There's blood on the floor, Tim. Your blood.
Why my blood?
Why am I bleeding?
Tim looked up. He was hanging from the ceiling by a chain tied to his wrists.
It was a slaughterhouse. He was hanging from a slaughterhouse ceiling, blood dripping steadily from his stomach. His belt, removed by force. His mask, still in place, thankfully. If Tim was discovered, it could endanger Dick, Babs, Cass, Steph, Jason, Alfred, and Bruce, not to mention every kid at school he'd ever even shaken hands with.
Okay, blood. Your blood. A lot of your blood. Not a good sign.
Where am I? This place is probably abandoned, so it'll be off any records, rmeoved by slipping a briefcase full of cash towards someone high up, so they'll look the other way. The windows are cracked, the blood that isn't mine is dried up on the floor, and the metal on the walls are slightly rusted, so it's been abandoned for a few years now. No sign of any plastic bags or any other drug production equipment, so not cartel ter-THWAM!
He had to stop the analysis short when the fist hit him sideways, cracking into his jaw at a terrific speed.
"Y'know, when I first had to deal with you and your newset freaking Titans a few years back, I can remember one event in particular. You, Robin, throwing a very nasty batarang in my face. The cut it made took twice as long as my other injuries to heal. And I hated you for it. I still do, of course, that's why you're here..."
Tim Drake, or Robin, look left. He looked into a one-eyed mask, split into an orange half and a black half.
"That, and the money, Robin."
"Deathstroke..?"
"Ah, good. The bloodloss hasn't affected your brain...yet. Lucky, but rather surprising. Most people who take a sniper bullet through the lower intestine are dead by now."
"Sniper...bullet?"
"Yes. I've been planning revenge for months. Batman may come for you, maybe even your friends in San Francisco, but by then you'll be dead. But I won't kill you yet." Deathstroke leaned in close to Robin's face.
"Yeah? Why...not?" he asked, coming close to coughing up blood.
Gotta stay awake, have to focus.
"Because you made me endure pain. It's only fair I do the same."
Deathstroke stood up tall, then silently pulled a knife from his belt, before running a thin cut along Robin's cheek, causing new and warm blood to fall to the dirty floor. Robin gasped in pain, then held back a yell. He'd been trained for this.
"Why...do. this..?" he managed to whisper. Deathstroke pulled off his mask, exposing his eyepatch and silver hair, as well as his face. The face of Slade Wilson. A face the Robin hoped wouldn't be the last thing he saw.
"For years I've been trying to figure you out, Robin. You're barely more than a boy, yet you fight like a man, like a soldier. Why? To try to...inspire the people? Give them hope? Don't you realise how little an effect you have?"
Robin breathed heavily, as another drop of blood ran down his cheek and fell to the floor.
"You've been fighting for years now. Have crimes rates dropped, at the very least in your little Gotham? No. Things are worse than ever, because of you and Batman and all your friends. You don't inspire hope, you provoke challenges. Every supervillian in your craphole of a city appeared because your boss stuck his pointy-ears in their direction and said 'Come at me, see if you can beat me.' The clown, that Freeze guy, the crocodile man, they all came along to answer his challenge. And thousands have died in the aftermath. Yet you still carry on as if it's working."
Deathstroke leaned in closer.
"So...you came along...to try to beat him?" Robin said, laughing slightly.
"I tried to beat him because I was offered payment. I didn't beat him, and I can't beat him yet. I need to be better. So, I'm going to kill you first. Then all your Titans, and all the Bat-brained idiots that follow Batman, and then I'll be ready. And then, I'll get paid. Getting to kill you first is just a personal bonus of mine."
Slade replaced his knife back to his belt, then pulled a rod from a sheath on his back. This then extended into a full staff. Then, at the click of a button on his gauntlet, Robin fell from the ceiling, landing heavily and painfully as the chains fell in top of him.
"Fight me."
"Screw you, Slade." Robin struggled to stand, but managed to click a button on his own glove without Deathstroke noticing. "Don't I get a weapon?"
Slade threw the staff to him, before sliding a katana from his belt, and backing away a few steps.
You're still bleeding, Tim.
You called for the cavalry, but it'll take a while. Just hold him off.
I can hold him off.
He stood straight, then tried to focus.
"This is going to be fun, kid," said Slade, before slicing through the air. Robin barely ducked in time, before moving closer to get at him with the staff.
But Slade was too fast, dodging away before Tim could get a hit in, and Slade slid the lethal blade across Tim's chest. It wasn't a deep cut, but it still hurt like hell, and Tim struggled to stay standing.
The fight continued, constantly in Deathstroke's favour, and constantly with a growing puddle of Tim's blood on the floor.
No, I can't lose. Not here. Not in this slaughterhouse.
"I'm going to make sure you die slow, Robin. The same for your friends. Because you deserve it."
Deathstroke parried another of Tim's attacks, before punching him to the ground. The staff clattered away, out of reach.
"Your stupid antics all across the world have given people false hope that things are getting better because of you. But it makes no difference. At least at the end of the world, I can say I died rich."
No...can't black out...can't die in this place...got to...find a way to...get him...off balance...
And then, as Slade leaned in close, the tip of the sword inches from his neck, and as Tim saw the metal plating of his armor, he remembered.
"That's a...real nice suit...Slade..."
"You're too kind."
"Thing is...that my suit...is...insulated..." Tim just managed to click the switch on his left glove, before gripping the end of the sword with his right hand and Slade's neck with his left, and silently counting to three. "So...is yours insulated too?"
Tim's entire uniform let off a slight crackling sound, before twenty thousand volts shot through his hands, running along the metal and into Slade's exposed skin. Slade was held there for a second, gasping in pain, before the power of the shock threw him backwards into the chains he'd hung Tim from, before falling to the floor, smoking slightly. He didn't get up.
It was a few more minutes before Batman and Nightwing kicked open the weak door to the slaughterhouse and found Tim there. He'd recovered his belt, and used a first-aid kit to patch himself up a bit.
"You turned up later than I thought," he laughed as Nightwing helped him to his feet and Batman cuffed Slade's hands behind his back.
"You lasted longer than I thought against Deathstroke, Robin," said Nightwing.
"What..? You saw what happened?"
"Hidden camera in your mask, Robin. Lucky Slade didn't take your mask off you. We saw everything you did."
It was then that Slade woke up.
"Hah. Wonderful job, Robin, thank you for pointing out vital flaws in my armor. Next time, you won't be able to use that trick."
Robin was tired, injured, and in pain, but he still managed to punch Slade across the jaw.
"Y'know, Slade, you kept talking about how what we do to help people doesn't make a difference. But if that's not true, then why would someone pay you to try and kill us? Ask yourself that when you get to Blackgate, Deathstroke."