Chapter Text
If he ever met his younger self, the boy would despise him.
He can vividly imagine the disgust etched across that youthful face, the disappointment, the confusion.
He wouldn’t understand.
Bruce was right after all.
Admitting it feels like swallowing glass, but he can't deny the truth: one murder leads to another and before you know it there will be nothing but blood and ash left behind you.
His younger self wouldn’t understand that, either.
He wouldn’t understand the thrill of holding another person’s life in his hands. The joy of seeing the fear in their eyes as they writhe and fight against his crushing grip. The strange satisfaction when the struggling ceases and the spark in their gaze flickers out, the life leaving their body.
There is something broken inside of him. Always has been. But now, when the last piece of his sanity is lost forever, buried along with the last family member, it's more apparent than ever.
It’s been just him and Jason for so long. Jason, the one person who truly understood. Jason, who fought his own darkness and wore it like a shield. But even Jason is gone now. His Little Wing is gone.
And now it’s only him left.
Dick sits cross-legged on the grass, next to Jason’s grave. His fingers trace the edge of the gravestone, cold and unyielding beneath his touch. His voice is low, a hoarse whisper carried away by the wind.
“This time, Little Wing, your death will be avenged.”
He gave up being Nightwing a long time ago. Nightwing was a symbol of hope, of safety—and he stopped being any of those things a long time ago.
Kick.
Punch.
Punch.
Kick.
Punch.
He grabs the man by the throat, his fingers tightening like a vice. A quiet voice whispers in the back of his mind: Make him suffer.
He would love nothing more than to obey.
He didn’t kill Jason, he reminds himself.
But he watched.
He helped.
He deserves to die.
In one swift movement, he twists the man’s neck, the sickening crack echoing in the air. The body falls to the ground.
It’s done.
Every single person tied to his brother’s death—every link in the chain—has been hunted down. And Dick had shown no mercy. He’d strangled them, stabbed them, shattered their bones. None of those damn bastards had escaped.
And now that they’re all gone, there’s only one person left to kill.
The person who failed Jason the most.
The person who let his family down.
Dick climbs the tallest building in Gotham. The city sprawls below him, deceptively quiet. Peaceful, as far as Gotham ever gets. No screams for help pierce the night air. The only sounds are the low hum of passing cars and the occasional bark of a distant dog.
He wishes he could see the stars. But the city’s lights, combined with the oppressive fog make that impossible.
He steps closer to the edge, his boots scraping against the concrete.
In just a moment, the last Grayson will reunite with his family. One more step, and—
“Get the fuck away from there, kid!”
The voice slashes through the night like a blade. Dick freezes, the tension locking his body into place.
“Step away from the edge, little bird.”
Slowly, deliberately, Dick turns his head, his movements stiff. He doesn’t step back, though. Not yet.
“What do you want, Slade?” he rasps, his voice raw from disuse. It’s barely a whisper.
Behind him, Deathstroke stands, his body language as non-threatening as someone like him could manage.
“Do I need a reason to visit?” Slade asks, smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Cut the bullshit.” Dick whispers.
The silence that follows is deafening. The two of them study each other, searching for something unspoken in the other’s face. Whatever it is, Slade finds it first. His smirk fades, replaced by an expression that’s unsettlingly sincere.
“Come with me, my offer still stands.” he says evenly, his voice calm, steady.
Even before Slade finishes speaking, Dick knows what his answer will be.
He should jump. That was the plan. That was the final step to avenging Jason.
But Slade is here. Slade,offering him everything: a home, an end to his loneliness, and most importantly, a purpose.
How could he say no to that?
“Let’s go, then,” Dick mutters.
He steps away from the edge.
Slade saved his life that day.
Dick could give him that much. But he didn’t do it out of altruism. Slade never did anything that didn’t serve his own interests.
And Dick was fine with that. Everyone wanted something from him; Slade was no exception. He had seen Dick at his most broken, his most vulnerable, and knew he wouldn’t refuse the offer.
His apprentice would finally return to him—morals stripped away, no longer standing in the way. With Batman and his army of child soldiers out of the picture, Dick’s endless loyalty would belong to him, and him alone.
But there was more to it than that. Slade had known Richard Grayson for a long time, watched him grow into the man he was now. If anyone dared suggest he cared for the first Robin, Slade would deny it and likely put a bullet through their head for good measure. But the truth lingered, unspoken and undeniable: he did care.
It was a dangerous mix of care and possessiveness that had always drawn him to that reckless, stubborn kid.
Richard never gave up. He pushed himself past every limit, working himself to exhaustion until he mastered every skill required of him. It was one of the things Slade admired most about him.Now, it seemed, that skill set included killing.
Slade wasn’t blind to what had happened to Gotham’s vigilantes. He kept tabs on the city, though even he hadn’t imagined this would be the final blow to break Nightwing.
But Dick Grayson was nothing if not adaptable. He molded himself to fit the world he was thrust into, shaping his identity to meet the demands of survival.
This time, he had risen from the ashes again—deadlier and more ruthless than ever before.
The new form Richard had taken wasn’t fixed yet, still malleable, still unfinished. Slade knew opportunity when he saw it, and he wasn’t about to let this one slip by.
Under his care, under his watchful eye, he would mold Richard into something even greater. He would make him worthy of the title of Deathstroke the Terminator.
Kick.
Punch.
Kick.
Block.
Punch.
Punch.
Kick.
Life with Slade never slowed down. Their strict routine was relentless, but it was never dull.
Slade was a meticulous teacher, offering feedback without hesitation. He praised even the smallest victories, yet demanded perfection in every move. Mistakes weren’t tolerated—they were corrected, no matter how minor.
Together, Deathstroke and Renegade became a duo feared across the underworld. They were respected by all and underestimated by none. To onlookers, they were the epitome of mercenary perfection: efficient, ruthless, and unstoppable.
Mistakes weren’t an option in their world.
And yet, mistakes were inevitable.
Vigilantes from Gotham weren’t meant for long, happy lives. Life after all had a way of slipping through their fingers, no matter how hard they fought to hold on.
It was no different for the last Grayson. The bullet came faster than he could dodge. Faster than he could react. Faster than he could survive.
And just like that, the Batfamily’s story ended, with the final ember extinguished.