Chapter 3

"It's been so many years since I last saw you," the captor hissed in a deep voice. "What happened to the cheery red and yellow cloaked boy? Sick of following your mentor's orders? Or did the Joker tear apart your pathetic superhero crusade?"

Nightwing gritted his teeth and stayed silent, trying not to notice how his body betrayed him, hitched breaths showing in white puffs of smoke. He could taste the dried blood in his mouth.

"All right, if that's how you want it to be."

Deliberately, Slade bent down and deliberately placed his hand on Nightwing's already broken ribs. Nightwing gasped and hunched forward further in the chair as far as his chains would allow in a vain attempt to protect his ribcage. Seconds passed, the hand increasing pressure incrementally.

Finally, the pressure disappeared. The prisoner nearly blacked out, either from lack of oxygen or from the pain.

"Let us try again, shall we? I only want to know how you've been doing."

This time the wheezing was audible, no matter how much Nightwing wanted to hide it.

"Good. Now, talk."

Reluctantly, Nightwing obliged.

"Still - kidnapping apprentices - for your dirty work… aren't you," he managed.

Slade suddenly grabbed Nightwing's chin with his right hand, examining the slightly bloodied but mostly unharmed, handsome face and turning it side to side as if examining meat. There was an maniacal glint in the one eye that could be seen on the orange side of the angular face mask.

"As a matter of fact, no. I've only ever had eyes for you as my apprentice. You were the only one who understood exactly how I needed things done," Slade said as he roughly pulled his hand away. "I hate to say this, but your old man taught you well. We have much more in common than you'd like to admit."

"We have nothing in common," Nightwing spat.

"On the contrary," Slade countered, now circling behind the chair. "You and I both share the same wit and determination. We don't just finish the job with 100 percent accuracy, no, we strive for 110 percent. It's not just done, but done precisely according to our orders. You remember what a team we were? You absorbed and adapted to my fighting style in a matter of a few sessions, and you, willingly or not, began to parallel my movements and every slight command."

"Shut up!" Nightwing hissed. As much as he tried to deny it, Slade was right. He was tearing open memories and emotions Nightwing had locked long ago into the darkest, most secure recesses of his mind.

"And yet," Deathstroke said slyly behind his full face mask, "you loved that feeling of power rushing through your veins, of not having to obey your old man's Code of Honor. I can give you that freedom to do what your anger tells you to do, as long as you follow my orders."

"Go to hell."

Deathstroke paused. "I will give you time to think about my offer. Just remember," he said as he made his way to the far door behind Nightwing, "your targets can't crawl back to haunt you if they're dead."

In the sudden silence that followed, the echoes of the bolts in the door sliding closed rang in Nightwing's ears. He was trapped with his own thoughts to keep him company.

Reviews welcome, as always. Thanks for reading!

-Raven