Who. Dick Grayson & (NPC) Slade Wilson When. March 3; late Where. Random Location #23; San Francisco Warnings. Violence. Injuries. There’s a gun. Blood.
God, Jason was going to kill him.
Everything had started with the storms. Gloomy. Foreboding. Dick didn't mind the rain; all the more reason for people to not look up. He missed the familiar skylines of Gotham and the ‘Haven because they were far easier to get around from above. Dick crouched, leaning lightly from his perch as he surveyed what he could of the city. He listened to his surroundings for what bled out of the usual sounds of traffic and constant chatter of the city. All cities talked; you had to know what to listen for.
Two, potentially three, people were missing just from their weird little community. People went missing all the time but everyone who lived at The Station were effectively his. He was supposed to watch out for them. That was how this worked. And he had no leads. Nothing substantial, nothing worth chasing yet.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up and Nightwing twisted away, sliding into a low crouch as he turned to face what had set him off. A knife had barely missed him and went sailing out of reach though he didn't bother to try tracking it. A chill washed over him though he didn't let it show.
“I was wondering how soft you'd gone,” Deathstroke said as he stepped further from the shadows. He watched Nightwing straighten, watched Grayson not even bother to hold himself in a ready stance though they both knew the man was light enough on his feet to at least dodge.
Dick narrowed his eyes. “How did you get here?” he couldn't keep from asking.
Slade barked a laugh. “Same as you, kid. Just showed up. Got processed through your little government office, got set up with quaint accommodations. Then I went digging. You didn't used to be such a liar, kiddo. Omitting the truth, sure. I like the dumb act. It's cute.” The large man took a lazy step forward; Dick held his ground. “I especially like this little ploy for getting your home-cooked meals. May, is it?”
That got a reaction. “Don't,” Dick warned. His left hand couldn't help the fist it balled into though he kept his right open and loose.
“Don't what, Grayson?” Slade drawled, taking another lazy step and slowly closing the distance. Just because he stopped so they were both out of each other's immediate reach didn't mean it was impossible to make the situation into an actual problem with just the twitch of a finger.
Nightwing resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His attention was fully centered on Deathstroke. “You know what,” he said, voice low. The other man's smirk was lost behind his mask.
And then they were moving. If asked later, Dick couldn't say who twitched first. One very odd certainty that Dick Grayson had was that Slade Wilson wouldn't kill him. But there were a lot of injuries one could survive and Deathstroke was all too aware of where that line could be. Kevlar protected Nightwing when Slade brought a gun into the fight and Dick stumbled back, the wind punched out of him and immediately taking stock of which ribs were probably broken.
Deathstroke was on him in an instant, knocking him the rest of the way to the ground and pinning him in place while Dick was still trying to convince his lungs to expand and contract, trying to gulp down air. He grit his teeth as one of his own escrima sticks was pressed against his throat, keeping him both down and winded.
“You've gotten soft already, kid,” Slade said quietly, the smirk heard in the words. “I wondered and now that's answered. Not enough to do here? Where are the challenges, right?”
Nightwing saved his strength; Slade was immovable for the moment. But that would change and Dick would be ready. Except that when the man moved to get up, he willingly released Dick and Nightwing didn't immediately scramble to his feet. He watched Deathstroke warily and moved slowly. “I make my way,” he finally said, forcing some of the sassy bravado back into place. “If you're bored, there are plenty of normal jobs out there. I could see you slinging ice cream at the pier, you know?”
Slade likely shot him a glare but that was the problem with masks. They were rather effective at hiding expressions. Except Dick's mask was only a domino mask and his half-grin was clearly visible. “No? What about a librarian? Oh, wait. That needs a degree. How about dog walk-”
He didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence. In the middle of another dodge, Dick realized that Slade really was testing him. Seeing which weak spots had opened. The man wasn’t wrong: San Francisco wasn’t Gotham. Or Bludhaven. Hell, it wasn’t even NYC. There was crime, sure, but it was so normal and maybe Dick could have lost his edge if he’d been in this place for as long as some of the others. Years were plenty of time to lose that edge. Nightwing landed wrong against the same raised ledge he’d been leaning on just minutes ago. Pain jolted through his shoulders and the wind was once again knocked out of him. And then pain bloomed through his face as his head was whipped to the side with the force of a punch. Dick didn’t need to blindly throw or attack–he knew exactly where Slade was because the man was picking him up by the front of his costume so that his feet even left the ground.
“Where’s the chatter?” Slade asked as Dick got his hands around the man’s wrists. Dick swung himself up, tucking his legs in, and got enough room using his legs to force Slade to release him. The momentum was also enough to throw him backward but Nightwing didn’t misjudge the distance from the ledge. He couldn’t stick a landing with his feet but he was able to use both hands to grab it and swing himself sideways enough to toss himself back over and onto the roof.
Dick paused to spit blood. Now he slid into a fighting pose that could easily switch from defensive to offensive. This whole thing wasn’t about Dick getting in his way. There was nothing that Deathstroke could be here for since none of the man’s contacts would be in this world. No, this was pure… fun wasn’t the right word. Boredom wasn’t, either. Which meant the test was going to continue until Slade was satisfied. Why? Dick wished he understood.
And Slade was going to push his buttons to find those cracks in Nightwing’s armor. Well, there were definitely cracks under the kevlar, did that count?
They moved again and Dick stopped holding back. He was fast but Slade was faster and also uninjured. When the knife came out, Dick sighed internally. He could parry with his remaining escrima stick, try to hit that sweet spot in the arm that could make the owner of said arm involuntarily release what they were holding. Slade beat him to it in a brilliant maneuver that even Dick could admit was impressive. Still, the knife was embedded in his shoulder. A good spot, too. Enough to weaken both the arm and resolve while being a clean wound that was easily patched so someone didn’t bleed out when the blade was eventually removed. Dick already had those sorts of scars to prove it wasn’t fatal.
Dick sank back, teeth bared and grinding as he forced his mind to think past the pain. A boot connected with his head with enough force to send him to the ground and another swift kick to his ribs stole his breath. Again. Move, Grayson. He felt himself being moved and then there was nothing beneath his feet. There was a particular feeling when the ground was only inches or feet below… versus a deadly distance of a drop such as was the case if Dick had been able to look down just then. Slade held him easily, fingers curled around Dick’s neck while he dangled and blood ran in rivulets to the street below. He only had one usable hand just then and it was already gripping Deathstroke’s wrist in a desperate hold. If he was let go, he could get a shot off and get his decel line secured well before he hit terminal velocity on his way down. He could survive this. They both knew it.
The cold steel of a gun pressed up into the soft tissue behind Dick’s jaw. “Soft,” Slade murmured. “And all this time wasted while you have important business to attend to. The missing girl, right? You’d better get moving, kid.” And then his hand opened and Dick’s grasp slid off Slade’s wrist as gravity won out. It was all he could do to fire off that shot and listen desperately for that sound of the weight securing in something that could hold his weight as the decel line let out.
He misjudged everything in those precious few seconds and Dick landed poorly atop a car that was blissfully at a red light only to bounce off it and roll right up against the side of a box truck. Well. At least that had stopped his forward motion, Dick supposed. Groaning, he pushed to his feet and eyed the line that had swung way back out of his reach while ignoring the drivers around him. Move. God, Jason was going to kill him.
Dick picked up his pace and used his line to get him moving again, getting him back up toward the skyline so he could properly disappear–and go home so he could stop the bleeding before figuring out his next steps.