120 hours before (five days):
Midnight
Secret location

A quiet, solemn atmosphere had befallen the captured heroes, each vigilante caught up in their own troubles.

Dick had his face framed by his hands, sitting cross-legged against the wall. Despite the heavy, somewhat unsettling absence of noise, his head was a jumbled mess of screaming voices and shattered memories.

During his first inprisonent with the mercenary, he had been utterly alone in his misery, lost and afraid and isolated and closer to breaking than ever before.

Now though, he had five younger (expandable in their captor's eye) siblings trapped with him. He felt like one of those insects, pinned to the wall on display for everyone to see, helpless and dead.

While his sole focus the first time around had been surviving and escaping, ensuring his family's safety was his top priority now. He knew they would never blame him, would want him to focus on his own safetly first (it's an unspoken rule between heroes: protect civilians first, than yourself, and then your partners. You aren't much worth dead to them).

But right now, with people he loved more than anything on the line (with Jason half-dead, Damian down for the count, and Tim, Steph, and Cass rattled by the story he'd just told), the blame was on him. It was his connection to Deathstroke that put a target on his fanily's back.

His heart was heavy with dread, thinking (remembering) all the ways Deathstroke could torture his siblings to torture him.

And the worst part? Dick felt so damn relieved not to be alone that his gut was churning with guilt and resentment for himself.

When he had been thirteen and had been taken by Deathstroke, all he had dreamt about was for someone to come to his rescue, someone to kiss away the pain and protect him from the monster of his nightmares.

Careful what you wish for, he thought dryly, clutching his knees in a white-knuckled grip.

The sound of the door being unlocked pulled him out of his reverie, sending his heart racing.
They'd had a few hours to themselves, but not nearly enough.

Deathstroke was still clad in his armor, a clear sign of dominance over his civilian-clothed captives. "Grayson," he said, his voice slightly distorted by the mask.

Dick didn't react much, simply inclined his head to indicate he was listening.

A bunch of papers landed in his lap.

Dick startled, grabbing at the papers, wary to take his eyes off his enemy.

"I have taken the liberty to draw up a contract," the mercenary said, inclining his head to point at the sheets of paper in Dick's hands. "Signing this will be equal to signing your life to me. It will also secure your siblings freedom."

Dick's breath caught and his stomach gave a violent lurch. He never ever again wanted to hand himself over to the man's cruelty.
His mouth dried and his head started pounding like someone was taking a sledgehammer to it.

Dick didn't doubt the man had been thorough in his contract and had given it to him now, because he was absolutely sure he'd sign.

Which meant this was the main reason Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, and Steph had been abducted.

My life or theirs. The word echoed desperately in his head. The answer should have been easy, there should not even be a second of hesitation (and Dick felt sick that there was).

He gladly would have accepted death for his loved ones, but eternal imprisonment and apprenticeship under the thumb of the man who had tortured, tormented, de-humanized, and haunted him?

The decision was not an easy one to make. And maybe that made him a selfish person, or maybe it was simple human self-preservation, but he could not force out the words that would mean a permanent end to his freedom. (Because Deathstroke would have no doubt made this a life-long binding agreement).

He could barely hear anything past the rushing in his ears, until Steph's clear voice cut through the fog of unspeakable terror that was slowly consuming his mind.

"No," she said, voice laced with so much certainty and protective ness, that pressure of a different kind built behind his eyes. Tears of gratitude.

"We will not allow Dick to sacrifice himself for us, so take your offer and shove it up your ass."

A desperate-sounding wheeze pushed past Dick's lips, less of a laugh, more of a sudden exhale of air.

His stupid, loving, great family. There was a deep, aching pain in his chest, like he was being crushed beneath tons of cement.

"Don't, Steph," he whispered, his tight grip wrinkling the delicate papers. He deliberately avoided his siblings' eye contact and directed his undivided attention to Slade Wilson. "Do I have time to consider?" he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

(He tasted blood and smelled ash and didn't look away from his nightmare's cruel grey eye.)

The mercenary stepped closer and Dick straightened his back, feeling the other vigilantes' presence backing him up.

"Five days," the man granted, with surprisingly little mocking or additional conditions. He left the room with no further flourish.

