"You need to be more careful!"

"Oh come on," Dick snaps, with a sharp glare. "It was one assassin, I could have handled him all by myself. I didn't need the guards and you know it, Bruce. You know that. They're the ones that almost got me killed, if it had just been me I would have taken him down."

"But you weren't alone," I press. "You know that we can't afford to be seen to be as capable as we are, Dick. If you'd really fought that assassin the entire castle would have known by morning that you're not what you're pretending to be. If anyone connects you to Nightwing we'll both be dead or run out of Gotham by the end of the week if not faster. Don't argue with me."

I can see his teeth grind together, but the flick of his gaze to the floor tells me that I've won. Well I should win; I'm right. I know that Dick is just frustrated that he can't protect himself if anyone is around to see it, not if we're going to keep our night time activities a secret and we have to keep that secret. If anyone knew what we fight for, that we're not just another pair of overindulgent royals, not even his title or the ancient blood in my veins would protect us.

There isn't much that scares me more than the thought of Dick being executed for what we do. I could take it happening to me, but seeing Dick die for what I got him into? No. I'll put his life before mine every time. He's my son.

Dick's gaze meets mine again, and then he bows his head just a touch. "So what am I supposed to do?" he asks, grudging. "I can't just let myself get killed, and your guards are all over the place but they're not useful. Sorry, no offense meant."

"None taken," I reassure him. He's right. My guards are capable enough, but they're not made to stop professional assassins. They're soldiers. "You need a personal guard to stay with you." Dick winces, but doesn't outright argue. "Ideally, someone roughly as capable as either of us. That would keep you safe, with no risk of us being outed to the public."

"You put someone that close to me, I'm not going to be able to get out of here as often, Bruce. I won't give up Nightwing just for the sake of my safety, not that permanently. Don't ask me to." Now he's got that set to his shoulders that I know means that Dick is ready to fight me on this. Endlessly, or until I talk him around with logic he can't argue with. I hardly ever win when he gets that particular look to him. "I get that I need someone around so I don't blow my persona, I get that, but you know how important all of this is to me, Bruce."

"It won't be all the time," I try and soothe. "Just while you're around anyone else. A companion for the daytime, until you 'retire.' They don't have to stay with you while you sleep, and that should let you slip out as often as you want. A companion can be told to ignore it if you're not in your room; to assume that you've gone to visit some woman or something."

Dick makes a disgusted face, raising a hand to scrub over his face. "Oh, you're kidding me. And you think that won't be all over the castle by morning too? People are gossips, Bruce. I know I'm just the charming, carefree prince, but come on. Really?"

I hesitate saying the thought in my head, because I already know how he's going to react. "I won't put someone near you who can be bribed. They'd have to be loyal. Completely."

Dick goes completely still for a second, and then his hand drops and he snarls, "No." I knew he'd understand without me having to spell it out. "No, Bruce I won't. Damnit, Bruce, no."

"It's the best option," I argue. "Slaves are loyal, no one listens to them, and the amount of slaves who betray their masters is nearly zero percent."

"Because loyalty is beaten into them," he snaps. "You know how slaves are trained, Bruce. That's what we're fighting against; that's the point! I will not treat someone as less than human. I won't call myself the owner of another human being, Bruce, and you should know better than to ask that of me. You know what nearly happened to me as a kid, you know my feelings about slavery!"

"And you know mine."

The thought of what Dick's life could have been like, was almost like, still makes me sick to my gut. He's lucky that I was at the circus the night his parents died, and that I happened to be seeking him out to offer my sympathy. He still has the scar from when the traders bought him from the circus, when they tried to brand a nine year old child that was still mostly in shock from seeing the death of his parents. If I hadn't heard the screaming, wrenched him away from them, and used my title to protect him, Dick would have been a slave. Slave brands are as permanent as possible, and Dick is so lucky that the burn scar across his right shoulder isn't recognizable as what it was supposed to be.

