135,5 hours before (6 days):
8:30 am
Secret location

It came as a surprise, not necessarily an unpleasant one, that Kayla had taken the teenagers hostage faster than Deathstroke had anticipated. It forced him to slightly alter his plans though.

But now he could see Cain's wide eyes, Brown's furious expression, Todd's murderous lazarus-glowing orbs, Drake's down-curved mouth and Damian's... well, there were a lot of different emotions flashing though the boy's eyes.

He seemed angry, obviously, but Slade hadn't missed the flinch when the door was pushed open. In the days he had been captured, Castor and Slade had visited him once, other than that, he had been kept in total silence in the white room.

It had taken an impressing amout of time for it to take effect, but Damian had reacted quite startled when his siblings had been pushed into his room of solitude. And not merely out of worry for his kin.

A small smile grazed the mercenary' s lips. Perfect.
He had one more thing planned for the boy. It would never be enough to push an al Ghul over the edge, but despite it all, Damian was just twelve and it would at least leave lasting effects.

But first things first.

He pushed Grayson forward, watching as he stumbled into Cain, who immediately wrapped her arms around him protectively. The eldest sibling patted her back reassuringly, turning to face Slade, subtly placing himself in front of his sister. From the look on the ex-assassin's face, she realized Grayson's intentions too.

Seizing up the vigilantes, it was obvious Todd was this close to lunging himself at Slade, while Damian looked like he was torn between aggressively growling and defensively hissing.

Like a kitten backed in a corner.

He chuckled silently at the mental image.

"Now, Grayson. I am going to have a talk with some of your siblings here, while you tell the rest of them of our... shared history."
The vigilante's eyes widened and Slade hold up his hand as the kid tried to say something. "This is not up for debate. I told you, you have agitated me enough as it is, don't test me."
Grayson's eyes lowered to the floor in a way that was all too familiar to Slade.

When they had first clashed, the kid had been thirteen short years old, running around with the Bat and flipping off people's shoulders. It had taken some work (and an unmentionable amount of money) to get the kid in his grip, but after some time of molding and a very subtle form of brainwashing (the carrot and the stick, so to speak), the former Robin had become so damn compliant. The though made his skin tingle pleasurable.

(Though sadly enough, Richard joining that team of sidekicks had undone all side effects Robin's time with the merc had left.)

Forcing himself out of his thought, Slade pulled a gun out of the holster on his thigh. The teenagers (did 13 year old Damian count as a teen? Slade wasn't sure) all stiffed, scooting closer together. Cute. "I am not going to shoot you." He smirked wickedly, although it was hidden by his mask. "Unless you give me a reason to, of course." No one moved.

Slade swiftly clamped his hand around Todd's arm, hauling him to his feet. The gruff looking teen scowled, white strands falling into his eyes, baring his teeth. Of all the Bat's children, Todd was the most unhinged, but he also had undeniable potential. Slade pressed the gun against the kid's temple, safety off. He pulled him close to his chest, watching the other heroes over the kid's shoulder. Damian was clenching his fists tightly as his sides, body stiff as a bow. Slade wondered briefly if the boy would attack him, but quickly discarded the thought.

1. He still had Todd at gun point
2. The al Ghul heir seemed distant, wary, still dealing with the after effects of being Slade's only prisoner.

The other siblings, aside from Grayson, looked seconds away from starting a fight. Drake especially seemed to be having a hard time restraining himself. Grayson on the other hand was staring at Slade with huge, hate-filled eyes. It was pretty easy to guess what was going on inside his pretty little head. He was drowning in guilt, blaming himself for putting his oh-so-beloved siblings in danger. That's just how Grayson worked. The kid was trapped between defensive aggression and self-preservational servility.

Leaning close to Todd's ear, he whispered darkly, "behave," and pulled him backwards out of the door, forcing him to close it afterwards.
_

Jason gritted his teeth as he was pulled along. Despite himself, his heart was racing, images of the things Deathstroke could do to him flashing through his head. It wasn't the pain per se he was scared of (nothing could top the Joker's torture and the terror in Jason's own mind when they met again), it was the horror of dying. He didn't ever want to be trapped inside that all consuming darkness again. It had been so cold, so lonely. It made his throat run dry.

