Important!

This is an AU, remember that, so far, only Dick and Damian have been Robin, Jason was Red Hood from the start and Tim Red Robin. Therefore, the whole Jason-coming-back-to-life fiasco went a little differently (especially since Teen Titans don't exist in this universe, so Jason couldn't break in and beat Tim half to death). So I created my own backstory, but it's still very close to Canon.

_

134 hours before (6 days):

10 am

Secret Location

Cass's inner clock told her Deathstroke came for her 10 hours after their abduction. Jason was still gone, she hadn't seen her brother since Wilson took him away.

Cass stayed silent and calm as she was led through blank, windowless hallways. Her eyes swept across even stone walls, the grayish color a striking difference to the blinding white of the last few hours. Neon tubes on the ceiling cast a sickly, green light on the duo.

She didn't say a word as Wilson opened a metal door and waited for her to move through, his hands resting near his gun holsters. He was weary of her, good. She could use that to her advantage.

Stepping over the threshold, she was careful to ooze confidence as she put on her carefully crafted mask of indifference.

Never show your fear.

Cassandra carefully inspected the new room, hoping for an air vent or window, a way to escape, or at least map out the building in her head. She might be able to take Deathstroke out herself, but she had to bide her time, otherwise, she would endanger herself and her siblings.

Breath catching in her throat, her confident facade almost cracked as she realized she wasn't the only one inside the room.

Cass's eyes zeroed in on the limp figure of her brother. Jason was restrained to a chair, slumping forward with his head resting on his chest, clearly unconscious. A thread of saliva and blood was hanging from his slightly parted lips and upon closer inspection, his wrists looked mutilated, swollen and red and horrifying.

From the distance, she couldn't tell if he had other injuries, but the visible ones were in a bad enough shape to send worry spiking in her chest, the heavy smell of copper clogging her nose.

The need to rush to Jason's side was overwhelming. A few years ago, she would have looked at him with cold blankness, but now, now that she knew she was allowed to feel, to show emotions and act on them, it was harder to keep them under lock and key. It had taken a lot of effort, from her and the family that cared about her, but Cass had slowly warmed up to the world, she'd started speaking, expressing herself in new ways, discovering her love for dancing. It had been liberating, being able to do what she wanted to do for the sake of doing it.

But she also knew Deathstroke had taken her here to assess her reaction to the beaten form of a person she cared for. Jason and she had had their differences, mostly about his lethal way of dealing with crime, but he was better now, and Cassandra could proudly proclaim herself his sister.

So she steeled herself and faced Deathstroke head-on. The ex-assassin blocked out the smell of vomit, blood, and despair, the sound of Jason's labored breathing, and schooled her face into an expression of aloofness, not one muscle in her face betraying the rage that had started to fester in her chest. Jason had been through enough, they all had, no one needed another plateful of trauma thrown at them. And after what Wilson had done to Dick, Cass was livid, aching to take revenge for her big brother (they all were, Dick had done so much for them, it was time to pay him back).

The mercenary still wore his mask, so she couldn't see his expression, but the mercenary's shoulders had tensed minutely, barely perceptible for anyone whose only way of communication hadn't been by reading another person's body language, and his hand had twitched toward his weapon, a clear sign that he did not get the reaction he was gunning for.

The Wayne girl forced herself not to look at her brother, keeping her intense eyes on the enemy. Jason needed medical attention, asap, but Cass couldn't do anything for him as long as Deathstroke didn't allow it. It was... infuriating, frustrating, to stand there and wait for the opponent to make the first move. The health (and possibly life) of her family hung in the balance and Cassandra was hell bend on doing anything in her power to ensure their safety.

Their silent stand-off was supposed to unnerve her, make her sloppy, impatient. But Cass had dealt with interrogation methods much worse since her early childhood, barely anything fazed her anymore.

Finally, the villain moved further into the room, slamming the door shut behind him, making sure his back was never fully turned towards her. He beckoned Cass forward, nodding his head at two chairs, one next to Jason, the other facing both. She hadn't seen them before, too focused on not focusing on her injured brother, and mentally berated herself for it. She had been trained to always assess her surroundings, by her assassin parents and her vigilante father.