Even I can't change what someone is, not once they've been branded.

If my last name wasn't what it is, if I didn't have royal blood in my veins and the title 'King' in front of my name, I probably would have suffered the same fate. Orphan children are the most common source of slaves. I despise it, but it's what my country supports and if I was outspoken about what I believe I'd be thrown off my throne. I do what I can, but it has to be small. At least in public.

When night falls, and I'm not being watched, then I can do real good. 'Batman' isn't the name I would have chosen, but it's what the public chose to call me. I do everything I can to help the people I can't help as King, and when he found out, Dick joined me. When he was younger it was as 'Robin,' but he graduated to an older title, a separate one. Nightwing.

I couldn't be more proud of him.

"Think of something else, Bruce." Dick's voice is flat, uncompromising. "I won't own a slave. That's not a line I'm willing to blur, so you find a different way or we leave this idea right here."

"Dick—"

"Find. Another. Way." He steps back, shaking his head. "I'm going out. I'll be on coms if you need me."

It's probably not a good idea, but I let him go. Once he's out of the room I raise my left hand, massaging my forehead as I brace my other hand on my hip.

I understand Dick's refusal, but I know that I'm right. Any guard, any mercenary, can be bribed with the right amount or thing. I don't want to put Dick near someone that's that dangerous — and I need them to be dangerous to protect him — but might turn on him. I trust Dick to be able to take care of himself, but that doesn't mean that I don't worry for his safety. A personal guard would have all the perfect opportunities to kill him, and all it would take is one person with enough resources to make that happen. I won't put him in that kind of danger.

There are two other options.

A friend; someone Dick trusts intimately and I can trust to keep him safe. But that invites a personal connection, and Dick would never put one of his friends in the way of danger aimed at him. That won't work. I really am proud of how selfless he can be, but it also makes protecting him frustrating sometimes.

The second option is the one Dick is refusing. A slave. Slaves are hardly ever spoken to; they're made for entertainment or service and nothing more. There are some slaves that are trained to eloquence, to mentally engage as well as physically, but those are much rarer. Usually those are trained by their masters from a young age, or by request. The normal slave is ignored until something is needed from them, and that makes them perfect for a guard no one would suspect, and no one would try to turn on him. Dick is right though, slaves are only loyal because they're trained to be terrified of anything but loyalty. The rebellious ones are killed fairly early on, publicly and violently, as warnings to the rest.

Well, not all of them.

The ones who are good looking enough are saved sometimes, tortured until they break and can be molded just like the rest. Maybe… It's a tiny chance, a mad chance.

Maybe I can find one that's been branded, but not broken. One with spirit, with strength, but that's already condemned to a life of slavery. I could train a slave like that to fight, and it's possible that I could make a deal. A slave like that might be willing to trade protection for the promise of never being a slave in anything but name. It might work.

But what are the chances that I could find someone like that?

I grind my teeth together, jerking against the chains around my wrists and trying not to shake, not to scream. I won't give this motherfucker the satisfaction.

I can't help slumping when the prod pulls back though, and the electricity leaves my system. My weight hangs from my wrists for a second, until I force my knees to work and then drag in a sharp breath. I wrap my hands around the chains and pull, dragging myself back to my feet and taking the weight off of my arms. I've dislocated my shoulders one too many times to let my weight sit like that. My right leg shakes, twitching in leftover shock, and I bare my teeth and raise my gaze. I snarl at the man watching me, meeting his eyes through the fall of my hair. It's soundless, but that's only because my throat doesn't like making noise right now. It's too dry. I'll save what little voice I have left for real words.

His eyes narrow, and he steps to the side and taps the table behind him. It draws my attention to the pitcher of water there — plastic; they stopped giving me anything glass or metal after the second torturer that I stabbed.

"This can stop," he coaxes. "One word, slave. That's all it takes."