But if Wilson wanted him dead, he would have already killed him. So Jason bit his tongue and didn't struggle as he was lead by the mercenary. He couldn't deny that he was curious as to what the man wanted from him (or Dick for that matter). He knew about the Demon Brat's past with Deathstroke, about the whole I-should-be-Ra's-al-Ghul's-heir thing, but what the fuck could have happened between Goldie and Wilson to cause this whole kidnapping scenario? Dick was probably spilling the beans to the others right now and Jason was pissed he had to hear the story from Deathstroke's perspective first (if at all).

He growled as he was pushed into a metal chair, its feet bolted to the floor, and Deathstroke yanked Jason's hands to each side of the armrests, restraining him with zip-ties that dug into his skin. The sharp pain made him jerk slightly and Wilson regarded him with an amused chuckle.

Jason had never really given much thought to Deathstroke the Terminator. When Bruce had first taken him in, he had stayed away from the really dangerous villains, taking down the scum that was running around crime alley, exploiting the street kids and people living there. He had stopped robberies and rapists, making Gotham saver for the small people.

Until the night he had found out his mother was still alive (following the events of his torture and death by the Joker's hand).

And after his return, he had been hell bent on making Bruce suffer, making him see Jason's suffering. He had done a lot of shit while under the Pit's and Talia's influence (including almost killing Tim, but that's a whole other story). And then came the whole 'building his own crime empire' thingy... So no, Slade Wilson had never really been on his radar, not even after the Demon Brat had first popped up.

And still it surprised him, when Deathstroke removed his mask, that he seemed to be in his late 50's, white hair framing his face. He was older than Bruce and still on top of his game. Must be something in that super soldier serum or whatever was making him such a dangerous enemy (Jason was getting some serious Anti Captain America vibes).

Deathstroke sat down on a chair in front of him, eyeing Jason up and down. The anti-hero really wished he had his armour on right about now. The steely eye send shivers down his back.

"Jason Todd."
Jason's lips thinned. "That would be me."
"You are one interesting person. From a street rat to Batman's partner. And, most importantly, survivor of the Lazarus' madness."
His whole body stiffed at those words, unwanted images of green anguish flashing through his mind.
"What's it to you, sucker?" he spit, words laced with acid. Wilson raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. "No need to be so defensive, kid. I have felt the rage of the Pit myself, I know what it can do to one's soul. But you are the most extreme case of bloodlust that has been noted down in centuries."

Jason scowled darkly, ignoring the unpleasant tightening of his gut. This conversation was not going in any direction he was comfortable with. "So what?" he hissed, leaning forward slightly. "Madness or not, when I get my hands free, I will rip your throat out and make you eat it."
Before Jason could make another threat, he was headbutted so hard, stars exploded behind his eyes, blinding pain obscuring his vision, his head snapping back. "Fuck," he grunted, feeling warm blood run down his nose. This was gonna become one heck of a headache. He coughed roughly, grimacing as blood dripped from his nose into his mouth. "The fuck was that for?"
"Self-indulgence."

Breathing hard, Jason bit his tongue and tried to compose himself. Agitating the man was not profitable for him, especially with the threat of a concussion on the way.

"What do you want from me?"
Deathstroke regarded him with a cool eye, and Jason squirmed in his chair. "You were dead, boy, I read your autopsy report. Severe brain damage and permanent nerve pain. Countless broken bones, ruptured spleen, one lung collapsed, the other pierced by broken ribs. Furthermore, caused by the explosion, third and forth degree burns, as well as shrapnel inj-"
"I know what he did to me, you don't need to list it," Jason growled angrily, hands trembling violently at his sides (if from rage or terror, he wasn't sure).

"If this is about my resurrection, I really don't know what to say to you. I was dead, now I'm not."
Wilson didn't speak for a moment, regarding him with a scrutinizing look. "That is exactly what I am here to talk about. I am curious, did Talia dug you out of your grave to throw you into the green waters? Did she do it to impress her lover? Did she hope to win him back by returning what was lost?"