Viciously banning the nervous knot in her stomach, she gracefully sat down in the chair, keeping her hands in her lap, body tight. It was metal, cold against her clothed back. She kept her eyes on the mercenary as the man put the other chair away, choosing to loom over her instead.

He was still in his full Deathstroke attire, swords, mask, and guns posing an intimidating figure. Cass was well aware of the tactics used to interrogate people, that Wilson was aiming to frighten her, so she would let her guard down. And to some degree, she was frightened, but not in the way Deathstroke was hoping for.

Cassandra had long since come to terms with death. She had been intimately close with death and destruction before she could walk, had learned that death was nothing to be afraid of, it just was. She had been trained to go hand-in-hand with the void, to embrace it, even.

So no, Deathstroke could not intimidate her into loosening her tongue.

Her siblings though did not have the same relation to death, they have not yet accepted that death was inevitable. They fought to escape the darkness every time they put on a mask, and somehow, they managed to sneak past death's doorstep for years now.

And then there was Jason, who had a different kind of relationship with death, more complicated than Cass could ever hope to fathom. Cass could only imagine what the prospect of dying again was like, but the thought sent her heart racing. Jason was undeniably terrified of losing his life, and while Cass couldn't grasp the heavy weight of the fear of dying, she could understand the horror of facing something that had caused so much (too much) fear and pain before.

Cass continued to stay unmoving, watching Wilson with sharp eyes. Usually, her unresponsive appearance unnerved her opponents, resulting in them making mistakes, rushed decisions, becoming sloppy. But she wasn't sure whether that approach would hold against Deathstroke, too.

The man had been trained by the League of Assassins, as well, after all. And while her past was a dark chapter she would like to put behind her, that training was enabling her to keep a clear head.

The mercenary moved past her to where Jason was still collapsed on the metal chair.

Cass sucked in a sharp breath, watching with narrowed eyes. She didn't know what she would do should Deathstroke harm Jason, right here, right now.

Just like death, Cassandra has never been afraid of pain.

She grew up with it, it had been her only companion in her earliest years.

She didn't like pain, of course, but she had learned to ignore it, to move past any agony assaulting her body. It was like a veil, cutting her mind off from her body, so she could function without the constricting need to make the hurt stop.

It was dangerous, and oftentimes, she would overestimate her limits and suffer from blood loss or exhaustion, but it had saved her life more than once.

However, seeing the people she had come to love in pain, that was on a whole other level of anguish. She never knew her heart could ache like that, but it had happened the more time she spent patrolling with her family.

So, hoping against all odds Deathstroke would not cause Jason any more harm, she watched as the man crouched down beside her brother. For only a second, she considered charging the man, but Wilson was too close to Jason, there was too much that could happen.

The villain unsheathed a dagger. It was small, barely as large as her palm, but the blade reflected the light with a wicked shine, the sharp edge glistening almost maliciously.

Cass eyed the weapon like a hawk, her body coiling almost impossibly tight, like a bowstring ready to snap. Her mind went through a dozen different ways Deathstroke could use the dagger on her brother, the most painful and humiliating ways, all in a matter of seconds. She needed to calm down, but her heart was racing as though she had just run a hundred miles, stumbling as the dagger was moved closer to the unconscious teenager.

Rationally, she knew that, if she didn't slow her heart, she would give the man the exact reaction he desired, but her gut was rolling and her chest was squeezed tight and her focus was tunneled in on the weapon.

Desperately, she started counting in her head, trying to match her breathing to the numbers, but her fingers itched to hit something, to break something (someone), and her mind was not as clear as it had been just a few moments before.

A barely inaudible breath left her, when Deathstroke simply cut the rope across Jason's chest, the teenager pitching forward.

Cass wanted to dart to his side and catch him, cushion his fall to save him from more suffering, but that would portray a weakness Deathstroke would no doubt prey on. She scarcely controlled her body from flinching when Jason hit the ground with a soft moan.

"Take him, I'm bringing you back." Deathstroke's voice was carefree as he nudged Jason's unconscious form with his boot, electing another muffled sound of distress from the boy.