I curl my mouth into a grin, letting it be a show of my teeth. "Asshole," I spit out, and follow it with a bark of laughter when his expression tightens with frustration. "Not the word you were looking for, motherfucker?" My voice is rough, but I force myself to swallow and get a little moisture into my throat. It doesn't really work, but I've got bigger things to be concerned about.

Like the way that my torturer takes the pitcher of water and hurls the contents at me. I get a few stray drops in my mouth, but the rest splashes over me and god it's fucking cold. I can't help the hard shiver, shaking my head to get some of it out of my hair. I can feel it sliding over my skin, feel goosebumps rising across my skin as the muscle over my ribs contracts automatically. I shove out a breath, resisting licking at my lips or trying to get any more of the water into my mouth.

He sets the pitcher down deliberately, and then steps forward and traces the prod up the center of my chest. It's off, but the metal is almost as cold as the water and the threat behind it is obvious. He presses it to the hollow of my throat, and I can see his thumb hovering over the switch on the side.

"You just sacrificed water for the day. Was it worth it, slave?" His voice probably isn't as calm as he'd like, and I flash him as sharp a grin as I can manage.

"Kiss my ass," I hiss at him.

The prod drops to my ribs, and I shout when he turns it on. Fire slices up my side, and I absolutely can't stop myself from trying to jerk and twist away. It's automatic, and the prod follows me, forcing my body into a sideways arch, held in place by the chains around my wrists and my ankles. It's a particularly tender spot, low on my ribs and right over bone. I know all of my most tender spots by heart at this point. I know exactly how much pain someone can cause me without actually breaking my skin, and those soft spots are where they target.

At least they can't do more than that. Scars would take my price down, and the rest I can handle. I can take it.

It feels like I can't breathe when he finally pulls it away, like my lungs are seizing, and my next breath is short and ragged. I'm shaking, and I can feel my shoulders straining under my weight. The prod hooks underneath my chin, pushing my head up, and I open my eyes even as I snarl on pure automatic.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, slave?" he asks. "When you disobey, the only person you're hurting is yourself."

I force another grin. "I dunno, seems to piss you off." My voice comes out a little bit breathless, but I force myself to stand again, to get up and twist my head to knock the prod away from my chin. "Peter, right? You know, my middle name's Peter. Never liked it."

His expression tightens, and I bare my teeth in challenge and then snap them at him. He's not nearly close enough to actually catch, but that's only because he's careful. I've bitten other people that dared to get close to me; I've outlasted three other trainers, this one is just the latest. It's like I'm their goddamn pet project, I honestly don't get why they're still trying to break me. They have to have spent more effort on me than they're getting back at this point. It's not like they can show me off as some kind of warning to the newer recruits. They tried, once. I broke one guard's leg and the other's nose before they brought me down.

I haven't seen another slave in a long time, except the beaten, cowed ones that clean up this cell. This cell has been my life for… Too long. I don't know how long, honestly. It's a scary thought, so I try not to think about it. What's outside these walls doesn't matter anyway. My life is my own body, these walls, and never giving in to these torturing bastards.

I am not a thing, I am not property, and I will not let them break me. I won't.

"I'm going to enjoy using you tonight," he snaps, his voice finally matching his expression as he jams the prod up against my throat hard enough I have to jerk away just to breathe.

I glare back. "Oh yeah, 'cause that's new. Just been faking this whole time, huh? Can't wait to see how big you are when you're actually hard; gotta be bigger than that pencil you've usually got."

Rage.

I brace for pain, to have that prod jammed up against something a lot more sensitive than just my ribs, but then the door opens. My gaze snaps up, and I get one sharp shock to my side before he's turning too. It forces the breath out of my lungs, makes me jerk, but I clench my teeth together and don't give him the satisfaction of any kind of sound.

