This is the last chapter and it will be saaaaaaad. You have been warned.
_
24 hours before (1 day):
Secret location
For three days - as far as Stephanie could tell - Deathstroke had left them to their own devices. While that would usually mean three days of no pain, no torment, and a quiet mind, the mercenary had taken Dick right after the Damian fiasco, and they hadn't seen him since.
Tensions were running high, especially after one very close call with Jason.
Jason was still unconscious, the make-shift bandages colored a rusty brown. His fever was rising, nightmares getting worse, and they had no means to cool him down. One night, Jason had such a violent reaction to a dream, that he'd unconsciously banged his head against the ground so hard, he'd started bleeding. It had taken their combined efforts to hold their brother down until the fever dream had passed (Jason was fucking strong, even asleep).
With one brother injured (with a high risk of infections), one shaken up from a nightmarish vision-like torture experience (Damian had been unresponsive ever since Dick had been taken), and one missing, the atmosphere was understandably gloomy.
Stephanie usually tried to keep her mind off of the dire situation they were in, instead playing silly games with Tim, or holding quiet conversations with Cass.
But it was getting harder and harder not to despair. While they had found themselves in various kidnapping situations; in and out of suit, alone, in pairs, by amateurs, professionals, greedy thugs, and manic villains, no situation could compare to this:
Their identities had been compromised, they had no gear, weapons, or ways of communication. They were also down two people, had one brother missing in action, and were faced with the most dangerous mercenary of the century, who also appeared to hold a grudge against two of their own.
Batman hadn't come yet, which could only mean Deathstroke was better at hiding his tracks than Bruce was at finding them. None of it bode well for the group of vigilantes.
12 hours before:
Mt. Justice
After the last disaster that was a Batkid kidnapping, Artemis did not expect to be confronted with the whole family missing. A small bundle of rage in her stomach demanded to know why they only now had been informed that their friends and teammates have been missing for days, but she knew Batman would not grace her with an answer anyway, much less an actual apology, so she simply glared at the dark-clad figure.
The rest of the team didn't look much happier than she felt, especially the OG members. Dick had been the baby of the team (not that anyone had the guts to tell him so to the face, but Connor, Megan, Wally, Kaldur, and her had called him that numerous times behind his back), and over the last two years, they all had come to care very deeply about the six siblings.
So hearing now that there had been a wide-scale kidnapping, with no leads, no suspect aside from a strange girl with wings (that had apparently been grown, and Artemis really didn't know why she was even surprised anymore), left a sour taste in her mouth. She swallowed, wiping her sweaty hands on her jeans.
"What can we do to help?"
Batman regarded her with eyes so tired, she could feel it through the cowl.
"I need you to go out there and listen to any whisper that might lead us to the man behind the kidnapping. I will continue my investigation about Kayla Stark and her involvement."
It was painfully obvious that Batman was grasping at straws here. How dire did the situation have to be, that the world's greatest detective hit a wall?
She clenched her fists, lips twitching. Straws or not, she would stay out there for all eternity if that was what it took to bring her friends back.
"Suit up."
2 hours before:
secret location
Dick ached. Honestly, that word was not even close to describing the terrible tightness in his muscles, the pain that lit up his whole body like a Christmas tree.
Somehow, Dick had thought he got used to the pain. Being a vigilante had pain in the job description after all, and still, this was different.
When he was out there, patrolling Gotham, he had this confidence that could only grow knowing you were protecting your city, seeing the looks of relief on people's faces whenever he popped up before them, a word of reassurance on his tongue.
There were also the stares of fear, terror in the eyes of thugs and misfits and goons. He'd quip and laugh and vanish in the shadows like a phantom, cracking skulls if he was especially mad.
On those days, the pain was dulled by a sense of duty, by desperation and freedom, and mostly, by plain old adrenalin.
He could choose who to fight, could decide that he would not engage in a fight rigged for him to lose. That freedom of choice made it easy to go out there and risk his life for people he had never met before, to protect a city that took and took and took.
That choice made it worth the pain.
Deathstroke did not give him a choice.
Somehow, Dick wished Slade would chain him up and just beat him until he was satisfied, that would make it all at least a little more manageable. Dick knew how to deal with torture, had dealt with it, had trained for it even.
But Deathstroke would never give him what he desired. No, Slade beat him half to hell and called it training. He gave Dick a chance to fight back, one Dick used and waisted, because there was no fighting Deathstroke the Terminator.
That's what really made this so torturous. That Slade would give him an actual chance to defend himself, and Dick would end up unconscious anyway. That hadn't changed in five years.
Dick flexed his fingers (and even that movement hurt after Slade had stepped on them with steel-toed boots) and followed the man down a brightly lit corridor.
Training was over for today (after three hours, a one-hour break, and another four hours) and Dick just wanted to face-plant on the thin mattress Slade so graciously allowed him to sleep on. Damn sadist.