Alarm bells started blaring inside Jason's head, and it took biting his tongue sharply to not let himself show any sign that he had noticed Deathstroke's slip-up. How did Wilson know it was Talia who had put him in the Lazarus Pit? He obviously didn't know Jason had been brought back to life beforehand, still inside his own grave, and that Talia had found him wandering the streets. But Wilson did know Ra's' daughter was responsible for his current state of mind, which posed the question of how he had obtained said information. The League had been careful to sweep the knowledge of it under the rug, if only to keep unwanted attention off the Pit. So either the League was involved, or Deathstroke had somehow managed to infiltrate the League of Shadows and planted a spy. Both were concerning options.

Instead of voicing any of his thoughts, he put on a defiant glare and spit saliva and blood at the merc's feet. "That's none of you goddamn fucking business." The man regarded him with indifference and folded his hands in his lap. "I will make this easy, so even someone with your upbringing can understand," he said, voice the embodiment of disdain. If he was overexaggerating to rile Jason up or if he really thought that low of his former home situation, Jason was not sure, but it pissed him off royally, a slightly green hue overtaking his vision.

Deathstroke continued. "I have five hostages consisting of your siblings, so I suggest you start answering my questions." Jason narrowed his eyes, quirking his lips up sharply, rage boiling inside his stomach. "If we were just hostages, kidnapping all of us is means taking unnecessary risks. You took Damian two days ago, but he is still alive, which is surprising considering your backstory, so you obviously still have plans for him. And Dick has been acting weird lately, which, now that we are here, probably means he somehow came in contact with you before any of us even realized something was wrong. Thinking back to our earlier confrontation just proves that this is really mostly about Dick, you said yourself that you two know each other."

"Impressive," commented Wilson, nodding slowly. "And your other siblings? What do you think is their role in all of this. And yours, of course." If Jason was right with his assumptions so far, then his, and everyone else's, purpose was to put pressure on Dick. Jason had no idea what a merc would want from his big brother so bad he would risk a war with Gotham's heroes (and the Justice League in extension). "I am here because of my connection to the Pit," he continued his analysis. "Probably because you are entertaining the idea of using it if someone does manage to kill you. But you are afraid of losing control as I did." The older man confirmed it was a nod. Jason didn't want to think of the implications of Deathstroke giving information so willing. He swallowed and Wilson continued talking.

"And what about Cassandra Cain, Timothy Drake, and Stephanie Brown?" Jason stayed silent. Tim was a genius at tracking people, but someone with Slade Wilson's financial means would have been able to stay under the radar long enough to go undetected by even Red Robin. As to the girls, Jason supposed they were there to demonstrate Deathstroke's power, especially since Cass was a very dangerous foe.

That's what he thought anyway, but Wilson proved him wrong.

"Cassandra Cain is a weapon," he stated, eye carefully trained on Jason. "With the right motivation, she will become a valuable asset to my arsenal. The perfect tool to be used, if sharpened correctly."
With a growl of pure rage, Jason surged forward, feeling the zip-ties tear into his skin. His chest tightened with feral protectiveness over his little sister. "Cass is not a fucking weapon, you mouth-breathing dick monkey! If you think you can fucking use her, this whole family will tear you apart!" For a moment, the mercenary blurred before his eyes, replaced by a poisonous green glow. Jason blinked and everything was back to normal. Deathstroke must have seen something that pleased him, because his one visible eye lit up and he leaned closer, continuing to bait him.

"Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown are merely leverage, expendable. I suggest you start answering my questions, or I'll put a bullet in little Timmy's head." A dangerous smirk worked its way upon the mercenary's face. "But then again, you were the one who came closest to killing him so far, so maybe that threat does not hold much weight. You don't care for him, do you, continuing to call him Replacement, like he is not even worth being called by his name."

If you asked Jason what happened next, he wouldn't be able to give an honest answer. Everything turned green before his eyes, his head screaming with mad laughter, his eyes glowing neon, all thought leaving his mind, a blinding pain shooting through his heart. The next thing he knew, he had Deathstroke pinned against the wall, hands wrapped tightly around his throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

And Wilson was laughing, the raspy sound mixing with the horrifying laughter in Jason's head, creating a cacophony of terror.