The man that enters is dressed in expensive looking fabric that's distinctly androgynous, and I recognize him as the owner of this place. He's never spoken to me, never stooped low enough to be within ten feet of me except for right now, but I've seen him before. I think the curse I shouted at him had something to do with goats, but honestly the thing I remember most about that day is how badly they hurt me for it. I haven't had very many days that were the equal of that.

What the hell is he doing here?

Peter bows his head, bringing the prod halfway behind his back. "Sir."

The owner's gaze lifts to me, and he sweeps a little further into the room, carefully avoiding the water splashed onto the floor. The door is still open, and I hold my tongue and just watch as a second man comes through the door. Even taller than I am, solid build with muscle , grey-blue eyes and short black hair. Holy fuck I know that face.

I shift my weight on my feet, staring warily at the goddamn King . Peter is frozen stiff; he looks completely shocked before he suddenly drops to both knees and breathes, " Majesty ."

There's a tiny flicker of distaste on the King's face — I am trying to remember what his name is, but it's not quite coming — but he barely even looks at my torturer. His gaze quickly flicks to me, holding at my eyes of all things. Here I am, completely fucking naked and chained in place, and the King of all goddamn Gotham is looking at me . Not my body, but me .

Then the fire is back, spreading from the back of my left knee, and I cry out because I'm not expecting it at all. I jerk my weight off that leg, arching and recognizing that the prod's been turned up a notch. It only lasts a couple of moments, and then I'm released. I manage to keep my feet this time, but I can feel the press of the prod lingering at my knee; a threat.

"Eyes down , slave," is Peter's order.

The owner makes a small sound that's definitely displeased. "As you can see, he's ill-behaved. We're correcting his behavior, your majesty, but he's not fit to be sold yet. There's really no point in you inspecting him, sir."

"I think that's my call, isn't it?" I lift my gaze again, towards the source of the deep, strong voice. I meet his look, curling my mouth into a snarl because fuck him. I won't be a slave, not even to a King. His hand jerks in a sharp gesture, gaze flicking down towards Peter. "Don't, that's enough."

I'm pretty sure that he just saved me from another shock, and that's the only reason that I hold my tongue. I watch him as he steps forward, judging the distance and considering what I can do to hurt him. Hurting the King is probably suicidal, but it might be fun. Too bad the only real weapon I have left is my teeth, and pretty much no one is stupid enough to bring anything of theirs close to my mouth. Not until they've forced me into that fucking ring gag anyway, for the nightly humiliation of getting fucked by any and everyone who works here and wants a shot. Guards mostly; I got used to it even if I never got over hating it.

"Can you speak?" he asks, and I bare my teeth a little more obviously as he takes another step, his feet hitting the puddle of water around me.

"More or less," I spit, considering his clothes. He's in a tailored suit, black, and it looks good on him. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else from a rich bastard like this. "They selling fucking tickets to gawk now or is that just your kink? "

I'm expecting the shock I get for that, so I just jerk and curl my hands around the chains, a grunt being driven from my chest at the pain.

"Enough!" the King snaps, and just like that the shock is done. I sag a little bit, dragging my eyes open and catching the edge of irritation in the King's expression. "Out, both of you." His voice is almost a growl, rough and low with threat. " Now ."

I've honestly never seen Peter nor the owner move as fast they do. I've never seen Peter look quite that nervous either. The door shuts, and the King glances around the room. The way his gaze flicks to the corners of the room makes me think that he's looking for cameras, and I catch my breath and just watch him. There aren't any, not right now anyway. When there are, they're large, obvious, and meant to make me aware that every move I make is being recorded for their fucked up enjoyment. It's just a psychological tactic; I'm getting pretty damn familiar with those too.

The King's gaze comes back to me, and there's something appraising in his eyes but still, the only place he's looking is my eyes. I hold his gaze, trying to show him that I'm not going to back down. Not to him, not to anyone . I keep my mouth flat though; he hasn't really threatened me yet, and he stopped the shocks. He's not being an outright pervy son of a bitch either, so I can hold myself in check for right now. I only have so much energy and I need to save what I can. I know what I've already done is going to get me a whole lot of punishment as soon as they have free reign with me again.

