be the apprentice you tried to make me."
An alarm blares.
"Did you--?"
"You could use the challenge. Better move fast if you want to get your little hatchling out."
"Goodbye Slade.”
“For now, Little Bird.”