"Look d-" a wet cough slurred Wilson's voice. "Look at your hands." Jason's burning green eyes focused on the fingers still fiercely wrapped around the man's throat... And the mad hue started to fade. His wrists were a mess. He had broken through the zip-ties, but now they were embedded deep into his skin, almost hitting bone. The Lazarus' effects must have overwhelmed his mind to the extent where he didn't even feel the pain.

Jason bend to the side and vomited.
Partly from the gruesome picture his wrists created, blood coating his whole forearm, partly from the shock of the pain he registered all at once, and mostly because he had let the Pit take over once again, succumbing to his insatiable anger, the rage-

Jason vomited again, bile burning in his throat. After months of constant fury, he had been terrified of being oppressed by the madness again, of hurting his family again (of killing Tim this time). And now Deathstroke had riled him up to the point where he lost control.

He's a fucking monster.

His wrists were prove of that.

His eyes burned. His throat burned. His stomach roiled and he felt like vomiting again, but he managed to keep the rest of his food inside.

"What do you fucking get out of this?" he spit venomously, his voice rough and scratchy. The mercenary regarded him disdainfully and Jason straightened his back from where he was leaning on the wall for support.

His wrists were on fire, the zip ties scraping across bone whenever he moved.

Jason felt sick. Wilson's hand tangled in his hair and Jason sucked in a sharp breath, stiffening unintentionally. It wasn't often that people pulled his hair, but when it did happen, it always seemed... personal.

"Dad, please, I'm sorry, I'll be g-good... please stop, it hurts."
(Head banging against walls, cruel fingers twisted in black curls)

Deathstroke pulled Jason's face close, a feral smirk on his lips. "At the end of this ordeal, you will learn to control the Pit, one way or another. I don't care if I have to beat you, threaten your family or cut you open and see what's inside. You will learn, because I want to know if there is a way to overpower the madness. You have seen what my scientists can do, I am sure they would be able to work wonders on you Lazarus infected mind."

Jason's body gave an involuntary shudder at the threat. Was Wilson implying he would fucking experiment on him?! Jason was exhausted, felt gross, tasted bile in his mouth and was bone-deep tired, he did not have the nerve to deal with the terror seizing his heart at the very thought.

He had known people who had given their organs to shady underground doctors as a way of earning quick money, but he never met any one of those again. Who knew what kind of sick fuck Deathstroke the Terminator could brew up to torture him with.

He was too damn exhausted to think about it. These last few days had been anything but restful. From the night he'd found Kayla, be hadn't had more than a few hours of sleep, then the stress of Damian's kidnapping and when was the last time he fucking ate?

Jason felt faint. The agony in his wrists was killing him, making him light-headed. Wasn't he losing too much blood? He swallowed through his dry throat, vision shifting in and out of focus. He blinked rapitidly.

Suddenly, there was a hand around his biceps and Jason blushed in embarrassment as he started violently. Fucking blood-loss.
He was pulled back into the chair, not restricted this time. Jason raised his head (was it supposed to be so heavy?) And watched the villain through half-lidded eyes. The after effects of the Pit's rage always left him feeling hollow and dead tired.

He tipped forward and Wilson put a steady hand on his chest, pushing him back into the chair. Jason squirmed uncomfortably, but his attempts were pathetic and futile.
"Listen up, kid," said Deathstroke, snapping his fingers in front of Jason's face. He blinked drowsily. "Hm~m?"
Wilson sighed exasperated and gripped his chin roughly, tilting his head up. When had he dropped it?
He blinked to distinguish the mercenary from the black spots obscuring his sight, but everything was blurry and Jason's head throbbed. He mumbled something as his eyes drifted shut for good.

Meanwhile:

Dick stared down at his lap, thoughts running a mile per hour. Slade had Jason, Slade had his little brother, and expected Dick to tell his other siblings of their shared past. He knew they deserved the truth, and Dick didn't doubt they would support him in any way possible, but... It was like opening year old scars, which had barely heal in the first place. It was a period of time Dick still had nightmares about.