Finally, when my breath is slow and steady and my leg's stopped twitching, I twitch my mouth into half a snarl. "You going to just stand there and stare all fucking day?" I bait. "Usually old, rich fucks like you are more interested in things that aren't my eyes."

I swear that flicker in his eyes is amusement. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, and I snort.

"Yeah, I know. Can't remember your name at the moment, but you're the King." I yank at the chains around my wrist, curling my mouth into a slightly wider snarl. "For some reason, I'm not a real big fan. You wanna guess why?"

"It's Bruce Wayne," he tells me, his voice quiet. "If it helps, I'm not supportive of slavery."

"But here you are. Get off your fucking high horse, King . I'd bow but one, I'm kinda stuck, and two, I'd rather break your goddamn nose."

The King's mouth curls in a small smirk, and then he's clasping his hands behind his back. "I have an offer for you."

I roll my eyes. "Did you not just hear me? If you're looking to buy me, or try and make some kind of deal to make me obey, you might as well just fuck off . I won't be your fucking property. I won't be a slave for you, or anyone."

His expression falls a touch, and he glances towards my right shoulder. At this angle he won't be able to see much of it, but I know he's looking for the scar of my brand. Then he meets my gaze again. "I don't think you're that stupid," he says frankly, and my mouth snaps into a snarl as I jerk forwards at him. "I think you have a mind behind that attitude, and I think you know that it's too late."

"What the fuck are you trying to say?" I snap.

Bruce's gaze is steady. Calm. "The moment you were branded your chance at a normal life was gone. Not even I can change a slave's status in society, and everyone who sees that brand will know what that status is. You'll never be a normal person again, and you know that. I understand why you're fighting, but I'm offering a way out. You don't have to say yes, and if you refuse me I'll leave it at that. I'm not trying to control you."

His words ring truer than I want them to, and I bite back the answer on my tongue. I stare at him for a long few moments, and then shift my weight and give a small nod. "I'm listening."

"What's your name?" he asks, and I twitch a bit.

I work it on my tongue for a moment before I tell him, "Jason. Jason Todd."

He bows his head for just a moment, almost in something like respect which is weird as fuck, before meeting and holding my gaze again. "My son's life has been in danger recently," he starts, his voice soft. "He needs a guard, and I need someone I can trust to be at his side. Someone who won't be turned against him and put a knife between his ribs for a high enough price."

I get it. "People don't pay attention to slaves," I put in, "and the only thing I want," freedom , "no one can give me."

Another small bow of his head. "Yes, I thought you were smarter than they told me."

"Yeah?" I snort. "What did they tell you?"

A tiny smirk. "That you were 'densely stubborn.' At least one of those words is right, but I tend to think that stubbornness is a good thing." I roll my eyes again. "I can teach you how to fight. You'd be a slave in name and look, but nothing else, I swear to you. You'd be my son's personal companion, so no one else would have the right to so much as touch you. He's against slavery, strongly . He would never touch you without your permission, and the only thing that would be expected of you is that you stay mostly behaved in public."

I shift my weight, studying his expression and pulling a bit at my chains. "What exactly does that mean? Be straight with me, I am not doing this on some vague-as-fuck terms like that."

"To stay quiet," he answers. "To stay by his side and hold your tongue, that's all. You would never be expected to perform, and being a prince's companion would allow you to get away with being less obedient. No avoiding eye contact, no submission, no taking orders from anyone but him and me, and then only when it was absolutely necessary. In return, I get you out of here, I teach you how to fight, and you live the rest of your life in my castle at my son's side. You can spend your time however you want; he won't need you all the time and he won't stop you from pursuing whatever interests you."

I stay silent, trying to think. Trying to figure out exactly what this would be and if I'm missing anything about it that might bite me in the ass later.