The sound of the door closing was like the snap of scissors cutting the last strings keeping Dick upright. He slumped to the ground with a defeated noise, his gaze drawn to Jason's prone form. His brother needed medical attention, now. And Dick was the only one who could convince Deathstroke to grant it.

"Don't even think about it."
Tim had a look of utter insistence on his face. "This is not on you, Dick, and it's not your job to fix it. Not alone. We're all in this, Damian, Cass, Steph, you, me, and Jason. Every last one of us knew the danger of our life-style before we first put on a mask, and we are okay with that. We're a team, a family, we do this together or not at all."

Dick felt his lips twitched into a sad smile. "Thanks, Timmy. I know you can take care of yourselves, but this is different." Tim's face fell.

"Dick-"

"No," the older insisted, finally meeting his siblings' eyes, each pair in turn. "This is on me. Deathstroke is after me. He wants me. If it wasn't for your relationship with me-"

This time, it was Damian who interrupted him. The newest Robin had been awfully quiet until now, Dick realized. "Grayson," he started, his voice carefully controlled. "Do you remember when The Joker took us hostage because he desired father's undivided intention?"

Dick heaved a sigh, kneading his face muscled with his thumbs. The Joker had targeted them lots of times, and none of them had ended well.
He knew what Damian was getting at, and he also knew that he was being all kinds of hypocritical, but he said, "There's a difference." He didn't know how to elaborate though.

Tim sighed but decided not to torture him anymore and plucked the papers - the contract - out of his numb fingers. "Let's just read through this for now," he muttered, clearly not happy with Dick's stubbornness.

The others scooted closer to the junior detective, reading over his shoulder. Dick himself didn't move. He didn't want to know what kind of imprisonment waited for him, he'd find out soon enough.

Dick listened half-heartedly to Tim's mumbling, his gaze drawn to Jason's lifeless form.

His mind wandered, gaze hollow as he remembered past and present, scared of the future. And then Tim sucked in a sharp breath, loud enough to slap Dick out of his thoughts.

"Tim?"
Tim was staring at him with narrowed eyes, then back at the paper and up again. "You can't sign this."
"Look-"
"No," interrupted the younger Wayne forcefully, "you don't understand. You can't."

He shoved the papers back into Dick's hands, indicating at a passage hidden right in the middle. It was written in a language Dick didn't understand.

"What is it?"
The others stared at Tim expectedly. "A very old, very dangerous language. I helped Zatanna and her dad deal with Abra Kadabra a while back and learned a thing or two about their profession while I was at it. This-" he tapped the page, "is a language designed to bind two souls together. The spell is sealed like any other contract: both parties have to write down their signature. Signing this means signing your soul to Deathstroke."

The words slammed into Dick like a truck, forcing the breath out of him. He buried his head in his hands, letting the words bounce around his head for a moment. Forever bound to Deathstroke. Entangling our souls. The mercenary had really left nothing to chance this time around.

"What happens if the contract is broken?"
Steph sounded subdued, hopeless, scared. And still strong-minded as hell.

Tim's voice broke as he answered. "If the terms agreed upon are broken, the offender's heart will stop."

Dick closed his eyes, the finality of the situation slowly taking root inside his head. "So it's a death sentence."

100 hours before:
8:00 pm.

Castor had taken refuge in a run-down apartment complex. He didn't bother checking the perimeter. If Deathstroke the Terminator wanted you dead, you could run as much as you liked, you'd end up dead one way or another. The only question left was, whether he'd take the man down with him. So, with nothing left to do, he decided to get some rest, the last day's events finally searching up to him.

A sound outside startled him out of an uneasy sleep.
Disorientated, he grabbed the pocket knife he'd hidden inside his coat and snuck out the back, tiptoeing along the wet brick wall.

There was no one in sight. The sky was a muddy gray, thick clouds staving off any faint light. Castor shivered, gripping the knife tighter. He didn't see anyone, but on the floor lay a bag, black, sipped shut, ordinary.

Cautiously, Castor crept closer. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled open the zipper, dropping his weapon into a wet puddle in shock.

"Well, that answers the question where Kayla went."

Inside the bag was Kayla Stark's head, eyes glassy, mouth open in a last scream.

"Fucking shit."

_
This story is coming to an end (5 more chapters to go). They will be shorter than the former ones and also a whole lot darker, so proceed with caution.