But as they took a right turn, Dick realized they were not headed to his cell (separate from his sibling, small and cold and nasty) but instead toward the very people he longed to see.
Sensing his excitement, Slade stopped him with a hand on his chest.
"Just so we're clear, I am not letting you go back to them again. The time has come for you to take your rightful place on my side."
Dick's breath stuttered in his chest. There was no way three days were already over, right?
"I will not sign my life over to you," he said, stopping in his tracks. "I don't care what fucked up 'punishment' you'll cook up."
Deathstroke didn't react to his words, simply dragging him further down the corridor. Dick knew he'd not be the only one suffering for his insolence, but should he agree to Slade's terms, many people would be put in immediate danger.
It's not that he thought he would easily give in to the villain's threats and punishments, but having his life in someone else's hand so thoroughly, he knew with certainty that he could not hold out his entire life.
With this contract, he would have no other choice but to follow the mercenary's command. The first time he had been in Deathstroke's grasp, the man had hold off from forcing him to kill anyone, but it sure as hell didn't seem like he had the same restraints this time around.
Slade halted him with a dangerous grip at the back of his neck, sending Dick a warning look.
Then he pushed the metal door open.
Dick drank in the sight of his sibling like a starving man. The familiarity of their expressions, their body language and presence soothed his raging mind. His chest tightened though, as he took in Jason's unresponsive form and Damian's empty gaze.
Slade pushed him forward, locking the door with a final click.
He pulled the damning pieces of paper from a pocket in his armor, pressing them and a red glowing pencil into Dick's hands.
"Sing it."
Dick shook his head, taking comfort in the presence of his siblings. "No. I already told you, I won't ever be your apprentice again."
Dick's heart clenched in his chest, apprehension and fear curdling deep in his gut. His body trembled and sweat ran down his back. Dick hated that Slade could still evoke such strong feelings of terror inside of him.
Slade pulled out the gun with a calmness that send Dick's mind spinning. He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself not to take a step back. Keeping his eyes locked with Dick's, the merc pointed the weapon at Jason's bloody form.
Without a second's hesitation, Tim stepped between the barrel of the gun and their brother.
Slade didn't seem to mind. "I will only tell you once more before I start butting bullets in birds."
Dick shuddered, watching Tim stare down Deathstroke with steely determination. "Tim..." he began, not sure what to say.
"Dick, it's fine. All of us have put on a mask knowing we'd probably die wearing it."
Stephanie nodded. "This family is all about forgiveness and freedom and justice. There's nothing just about you becoming Deathstroke's slave." She took her place on Tim's side.
Pressure was rising behind Dick's eyes, a small watery smile curling his lips. Steph was right, she had put their purpose in a few choiced words.
"You're right," he whispered, papers crinkling from how hard he was grasping them. "Which is why I have never really had a choice."
In the end, he could talk big about doing the right thing, about protecting the masses, but when it came down to it, Dick was a family man.
"I do this and they get to walk free."
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and set his name at the bottom of the paper.
Through the rushing in his ears, he could hear the cries of his siblings, could feel them tearing the contract from his limp hands. Deathstroke's triumphant laugh echoed inside his head.
His vision filled with white, static cracking in his ears.
When he could pry his eyelids open again, he and Slade were alone in the cell. "What-"
"I am a man of my words. Your family is back home. Magic does have its perks."
Dick's knees buckled, weak with relief. "Good."
Faster than he thought he still could, he snatched a gun from Slade's holster, turning it on himself. Vicious satisfaction coursed through him at the man's look of shock.
Dick was a family man, yes, but he was also a hero, and like all heroes, he had a serious problem with self-sacrifice. He'd rather die a thousand deaths before taking a weapon to an innocent person.
"Happy eighteenth birthday," he whispered.
The bullet tore through his head with a distant bang, pain exploding inside his body like the eruption of a volcano.
His last thoughts belonged to his family, Bruce's eyes when they light up with pride, Barbara's smile whenever he told her he loved her. The blush in Jason's cheek when he was roped into a group hug, Tim's coffee-stained smile, Steph's toothy grin, Cass's warm eyes, and even warmer hugs. And lastly, Damian, who had that cute little dimple in his cheeks when he smiled, who loved his pets more than he would ever love another human. Damian, who would look at him with admiration and chose him over his own mother and a life of killing.
In the end, the decision was simple.
He would always choose his family.
Because they would always choose him, too.
I'm finished guys, can u believe it? Whaaaat? How?! I've been at this for 1 year now and now it's over!
I can't... Jesus Christ, I can't believe it.
Thank u all for ur support, I love u sooo much. You've been with me for two whole books now, commenting, liking and just being awesome. Thank you all so much!
And now a few hearts from my lil sis: