Chapter Text
Two Years Ago
The boy holds himself stiffly, so still it is almost difficult to notice him at all.
Renegade recognizes the posture well enough. He imitates a similar pose when Slade is angry or frustrated or near him in general. It seldom works, but it has bought Renegade enough stolen moments he cannot forgo the attempt altogether.
He wears his mask, as Slade wishes, so no one tracks his eyes as they assess the boy.
He cannot be older than eight or nine. The chair he sits in dwarfs him, the back rising far above the head of dark hair. His green eyes are trained on the maps in the center of the war table. Unlike the other assassins, his gaze does not stray from Ra’s al Ghul’s finger once.
Every time the man jabs a spot, the boy's eyes follow with an intensity other children would find unnerving.
Renegade finds him unnerving for a different reason altogether. The boy is easily the youngest in the room by at least a decade. Still, his erect posture and unwavering attention, the way his whole body reacts to Ra’s al Ghul, reminds Renegade of himself and Slade.
It is not a comfortable similarity.
The kindness, the softness, as Slade would say, has been beaten and tortured and starved out of him. Now, Renegade knows his place.
Any inconvenient notions of guilt or resistance have been ruthlessly smothered and smooshed until they are barely more than whispers at the edge of his mind. Renegade is careful to keep it that way. The last time Slade sniffed out the vestiges of rebellion, Renegade did not leave the dark.
He hates the dark.
Still, to see such a young boy, so painfully aware of a larger man in the same way Renegade is aware of Slade…it eats at him. The longer he watches, the more clear it becomes.
When Ra’s al Ghul tilts to the right, the boy leans with him ever so slightly, maintaining that pathetic distance that really is no distance at all to an elite assassin. The boy’s face does not change, but Renegade can pick out the sweat on his hairline, the minute tremble of his jaw. He’s in pain. A lot of it.
Beyond that, the more Renegade stares, the more the boy reminds him of someone. Someone he once knew very well.
Renegade cannot say exactly what it is. Perhaps it’s the boy’s aristocratic air, the way he folds his hands primly in his lap. Maybe it’s the slender nose, the strong jaw, or even the darkness in his eyes.
Renegade has not seen Bruce Wayne in three years. Sitting across from the boy, it somehow feels like he should restart the timer.
The thought has pins and needles dancing up his neck and down his spine. Slade would not appreciate this line of thinking. He’d make Renegade strip off his shirt and display his back while Slade cracked the whip he was so fond of. Then…then it would be the dark.
Like anytime he disobeys Slade, anxiety descends on him. It does not matter Renegade has no plans of straying from his orders. Slade has a way of weaseling out Renegade’s deepest fears and disobediences. He likes to list them slowly, forcing confessions from his lips like a penitent. Slade always wants Renegade broken before the punishment begins.
The boy does not glance at Renegade.
Why would he? His master stands beside him, and he must have learned long ago outsiders will not risk themselves to save him. Renegade knows that lesson well.
The longer the meeting drags on, the more he wants the boy to look at him. Renegade cannot be sure why. Perhaps if the boy were to raise his eyes, even just a little bit, then Renegade could fish out a small spark of desire, something to prove that Renegade is projecting. Something to show the boy does not need saving.
The boy gives him no such reassurance. He simply continues to follow Ra’s al Ghul’s finger.
And there, in the heart of the desert with Deathstroke beside him and the boy across from him, Renegade rediscovers a piece of himself. A part his master has tortured and tormented but not quite managed to kill just yet.
Looking at the boy, Renegade thinks he might have been the type of person to save him. Once, he knows, nothing would have prevented him from leaping across the table and burying his fist into Ra’s al Ghul.
He is not that person anymore.
No small amount of shame accompanies that realization. He knew, of course he did, that he had changed in the past few years. It was survival, necessity. There was no choice.
Still, anger flickers deep in his gut. The fire lights him up so suddenly, it takes him by surprise. He has not been furious with Slade in a long time. Yet that rage still lives.
Renegade is careful not to look to his right where Slade lounges, his lone eye studying the outline for his contract. He does not need to see the man to know there’s an easy confidence to him, a small smirk at the edge of his thin lips. To picture the way the man has one finger on his katanas and another on his gun.
