A/N: Moving into chapter two, we have the pace picking up a bit. I am trying to decide which direction to take it from here. I have some ideas but if you'd like to throw your own into the mix please review or message me.
Chapter Two
It was early Saturday morning when Dick finally decided he should cut himself some slack. His body ached and the fever plaguing him had begun to cause some dizziness. Thankfully, the criminal activity had made a drastic decrease in the last 12 hours and the streets tonight were eerily quiet. Although suspicious, Dick decided that rather than dwell on the mystery, he would take it as a small turn in his favor and give his body the rest it was denied throughout the week. He quickly made his way back to the apartment to turn in for the night. Also counting his blessings that his week vacation had started this past afternoon when he clocked out around 4p.m.
Dick slid open the window of his third floor apartment around 1:30a.m. and stumbled in — a testament to how tired he truly was — stripping off his Nightwing costume. The outfit was dumped in a wrinkled heap on the floor next to the bed as Dick threw on a loose tank top in addition to his plaid boxers and buried himself in the warm covers of his bed, drifting to sleep within minutes.
Slade noticed that the hero had decided to turn in early and silently stalked after his prey — watching from a few rooftops over as Grayson slipped through the apartment window. The boy did not even bother to turn on the light; but the mercenary moved closer after a short time, peaking through the window to ensure that Grayson had in fact fallen asleep.
The smile beneath Deathstroke's mask was vicious and predatory. The capture would be quick and easy and Grayson would be his, willingly or not.
Dick, although oblivious to the world around him, was caught in a very fitful sleep — violently tossing and turning, limbs tangled within the sheets. The comforter had been shoved to the floor as his fever spiked, and the pain reliever he had taken before going out on patrol was not helping.
Slade had soundlessly slid in through the window and watched Dick's erratic movements as he moved closer to the bed. In the moonlight streaming through the window, Deathstroke could see the beads of sweat tracing down Grayson's tan skin and the trembles of his body as chills racked his muscles. The mercenary's earlier suspicions had been correct — there was more ailing his apprentice than the injuries Slade had indirectly inflicted.
Slade shrugged nonchalantly at Grayson's condition. The illness certainly wasn't anything that couldn't be cured and the additional weakness would only make the mercenary's task easier. He pulled a small glass bottle out from his belt and uncapped a sterilized needle. He measured out the recommended dosage and tapped the glass cylinder a few times to ensure no air bubbles were trapped in the tube.
Something was very wrong. Dick slowly stirred back into the conscious world and he was suddenly struck by how awful he really felt — he kept his eyes closed in a vain attempt to ward off the spinning sensation that gripped his head.
He was trying to drift back to sleep, but his instincts were screaming at him to get up and move. He tried to suppress the nagging, but in the end, he trusted his intuition. Dick blinked a few times, trying to bring reality back into focus.
Slade had noticed the change immediately — the steadier rise and fall of Grayson's chest, the sudden stillness of his body, and the movement beneath his eyelids. The boy was waking up. At this point, his limbs were well tangled and restrained by the bed sheets and Slade readily used this to his advantage by pinning a few corners beneath his knee at the edge of the bed, being very cautious not to shift the mattress enough to alert his prey. That was when the mercenary noticed the boy blink and caught a glimpse of the brilliant blue eyes as they attempted to focus on him.
In a flash of movement, Slade slammed a hand over Dick's jaw and mouth, pinning his head to the pillow and jammed the needle tip into the vein on his neck. Luckily for Slade, Dick's contorted position — lying on his stomach with his upper body twisted to the side — and the restraint of the sheets gave him ample time to inject the drug before Grayson was able to react.
As Dick's world came into focus, he realized that someone was in fact standing over him at the side of the bed. His initial thought was that Batman had slipped in to check up on him, but that notion was lost when he made out the split orange and blue mask. His head was violently jerked to the side. This was immediately followed by a sharp tingling prick and a burning sensation that crawled into his vein. Due to the placement of his adversary's hand, he was unable to call out and could only manage a muffled grunt of discomfort as the needle penetrated the skin of his neck.
As more senses returned to him, Dick found the muscle strength needed to struggle out from under the mercenary. He worked quickly to free himself from the entrapping sheets.
Slade knew the drug would take a few minutes to subdue his prey, but was not prepared for this much resistance and cursed when Grayson's elbow connected with his sternum. A moment later, Dick had one of his legs free and planted the ball of his foot squarely in Deathstroke's chest. The mercenary staggered back a step, shocked by the strength and energy the boy was displaying. Slade realized that this would need to end quickly.
Since most of Grayson's body was still trussed up in the bed sheets, Slade gripped the corners he had been pinning and heaved the bundle off the bed. Using the centripetal force of his momentum combined with the mercenary's inhuman strength, Slade flung the bundle into the desk on the other edge of the room.
There were multiple ear-splitting shatters as dual monitors and computer equipment crashed onto and around Grayson's aching body. A rain of glass, fiber optics, and metal pieces sliced and clawed at Dicks skin, leaving red traces on face, arms, and legs. In addition to his injuries and fever, Dick could feel a sluggish warmth spreading from his chest as the drug began to overpower his system. He weakly struggled to push himself off the floor, but his arms were no longer cooperating and the numbness that overcame his muscles caused his chest to drop back to the floor.