Cass moved deliberately casual, withstanding the urge to hurtle herself to her brother's side, carefully draping his arm over her shoulder (heedful of his mangled wrist), and half dragged, half carried him, Deathstroke casting a foreboding shadow over the siblings.

The vigilante gritted her teeth against Jason's bulk, forcing herself to be as gentle as possible, while not slowing too much. Deathstroke hadn't said anything about future plans to her (or why she had been the one to get Jason), though she suspected the scenario was a test of sorts, appraising her reaction, or perhaps her ability to hide her emotions. Why, she didn't know. If she wanted to draw a glowing red cross across his plans though, she would have to find out.

Jason grunted lowly and Cass shushed him, gently placing a soft kiss to his lowered forehead, the action hidden from Deathstroke by Jason's limp body.

130 hours before:

2 pm

Unknown location

Tim bumped his head against the white wall (everything was white, it hurt his eyes, grated on his ears, filled his lungs, it hurt). His hands were shaking, dripping, dripping, with blood. Jason's blood.

They had done their best to keep his wounds clean, bandaged his wrists with strips of Dick's shirt (but Jason had already lost too much blood, he needed a blood transfusion, asap), and cushioned his head on Dick's lap, who was running trembling hands through Jason's hair.

Tim wanted to reassure his oldest brother, wanted to tell him that Jason was gonna be fine (Dick couldn't lose someone else, not so shortly after Wally, it would destroy him). He wanted to tell Dick they'd be rescued soon and most importantly, that none of this was his fault, but Tim just... lacked the energy. He was tired, in a bone-deep, overall exhaustion kind of way.

His head lolled to the side, resting on Stephanie's shoulder. He was so tired...

It was weird, how much Jason meant to him even after everything that happened.

Before Tim became Red Robin, when he still lived in a lonely, cold and quiet mansion, with absent parents and indifferent nannies, his only comfort had been Batman, Robin and Red Hood.

At the time, Robin had been with the team most of the time, staying in Mount Justice for weeks on end (the situation with Bruce and Dick had been strained back then, he'd learned later), so patrolling Gotham had fallen to Batman and Red Hood.

No one even noticed Tim sneaking out night after night, clutching his camera close to his chest, keeping to the shadows, heart racing in his small chest, praying no thug would notice the small rich boy playing detective (or stalker, if you wanted to believe Jason).

Jason had been his hero.

And then Jason had gone MIA form Gotham's rooftops. At first, Tim thought maybe he had been injured and benched from patrol. When Jason didn't show his face (helmet) for another two weeks, a tight knot had started forming in his stomach. No injury had kept them off the street for that long before...

And when Batman started putting common thugs in the hospital, and Jason was missing for a month, a horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching picture formed in his head.

It took another month for Tim to finally accept the unacceptable. Jason was gone, his hero was dead.

And Batman was spiraling.

Tim just wanted to help. He never intended to replace Jason as Batman's partner, never wanted to take anyone's place. So, he offered his assistance. He even chose a name honoring Dick and Jason, the Red for his lost hero and the Robin for the big brother he had finally gained. A family (a real one, this time).

And while Tim knew he would never be enough to live up to Jason's legacy, he did his best, protected Batman and the citizens of Gotham.

And then Jason came back, angry, vengeful, and with poisonous green eyes.

Jason's crusade against Batman and the family had changed things, the dynamics between the vigilantes. Bruce and Dick had been at each other's throats almost constantly, blaming and yelling and hurting until something (someone) breaks.

And Tim? Tim had tried to keep on the sidelines, patrol with Batgirl, stay out of Jason's path of war.

That clearly didn't stick. His place at Batman's side had put a blood-red target on his back, putting him in the crossfire of Jason's vendetta against their mentor.

Targets are meant to be hit.

Jason didn't stage a big, bad-ass show for his execution, it all happened swiftly and silently. Bat-style.

Logically, Tim knew that Jason couldn't be held accountable for the crimes he committed by a hundred percent.

The Lazarus Pit had messed him up badly, up to a point where Jason had been so controlled by rage, he couldn't even remember half of his actions once the madness had faded from his mind.