"There's no guarantee," the King murmurs, "and I think you know that. You have my word, but there's nothing else I can give you. But, if you come with me, you'll be out of here." His mouth curls into a very small smile, and he holds my gaze. "You'll have a much better chance of escaping my castle than the cells here, if that's what you decide to do. If you can get out of Gotham, you might be able to get to a country that doesn't support slavery. It's a thought, anyway."

My jaw works, teeth clenching for a second. "You'd brand me," I point out, and Bruce pauses for a moment before he nods. I look away, considering the options. Not that I really have options.

I say yes, I go with the King and become a hidden guard for the Prince. I get branded with the symbol of his house, but it sets me up for a better life no matter what. Even if the King and Prince are secretly the most fucked up, kinky sons of bitches that exist, it would be hard for it to be worse than here. Possible, but the King doesn't strike me as that kind of a sadist, and I'm usually a pretty good judge of character. He's right too. Even a castle would probably be easier to break out of — especially as a slave — than these cells. Training centers like this are designed to hold slaves until they're ready to be sold, slaves already in the world aren't guarded well; it's assumed they're already obedient. I'd have a decent chance of escaping the country, especially if the King's got the views on slaves that he seems to.

If I say no, I stay here. Life goes on, and I fade into the endless torture and humiliation until I can't take it anymore and finally snap. I'm not naive, I will break eventually. No one can hold out forever. I'd held out for the hope that they were going to kill me, but eventually I found out that won't happen either. I'm tall, I'm good-looking, my brand is clean, and I've got the white streak of hair over my left eye that's actually natural. It makes me exotic, and 'exotic' sells for a fuckload of money. They'll break me eventually.

Slowly, I give a nod. "Alright," I agree. "If you can get me out of here, I'll be a guard for your son. Deal."

"Deal," the King agrees. "I suppose I'll have to trust your word just as much as you'll have to trust mine."

"I think you've got a bit more of a safety net to fall back on than I do. Just a bit."

A flicker of a smirk, and then the King nods. He takes a look around the room, and then zeros in on the controls for the chains at my wrists. He crosses over to them with a few long strides, and then easily — like he knows exactly what he's doing — shoves the lever to release the tension on the chains. The sudden lack of support drops me to my knees, and I wince as my shoulders come down, the joints screaming at me for how they've been abused. I breathe through my teeth, slowly rolling them to try and stretch the muscles out a bit and ease the ache. I hold my still chained wrists near my chest, feeling the cold slide of the slack in the chain as it drapes down over my left shoulder.

I raise my gaze back up to the King, and find him pulling the keys to my cuffs off of that hook in the corner. I get back to my feet as he turns towards me, and then he's tossing the keys my direction. Without thinking, I raise my hands and snag the flying keys out of the air. There's only two on the ring; one for my wrists and one for my ankles. I twist my fingers in to reach the hole on the shackles, and it feels good to hear the snap of them unlocking. I shake the manacles off, rolling my wrists and my shoulders and trying not to dwell on how strange it feels for them to be so light. I sink down to my knees to get the ones around my ankles, ignoring the weight of the stare on my shoulders as the King watches.

After a few moments the only thing that's still binding me is the brand on my shoulder, and that's the only thing that I can never take off. So I toss the keys back to the King as I stretch out, rolling my weight around and trying out how it feels to be able to move freely. I got too used to the feeling of weights dragging on my ankles and wrists, of steel against my skin at all times.

I don't know if it's arrogance or trust that lets the King walk back towards me without even a little bit of wariness, but it doesn't look like arrogance. It looks like confidence.

"Don't hurt anyone?" he asks, with a tinge of amusement. "This will go a lot smoother if you don't cause any trouble."

I snort but then meet his gaze, raising my chin. "They don't touch me , I won't touch them . That good enough for you, Bruce?"

He smirks. "Sounds fair."