Deathstroke knew that any light sleepers or night owls could have easily heard the ruckus on the third floor and his tolerance level for Grayson's defiance was gone. He strode over to his prey and noticed the stillness — the drug was finally going into effect. There was minimal struggling and Slade knew that the first symptom of the drug was to numb the muscles and paralyze the victim. Slade watched the flutter of Grayson's dark eye lashes as he attempted to hold on to consciousness and regain control of his body.
Deathstroke knelt next to the kid's chest and gently ran a few fingers through the ebony hair. His hand continued down to the boy's neck and located a slow but steady pulse.
"You know, this would be easier on both of us if you just passed out." Slade's voice rumbled eerily in the silence of the dark room, and Dick felt a chill move through his spine that had nothing to do with his fever.
"Go to Hell." Dick responded in barely a whisper as he attempted to resist the sedative coursing through his veins.
Slade chuckled at the defiant remark and shifted Dick from his side to his stomach. The mercenary crossed the boy's wrists at the small of his back and secured them with a thick leather strap. He then slide another strap around Grayson's upper arms and pulled it tight just above the elbows. Slade maliciously chose to leave the sheet tangled around his limbs and pinned it under the straps to increase the effectiveness of the bindings. Deathstroke then moved down to Dick's legs and fastened more straps at mid-thigh, just below the knees, and around the ankles.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Hey Dick, is everything alright in there?" John Law's voice filled the room from behind the apartment door. The downstairs neighbor had always been more adapted to late nights — especially after his run as a superhero known as Tarantula — and had heard the commotion in the apartment above.
Slade cursed under his breath.
Dick, although worried for John's safety, also recognized this as his last chance to escape his current predicament and began trying to find his voice.
"John…cough…J-John. Get… get help." It wasn't loud enough to be heard by anyone more than a few feet away, but Slade wasn't taking any chances — he had Grayson right where he wanted him and nothing was going to ruin his plans.
Deathstroke pulled a roll of tape from a pocket on his belt and swiftly wrapped the horrid, sticky material around Grayson's mouth, thoroughly silencing the boy. To Dick's dismay, he couldn't even move his jaw enough to mumble behind the gag.
Mmmph.
Knock. Knock.
"Dick?" John waited for an answer. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was really wrong with his neighbor. He knew the rookie cop had been sick lately, but the magnitude of the noise he had heard had his "spider sense" tingling.
Slade realized the man was not going away without an answer and he felt that killing the neighbor would ultimately attract to much attention from the other tenants and get Batman involved much sooner than Slade had anticipated. So the mercenary coughed and adjusted his voice to mimic Dick as best as he could.
"Everything is fine. Haven't been feeling well and knocked a few things over when I got up to use the bathroom."
There was a pause from the man outside the room.
Slade cursed again and pulled out his weapon with the silencer.
Dick shook his head as frantically as the drugs in his system would allow.
John stood on the other side of the door and took a moment to consider the situation. The voice had been deeper than Grayson's and the former hero still could not shake the suspicious feeling in his gut. He forced himself to think rationally rather than relying on his instinct. Grayson most likely just woke up and had been noticeably ill all week. That combination alone was enough to alter someone's voice and those same ailments would very likely cause some form of disorientation, so it was logical that the young man had bumped into a few things.
The retired hero would push his misgivings aside for the night and check up on the kid first thing tomorrow.
"Okay, Dick. Just wanted to be sure you were alright. Talk to you later." John spoke loudly through the wooden door. He stood there a moment and listened, but did not hear anything else that might indicate danger and then proceeded back to his second floor apartment.
Slade had moved to stand directly behind the door and listened as the footsteps grew distant. A door opened and closed, and silence returned to the dimly lit stairwell.
Dick had also heard the foot falls descend and although he was terrified for his current situation, he was also relieved that no harm would befall his neighbor and friend. He glared at Slade when the mercenary turned back to him.
Beneath his mask, Slade arched an eyebrow in amusement. He couldn't believe Grayson was still conscious and thinking clearly enough to be furious. Oh, well. The mercenary made a mental note that the sedative dosage would need to be increased if he ever had to administer it again.
Slade crossed the room, coming back to Grayson's side and snaked his arm around the boy's waist. He then proceeded to heft the boy over his right shoulder.
Dick grunted at the discomfort and felt nauseous from being shifted around so much. It was difficult to tell if the dizziness was from his fever or a side effect of the drug Slade had forced into him. Either way, the hero felt as though he was beginning to black out. His breath grew shorter and he was struggling to take in enough air through just his nose. He really wished the gag could be removed so he could draw in a deep breath.
The mercenary slipped out through the window and leapt over the loose stair rail to the ground below. The sudden jolt of movement caused a sensation of vertigo in Dick's head and allowed the sedative to finally overcome his consciousness. Slade felt Grayson's weight shift and press heavily against his shoulder. He smirked and vanished into the shadows behind the apartment building.