Then there was Talia's brainwashing, her plan to sic Jason on his own family, not to mention the whole fiasco with the Joker upon his return...

Jason had been in a bad place, to put it simply.

But that did not excuse his attempt on Tim's life.

It happened so... casually, so randomly, that Tim was still not sure if he'd really sprung Jason's trap, or if the older boy had simply seen him patrolling and seized the opportunity to get rid of his replacement.

Tim had investigated a noise from a back alley (which turned out to be a dog knocking over a trash can) when an EMP had disabled his comm and every other electronic device on him.

He'd barely had the time to wonder what the hell had happened, before Jason had been on him like a demon from hell, his red helmet a beacon of terror.

He doesn't remember much of what followed after.

Bit and pieces were still there, of Jason yelling...

(replacement, worthless, child soldier, replacement, pathetic, what did I do wrong?)

...of Jason's fists and later Tim's own bõ-staff, he remembered the feeling of a blade across his throat.

And then he'd woken up in the hospital, his world white with pain, Bruce and Dick sitting at his bedside (not fighting for once).

Turn out, Jason had really tried to kill him, and if Batman had come only seven minutes later, he would have succeeded.

At that point, they hadn't known about the circumstances of Jason's resurrection, hadn't known of the Pit's poisonous whispers. So Bruce and Dick had gone and made everything worse, trying to bring Jason (and the crime empire he had build himself) down.

Later, when the madness had faded, and Jason had been back in the embrace of the family (although reluctantly) he had avoided Tim at all cost, even went so far as leaving the room once Tim entered). At first, Tim had figured Jason still hated him (with the damn nickname and all), and only after Jason's quiet and awkward apology, did Tim understand that Jason hated himself more than he ever could someone else.

And that was the sad part about it all, wasn't it? Tim still wasn't sure whether that mind-set had changed over the last few years.

His eyes drifted to Jason's quiet form, bruises forming on tan skin. Things weren't perfect between them (they mostly avoided talking about emotions, something Dick always criticized (the hypocrite)), so most of their interaction was mindless banter, with a sharp comment here and there.

But despite it all, Tim was scared to hell and back that Jason wouldn't make it.

He had to make it, no one could stomach another death in the family, it would destroy them, and Tim was terrified they couldn't pull themselves back together again.

126 hours before:

6 pm

Gotham

Finding all of his children missing had almost pushed Bruce over the edge. With Damian gone, the man had been almost mad with worry, burying that raging part of himself beneath layers and layers of Batman, Gotham's dark vigilante. Losing his mind wouldn't have helped any.

But now, with six missing children, a team of teenagers fearful for their friends, and a worried and therefore snappish Barbara (who had insisted on helping, even though she couldn't go out on the field), it was fraying at his sanity.

He had watched the security footage of the Manor for hours, forcing himself to repeatedly observe his children get knocked down, taken out, and teleported away.

Kayla was nowhere to be found, and Bruce still didn't know who she was working for, who had his children, but once he found them, there would be hell to pay.

Bruce needed time to think, he needed quiet and a place to sort out his thoughts. So, in typical Batman fashion, he had locked the team in the Mountain, forcing them to stay put.

He himself had gone out into the streets, taking out his aggression and fear on the low-lives of Gotham, with Barbara in his ear (who had demanded to stay in the cave, helping from behind computer screens), while an algorithm searched for the tracker on his children.

The small devices weren't turned off, but their supposed location jumped from one place to the next, so Barbara had tried to reboot them via wireless coding, but the signal was jammed and Babs had a hard time working around the glitch.

The only thing Bruce could do was continue to keep Gotham safe for another night and interrogate any thug about a girl with wings. He didn't come up with any results, but that was to be expected.

Following Batman across rooftops was a young man, keeping a safe distance (although Batman would have noticed him, hadn't he been so consumed by the loss of his children). The man's hair flashed blue as he passed one of the few not broken streetlamps.

Castor had a decision to make. He could keep away, stay out of the war that would follow, but Dick Grayson had saved his life, so maybe it was time to return the favor. And telling the boy's father who was behind the abduction would surely put a line through Deathstroke's plans.