Finally, Dick raised his head to look at his family, all sat around him in a supportive circle. He knew they were curious, needed to know why this was happening, but the mere thought of telling anyone of the things he had done (the things that were done to him) send his mind reeling.

A warm hand lay reassuringly against his biceps and Tim's cool eyes gave Dick the courage he needed to start his story.
"I first met Deathstroke five years ago, just before we founded the Young Justice team."

Dick Grayson loved being Robin. The thrill, the freedom, the justice. Every last part of it. It felt liberating. And he was good at it, his background with the circus granting him advantages regarding speed, flexibility, agility and, not to forget, he wasn't easy to scare.

And still Batman would not allow the thirteen-year-old to go out on his own, or, heaven forbid, to fight one of the Arkham crazies. It wasn't fair. Dick could take on three armed robbers at the same time, being victorious without a scratch on him, and he still was being treated like a little kid.

He had seen death before, had been subjected to vicious training and never once complained about it, and still Bruce didn't trust him enough to go out on his own.

It irked him, but it was not as bad as it could be, he wasn't being cuddled at least, (though Dick would not complain if Bruce would actually take the time to give Dick more attention than maybe a short hug or clap on the shoulder, regarding anything other than their night job.)

Shaking his head, Robin cleared his thoughts, focusing back on the mission. There had been a series of robberies in local banks lately, and the police (and even Batman, though the man wasn't admitting it) were at a loss as to how the criminals entered and exited the buildings.

So here he was, standing in another empty vault, going crazy over the impossible escape of the criminals. Batman was in the lobby, talking to the security guard and looking for other clues.
Robin switched on the ultraviolet light in his mask, scanning the vault for blood or other indications to the criminals' identities.

He crouched low and looked high, searched behind a metal table and even scrutinised the security camera in the corner (the feed was useless, the lens painted white).

He came up empty-handed. Just like the last three vaults he had investigated.

With an irritated huff, he switched the lenses in his mask back to standard and regarded the vault with a deep frown.

The gang had somehow managed to avoid the security cameras in the lobby, snuck past the guards and entered the vault. The alarm was set off right after the vault door were opened, sending a message to the nearest police station. It took Gotham's finest twelve minutes to reach the bank, the vigilantes 14. Five blocks around the bank had been barricaded, the robbers shouldn't have been able to make it past the police. And they somehow managed every single time. It was infuriating.

"Find anything interesting?"

Robin spun around so fast, he was lucky he didn't get whiplash. In the entrance to the vault, a man was lazily leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed above his chest, totally at ease. Robin's left foot slid back, body falling into a fighting pose. The man wore two twin swords, one handle black, the other orange. His whole outfit seemed to fall into those two color schemes. His mask, split in half, sported only one visible eye on the orange side, leaving no room to read his expression. The costume itself was split down the middle, shoulder plates, gauntlets, utility belt, and gun holsters, all in black and orange.

Robin had seen him in the database, had read the body count and skill. Deathstroke the Terminator was way out of his league, and he was cornering him where Batman wouldn't hear his cry for help.

Dick had been complaining about Bruce's caution, but that did not mean he wanted to face one of the most dangerous mercenaries Batman ever had to faced. He would be dead within seconds. And he still didn't know what the mercenary was doing there in the first place. Was he responsible for the robberies?

Thinking fast, Dick jerked his hand to his ear, planning on radioing Batman, even if just to scream, to somehow get across that he needed help. He hadn't even seen the blow coming. Pain exploded across his face, and Dick opened his mouth to scream, a gurgled, strangled sound escaping him. His vision was blurry, there was a distant ringing in his ears, his face throbbed, and oh god, why did his nose hurt so much? He tasted copper and opened his mouth, blood running down his chin. It took him a moment too long to realize that his nose was gushing blood, definitely broken, and he was lying on the floor, face cradled protectively in shaking hands. He couldn't remember a time he had ever been hit so hard before. Tears of pain cascaded down his cheeks, choked sobs bursting from his lips.

"Now, child." Dick flinched away from the words, Deathstroke crouching down beside him. "I have a proposal, a one time offer." He waited until Dick raised his eyes, glaring defensively at the male. The mercenary continued. "Do you know who I am?"

