capeandcowllogs | They say I'm seeking out the danger

They say I'm seeking out the danger

WHO:

knights_wing
WHERE: One of Slade's many underground lairs.
WHEN: Wednesday, September 22nd, at night.
WARNINGS: Just look who is in this log. :|
SUMMARY: Slade calls on his favorite mind-controlled errand boy to discuss his role in upcoming events. Mindfuck ensues.
FORMAT: Words.

He reclines in his chair, gazing up at the massive screen before him, a nigh infinite amount of information on display -- all at his fingertips with a few keystrokes. It's taken time and effort, but everything has come together according to his design. He's ready now for what some might call the coup de grâce.

But no.

This is only the beginning. The hallucinogen and the attack on Red Hood's operations are but the first step into a much larger world, and as he watches Nightwing approach from the outside, he can't help but feel it's only fitting that the young man who likely hates him more than anything has been made a tool to facilitate his design.

Keying in the necessary code, Slade allows Nightwing to enter before rising to meet him himself.

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He doesn't deviate from the path along the way, but he stops where he is the moment he sees Slade. The moment he sees Slade standing. He needs another order.

It feels good to follow orders.

Slade recognizes that look, and though there's plenty to recommend this version of Dick Grayson -- willing and amenable to following orders -- there's something about the absent, yet familiar spark of antagonism that appeals to him, in its own peculiar way. He has orders to give, and a schedule to keep, it's true. However, since the time is set by him, he can afford a small indulgence.

A few keystrokes later, the necessary security in place (not that he'll need it), he tilts his head, considering Nightwing as one might a particularly fascinating laboratory specimen.

"I believe it's time we had a chat, Grayson. The line is fixed."

Edited 2010-09-24 03:34 (UTC)

Dick opens his hand and drops the comm, and it isn't until he misses hearing the clatter as it hits the ground that he realizes he's not holding it anymore.

That he's not in the safehouse anymore.

He's... in costume. Standing in the middle of... what really seems to be somebody's lair. Standing there with Slade, who's suddenly right there in front of him. Like he belongs here.

Okay. So... think. He needs to think. No teleportation, unless Slade had something that also caused spontaneous costume switches. Which meant he was dealing with memory loss. Time displacement.

This could be anything.

But he's going to take a stab in the dark and assume it has something to do with the problem he can see.

"Pretty elaborate," he says. He takes a breath and meets Slade's gaze through the mask. Wills himself to stop sweating. "All you had to do was ask."

The cogs are turning, and though there are a number of things he could say at this point, he waits for Grayson to collect himself -- or try, at least. The situation must seem dire, and indeed, it is. It's curious, really, how time changes things. His Robin would have flown off the handle had he been placed in the same position. Slade can only assume age and the difference in realities accounts for this.

Bemused despite himself by the commentary, he remains where he is, dark and implacable -- his answer simple, if not ominous.

"I did."

For half a second he has to resist the urge to just agree with him and try and catch on a conversation that was obviously pretty important and probably more than half over, when he'd dropped in the middle of it.

But...

This is Slade. Somehow, some way, he's being played.

"Sure you did," Dick says. He takes a step sideways, putting a little more distance between himself and Slade. "And I bet you brought me here just to help you pick out new drapes."

Casual if not entirely unconcerned with the prospect of Nightwing escaping, Slade nonetheless watches him with an analytical eye. He is, after all, an older version of Robin, and towards the end of their association, the young man made progress due to experience. Nightwing, he has no doubt, is seasoned in ways Robin was not, and even though he took the time to examine Grayson's gear when he first brought him in, a little caution is never amiss.

Taking a seat at the console, he folds his hands in front of him, his gaze never leaving Nightwing's. "You have questions," is the smooth, strangely diplomatic response. "Now is the time to ask them."

A cursory glance around the room isn't revealing much of anything helpful, but if this place is Slade's that's really not all that surprising. No easy, clear exit.

"Yeah?" But he's still got the escrimas, at least. Whatever had gone down between them in the span of time he's missing, Slade hadn't thought it necessary to neutralize him. "And what could you possibly say that'd actually be worth listening to?"

Stubborn as ever. It almost makes him smile, save for the fact that he's in deadly earnest and will be for the duration of this conversation. As much as he views this as a psychological experiment, he doesn't consider it a game. Not really.

"Are you familiar with the term 'sleeper agent'?"

No aches anywhere that he can't explain. He's never fought with Slade without getting hit.

Which means he'd come here willingly.

He'd...

He's locked in a room he doesn't recognize, with Slade. Slade, who's sitting back and just...

Just watching.

Whatever it is he's thinking, he's clearly not seriously worried about Dick taking the initiative and finding a way out on his own.

He squeezes his hands into fists and forces himself to take another breath. Don't panic. "It's been thrown around a lot these past few weeks," he says finally, keeping his voice as steady and smooth as he can. "You telling me you know something about that?"

The boy is in denial. Not that Slade blames him, but really, the evidence speaks for itself. All he needs is a little push.

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't."

He needs to warn Tim. He needs to warn Babs.

And he needs to keep Slade talking long enough to figure out how the hell he's going to pull that off. Before he...

"So you're telling me..." It has to be a device. Something strong enough to reach anyone in the city. He takes a step closer. "It's all about me?"

If Slade were the type to laugh maniacally, now would be the time to indulge. Instead, he simply tilts his head, the slightest hint of smile, cruel and sharp, tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Of course, Grayson believed this was about him. It's a failing of this younger generation, he's found -- the belief that everything is personal. About them. It's why they'll never defeat him. It's why they'll always lose.

"Of course not, dear boy. You were simply the most useful tool for the job. You'd be surprised by the things I've had you do for me." His singular eye gleams ominously in the dark. "The things you have yet to do for me."

Edited 2010-09-26 19:07 (UTC)

There's no way, no possible way that Slade's fucked him over so completely without raising a whisper. He's better than that. Bruce taught him better than that.

No.

Dick takes two steps forward until all that’s between him and Slade is the console. He holds the escrimas out, not quite moving in. Not yet. But damnit, if a fight’s what he wants, a fight’s what he’s getting.

"I'd kill myself before I'd help you."

Poor, deluded child.

Of course, it's possible. Slade may not be Batman, but in his own way, he is just as dangerous, if not more so, since the rules that bind his dark counterpart do not restrict him in the least. What's done is done, and no amount of denial or tantrums will alter Nightwing's fate.

He gives the boy a look, not so much amused as unimpressed with the display.

"Unfortunately, you don't have a choice in the matter." The briefest of pauses and then: "Broken trapeze."

The change is immediate, righteous fury wiped away in moments as the "other" Dick Grayson emerges -- driven, loyal, and subservient to his every whim.

"Kneel."

Once Dick has done so, Slade confiscates his weapons and reaches into one the compartments in his gauntlet for zipties. Then, binding his hands and feet so he's sitting in an upright position, Slade leans over, staring right at him as he pinches Dick's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"The line is fixed." When the focus comes back to Grayson's eyes, he just smiles, continuing softly: "You see?"

Edited 2010-09-29 03:22 (UTC)

He jerks his head back from the touch of those hands instinctively, and opens his eyes. He's bound on the floor, and all at once Slade is on this side of the console, standing over him. Watching him.

And he's missing another... five minutes? Two hours? Five days?

Oh god.

"Why." It comes out sharp and and a little ragged. He twists against the bindings, fighting that rising sense of panic. Bruce had drilled him on mind control. Drilled him on this. There's pieces missing somewhere, and he needs to remember. If he can remember, than he can break this.

He has to break this.

"What the hell do you even need me for, if you can do this? I mean..." He clenches his hands against the bindings, then forces the muscles to relax. "Looks like you've been busy."

Booster. That kid who shot that Commissioner. A dozen other scared, desperate people, begging the network for help. Something's not adding up.

He's stronger than Nightwing, tightening his grip at the initial jerk before letting the younger man fall back. He's made his point, and there's no need to add injury to insult. It's almost a shame things had to be this way.

Almost.

"I already told you, Nightwing. You're the best at what you do. People trust you. They care about you. It'll be that much worse when you stab them in the back."

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They say I'm seeking out the danger

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