Ok, so first, thanks everyone who reviewed the first part. Thaliag.2, Mellowtopian, Elvenstar Imrahil, Cold Cruel and Collected, DynamicDuo 911, Swallow Tale, you all said really nice things. And Hanna Sedai, thanks especially for tumblring it and for your advice. You are awesome people.
I wasn't really planning on writing any more of this, but because people liked it I sketched up a plan and I'll try to keep it going.
Because I've actually thought about it now it seemed like a good idea to do some research and actually look at what else is up here, and I've made a couple of decisions based on that. This is going to stick to Robin's perspective, not because I don't think the other characters are interesting, or that the stories with multiple perspectives don't rock, there just aren't many that do only have one viewpoint character. I'm really sorry- this isn't bashing other stuff in any way. Also, this is going to be a relatively short story. I don't think I could manage to write a 40 chapter epic, it would be a mess.
So this is going to be small and simple and I'll try to do it as well as I can.
That said, I kinda think this chapter sucks. Nothing really happens, I just needed to take it somewhere.
Also, I totally do not own the Teen Titans.
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They wouldn't risk going back to the main base that night. Too far with the police out. Dick had no idea how many flats, houses, garages and cellars Slade owned around the city, each ready for emergency use. (As he'd explained at the start of the apprenticeship"Keep moving. All the time. If you have to stay still, then do it where nobody can see you.")
This one was a basement car park, three rooms, hardly furnished, dank and dark and smelling of mould. He followed Slade inside, keeping his distance, keeping quiet.
Not that that would help. Slade was furious.
Once inside, he moved quickly across the room, head bowed, trying to keep tensed and focussed on Slade. What was he going to do?
But it was difficult.
He was, despite himself, stupidly, still happy. He wasn't a murderer. He had to hold onto that. Even now as he heard Slade close the door, clicking the key and locking him in, he had to remember that he'd missed, he'd won.
Slade took the unassembled pieces of gun from the bag, unpacking and arranging them carefully on the room's ugly wooden table. Dick didn't watch. The sight of that thing. He'd come so close to-
But he hadn't.
Sighing, Slade unclipped his mask. ("You know you've been using my first name since we met. The Titans aren't really worth a secret identity.") "Explain what happened."
They both knew what had happened.
Putting down his own bag, Dick kept his head lowered, his eyes still off the gun, and muttered. "I don't know."
"We've spoken," now, as Dick watched, Slade was walking around the table, hands behind his back, "about you mumbling."
"I don't know. It missed."
"Well obviously." And he was next to him, hand clamped on Dick's shoulder, spinning him round to face the table, holding him there so he had to look at the gun. Not letting go, but not hurting him yet, Slade hissed. "What do you see there?"
"The gun-" Dick winced. He could break his arm.
Or kill the Titans. Keep your priorities straight.
"Well done. And what don't guns do?"
"What?-"
He pushed him closer to the table, to the gun, "Answer me."
"They shoot-"
"What don't guns do?"
What don't guns do? He tried to think, panicking, hating that he was desperate, but he had to say something, a trick question, obviously, but Slade wanted him to answer and he had to-
Only one way out. Grovel. "I don't know! I'm sorry!" It hurt to be pathetic in front of him.
He waited a moment, Dick holding his breath, gritting his teeth, then, snorting, let go. "Good guns don't miss." Slade looked at him, still stooped, clutching his shoulder. "This is a good gun. So either it's broken or something else went wrong. What do you think?"
Speaking slowly, trying to think as he did, Dick answered, "I did what you said. Maybe it is broken. " Not that that would work.
Slade smirked. "That's possible. Put it together and find the fault." He crossed his arms and narrowed his eye. "I'm waiting."
Dick looked at him, at the gun, back at Slade. They both knew that there was nothing wrong with it.
He wanted to see what he'd do.
It was a test. What did Slade want? Would he be happier if he told the truth, or annoyed that he'd not tried to lie? Did he just want to see him fail, get another reason to punish him?
Stop planning. Do what he wants. One wrong move and the Titans-
Dick stepped towards the gun, looked at it, closed his eyes, opened them, tried to remember how it fitted together, but the sight set his head aching, his throat blocked and-
He couldn't touch it, not again. Not when he could still feel the trigger under his fingers, still see the man in the cross hairs if he closed his eyes. His hands started to shake. Knowing that Slade would see, probably had seen, he pressed them to his sides.
"Well?"
Nothing else for it. He was too weak. "I missed."
Slade was silent, still, watching. Why wouldn't he just get it over with? Finally, almost contemplatively, "Why did you miss?"
"It-" Why had he missed? He'd felt sick. He'd panicked. He'd been frightened. He hadn't thought about it, he'd aimed and fired. What could he say that Slade would believe? "It just happened."
"It just happened. That's not an answer. Look at me. That's better. Let's go through this. You were unable to shoot properly."
Dick nodded, stiffly, once.
"I didn't hear you."
"Sorry. Yes."
"You felt sick."
"Yes, I-"
"You panicked."
"Yes-"
"You were scared."
"Yes-"
"You didn't mean to miss."
"No-" And Dick stopped.
He hadn't meant to miss. He'd meant to- he started to sweat, feeling the same dizzy sickness rising as he had on the roof, he wanted to close his eyes but couldn't turn away from Slade- he'd missed by accident- he had meant to kill the man-
He felt weak. After a moment Slade went on, smiling coolly, "I believe you. You missed by accident. You're forgiven. What do you say?"
"Thank you." Speaking cracked his throat.
"Good."
Dick didn't answer. Slowly Slade flexed his wrist and started to take off his gloves. "Those things you described, nausea, panic, revulsion. Those are physical subconscious reactions, Dick. They have nothing to do with what you believe. You, yourself, don't think there's anything wrong with my work."
Of course he did.
But he hadn't meant to miss.
In his same low, persistent, serious tone, Slade went on. "And responding like that isn't natural. I believe that you've been brainwashed."
Just like it was a normal thing to say. Dick stared at him, his fists clenching, panic burning to anger. He could feel where this was going.
"Batman didn't brainwash me." It was Slade's certainty, the way he made statements and judgements and spoke as if he knew, "How dare you-"
"We're born with a survival instinct. Yours has been repressed." Almost absentmindedly, Slade started to fit the sniper rifle together. Snapping and clicking and never taking his eyes off Dick's face.
"Murder isn't-"
"Dick, people have been killing each other for years. It's human."
"That's-"
"You've already shown that you'd do it if you were capable, but something stopped you."
"You were making me! The Titans-"
"When your parents died you went after the man who killed them. Tony Zucco."
He didn't even care how Slade had found that out. "Yes, but-"
"You wanted to kill him. Actually, if it wasn't for Batman, you might have done. Explain to me how Batman using force to stop you then is any different from me using force to make you now."
"It's murder!"
Slade put down the gun and leaned across the table "Stop shouting."
There was no point in getting angry. Breathe. He pushed his shoulders back, made himself meet Slade's eye. "I'm sorry."
"Good." He went back to work, "Since you didn't answer the difference between me and Batman is that I'm undoing the damage he did."
Muttering just over under-his-breath Dick replied lowly, "You're not doing anything."
"So you say." Slade finished the gun and held it evenly across his hands, weighing it, peering into the sight, checking the corners. "I wonder though-" smiling he aimed it at Dick, who shrugged and stared at the floor, "if you had another chance," he put the gun down again, "what you'd do to Zucco now."