Dick didn't answer, choosing to glower instead. Did that man seriously think he could assault Dick like that and make him compliant? That he would just roll over for him? His face hurt like hell, but he was nowhere near defeated. And anyway, Batman would turn up any second, and then Deathstroke couldn't hurt him anymore.

Suddenly, a hand pressed down on his face, hard, his nose crunching under the force, and Dick drowned in white pain, a high-pitched scream wrenching itself from his throat. He screamed and thrashed and screamed and tried to pry the hand away, but Deathstroke simply increased the pressure, Dick's yells gaining volume as the seconds ticked by. Then, the hand let up, and Dick fell to the side, curling in on himself and gripping his hair, face hidden behind his arms. The only sound was the young teenager's quiet cries.

The man repeated his question, and this time, Dick breathed out a faint, "Deathstroke". The mercenary nodded. "Good. Now listen, and listen closely, or I will break more bones, do you understand?" Robin's breath hitched. He nodded desperately, curling up tighter.

He wanted to believe he did so to stall for time, but Dick was terrified. He had fought against many opponents, but none were as trained as Deathstroke and none were as brutal. The villain hurt him to prove a point, not to take him down. He swallowed, his throat burning.

Deathstroke regarded him for a long moment before speaking. "I have kept an eye on you for a long time now. I have seen you develop and I know where you could one day end up. But under the care of Batman, you will never reach your full potential. I can show you tricks and moves your Dark Knight can only dream of. I have a legacy to uphold and I need an heir... an apprentice."

The words didn't make sense. Robin had a hard time focusing, but he was sure he must have misunderstood the man. He wanted him as an... apprentice? He wanted to train him? But... Deathstroke was a mercenary, a killer. If the man thought, Robin would ever... he felt like vomiting (or maybe that was because of all the blood on his face). "Why... Why would I..." He let the end of the question fade out, it was obvious what he meant.

Deathstroke raised his arm and involuntarily, Dick drew in on himself, but the man simply pushed a small, hidden button on his sleeve, and a metal remote appeared in his hand, seemingly inserted into his clothes.

"What exactly is Batman to you? Father, brother, friend?" He didn't wait for an answer, hovering the metal device in front of Robin's face."No matter what he is, he is important to you. This," he continued, gesturing to the remote, where a small red light started blinking, "is a trigger for nano-bots I have inserted into Catwoman's bloodstream. Just one press of a button, and you can watch her die a torturous death. I have noticed she and the Dark Knight have become... close. Lovers, even. It would be a shame if I had to kill her, just because you decided to be selfish. It can't be easy for your mentor to find happiness with the life he is leading. Do you really want to be the cause of his suffering?"

Dick's heart stuttered to a halt, a shocked gasp leaving his mouth. Deathstroke had inserted Silena with nano-bots?! The thief had become like a family member to their little duo of vigilantes, Bruce had finally found someone he could be himself around. And Dick liked her, he really liked her. And even if he didn't, wasn't it his duty as a bat to save every Gothamite in need of saving?

He still hadn't fully recovered from the shock of the blunt force used on him, but he knew that much:

1. Batman was taking too long. Deathstroke would take what he wanted, and it was his decision weather he left with more than a broken nose or not.

2. Silena Kyle was in grave danger, small killer-bots running through her system. Dick needed to save her. He was only a thirteen year old kid, had no chance against a legend like Deathstroke the Terminator, so what other choice than saying yes does he have?

None.

So Dick swallowed down the terror and bone deep fear and slowly nodded, uncurling from the ground. "So," he stuttered, coughing blood from his throat, "if I go with you, train under your command, you will not harm Catwoman? You won't kill her?"

Deathstroke nodded his head

"And you will not touch Batman either?"
"When he comes looking for you, I will not hesitate to defend what is mine with everything I have got, but I will not hunt him down on my own, no."
Dick blinked back tears. Was he really doing this, signing away his soul to the devil? He would be stripped of everything he knew, taken away from Bruce and Silena and Barbara. He would lose everything so Batman wouldn't have to.

...There were worse ways to go...

"Okay," he whispered, feeling as though he had just signed his own death certificate, "I will do it."