Renegade hates himself. Hates how even in the relative safety of a public space he is entirely too conscious of his master’s mood, his body language, his weapons. But these are vital pieces of information for Renegade. They allow him to gauge how much wiggle room he has, how much he wants to push Slade’s patience.
Being run through with a katana is very different from being shot.
Ra’s al Ghul rolls the maps up.
Slade stands. Renegade follows his lead. Likewise, the boy rises as well, though he is not looking at Slade or Renegade. His gaze trains on Ra’s al Ghul, like the man is his sun and he is simply a moon meant to reflect Ra’s al Ghul’s light without complaint or commotion.
“I want half up front,” Slade says.
“A steep price for an unfinished job.”
And maybe Renegade should have been paying better attention, because Slade’s hand has not left his katanas. He would have those as his weapon of choice here. Whenever possible, Deathstroke likes to prove his superiority, especially to self-proclaimed masters.
Across the table, the boy’s eyes have finally left Ra’s, falling onto Slade’s hand. It seems he is more than proficient at sniffing out threats.
Slade cocks his head to the side. Arrogance bleeds off him. “I never leave a job incomplete.”
He’s right. Slade finishes everything he starts with ruthless meticulousness. Renegade would know. Slade hasn’t finished molding him to the image Renegade has never wanted to encapsulate. Still, that image becomes clearer and clearer each day, and he does not know how to stop it.
There is a moment of tense silence. Around them, the other assassins reach for their own weapons, their stances widening in preparation for a fight. Even the boy shifts his weight, his hand disappearing into his pocket.
Neither Slade or Renegade move into defensive positions. Deathstroke the Terminator is always in control, and the violence does not begin until he deems it appropriate.
Renegade prays Slade finds it inconvenient today. Slade will go after the boy with prejudice, especially because Ra’s al Ghul has marked him as a favorite with how he’s placed the boy so close to him.
Renegade will be asked to help. He does not want a hand in the boy’s demise, but the idea of the punishment Slade would give him sends tremors down Renegade’s hands. If it comes to a fight, Renegade does not know what he will do.
The moment does not devolve into violence. Instead, Ra’s al Ghul nods. He orders his underlings to prepare a place for Deathstroke and his apprentice.
“Since the contract will take a while, perhaps our students might learn from each other.” Ra’s nods to the boy beside him.
Slade pretends to assess him for the first time, though Renegade knows he already performed such procedures like absolutions before entering the room.
“He’s a bit smaller than Renegade.”
That gets a reaction out of the boy. His green eyes flare, and his head whips around. “I am not little.”
A smile cuts across Slade’s face. He’s amused, in the same way he is when Renegade refuses an order in a manner he finds funny. “I never said you were.”
Red creeps up to the boy's ears. His fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. “You will treat me with respect and decorum, mercenary. I am Damian al Ghul, h–”
Ra’s al Ghul drops his hand on Damian’s shoulder. The boy shuts up immediately, the flush draining from his face, leaving him pale and quiet once more.
“Apologies. My grandson is a spitfire, at times.”
“Perhaps it will be good for Renegade,” Slade says. “He could use further instruction with swords.”
“Damian is proficient, though hardly satisfactory with the katanas.”
Renegade is used to being spoken over, talked about, and ignored like an unfortunately dumb dog. Damian, it seems, chafes under the condescension. He works his jaw, glaring at the floor. He does not speak again.
Renegade can imagine his life. Younger than everyone else but deemed heir to Ra’s al Ghul’s legacy. Of course he’d have a chip on his shoulder the size of a continent. Not that anyone takes it seriously.
The conversation ends. Slade and Ra’s make plans for the training sessions to commence the following morning. Ra’s al Ghul leads his grandson away by the shoulder. His knuckles are white.
As they pass, Damian’s brilliant eyes find Renegade’s. “I will destroy you,” he vows.
Renegade does not doubt he means it. Once the pair vanishes, Slade laughs. He claps a large hand on Renegade’s shoulder.
“I think the kid is going to try and kill you tomorrow.” He leans in a little closer. “You won’t disappoint me, will you?”
“No, sir,” Renegade says. He remembers the consequences of failure.
He replays the viciousness in Damian’s voice, the ruthlessness in his eyes. Odd, to receive death threats from a child.
As Renegade follows Slade deeper into the League of Assassins’s base, he is completely unprepared for one Damian al Ghul.
He just doesn’t know it yet.