Slade's Game

Dinner in Wayne Manor was silent.

The table was long and regal—with each seat occupied by a member of the clan. The only noises that seem to spur out were the smacking of utensils to plates, the air conditioner's silent whirring, and the chewing of food. And yet, despite the nuisances of sounds lurching, the heavy glances to her way were the loudest.

The Red Hood looks beyond vicious. As if he’s dying to speak but couldn’t. He digs his fork deep into his vegetables and refuses to even take a glimpse in her direction.

Red Robin was more visibly upset. He pretends to be amicable about it by occasionally asking her to pass the salt or the pitcher, even though both of them are aware they have a butler. But the way he talks to her had a grave tinge to it, almost as if it pinched him to even engage with her.

Cain and the blood child were more distrustful. The youngest especially made it his duty to take everything she said with a grain of salt. There wasn’t even the slightest belief in his eyes when she talked, not even a reaction of surprise drawn out of him. It’s clear to her that he’s waiting for her to be found out a liar and be pushed out of their home.

The rest simply ignored her. Not out of hostility but rather discomfort. The newest member and the forsaken Robin simply went on their dinner while showing genuine cordiality, unlike Drake, the prodigal detective of the family and ‘most reasonable.’

Though none of them compare to the Bat himself, who sat at the head of the table with a frighteningly unreadable expression. As the pack alpha, his scent was much more intense than the one revived from the pit itself, strong with the spike of tangy metal of his dismay. Rose tries not to be disturbed by the amount of subduing Bruce does to remain calm. To pretend that his mind isn’t racing with ideas and whatever could possibly be going through that brain of his.

And then there was Dick Grayson.

The first Robin. Her once mentor.

Her mother.

“That’s right, Rose,”she remembers Grant saying. “Our father is a filthy man. A monster perving on a child the same age as his eldest son.”

“Liar.” Rose hiss, though the shake of her voice betrayed her. “There are better ways to turn me away from father than this.”

“You’re right,” Grant agrees with too-sharp teeth. “I have a much more tactful method for that.”

Rose holds her breath when he grows near, seizing her wrist harshly to pull her close. He opens her hand and places a swab he took from his chest pocket.

“You’re smart enough to test it yourself,” he says with a smirk. Gently, he makes her hand close in on the swab. “But that's up to you, sister. Just you know that all you need is at my office.”

He was the only one who was truly looking at her. With his striking eyes, so mesmerizing with how bright and blue it was. He wasn’t much different from the last time she saw him. Still as beautiful and still carrying that easy prowess of charm while doing nothing at all.

Rose remembers the time she trained with him, though becoming her mentor was pretty involuntary on his part—all for the sake of proving to Slade that he was on their side. She was sure that he’d been in a bad place at that time too, with Bludhaven blown up and all other things, Dick constantly looked as if he’d run himself ragged. And yet, he still managed the energy to be patient with her and teach her some values her father would’ve never allowed. Not that it mattered as she kept running back to Slade anyway.

It makes Rose’s chest tight.

“Enough!” Damian slams his fists on the table that it rattles the glasses near him. “Just admit yourself as the fraud you are! Filthy spawn of Deathstroke…” he switches to Dick and points an accusatory finger at him. “A word from you would finally expel her from our abode.”

“I mean…” Tim adds, eyes wary on Rose. “He does have a point. There are a multitude of ways to forge DNA results.”

“And it isn’t exactly a stretch considering this is Deathstroke’s daughter we’re talking about,” Jason says maliciously. “You know, the one crazy enough to cut her own eye out cuz’ daddy said so.”

He looks at Rose with vindication and she can’t help but scowl in return.

Everyone waits patiently for Dick, even stopping their eating to stare at him. In fact, the reason to why she's here as long as she is now is because of Dick’s silence. Because if Dick were to say or do the slightest notion against it, she’d be kicked out in a heartbeat. DNA evidence be damned.

The question about his history with Slade or implications of past underage pregnancy, on the other hand, hung in the air like a vice. None of the Bats dared to bring it up despite Rose seeing how badly they wanted an explanation. How much horror the thought alone brings them that it turns their healthy skin into a deathly pale.

Rose never thought of them as cowards. They were the unfathomable knights of Gotham, after all, who rose above all heroes despite their lack special abilities. They were powerless and so undeniably human, yet they brought more fear than all. A reputation that proceeds even the most powerful of men and metas.

Of course Dick was quiet. He’s facing a truth he doesn't want to face. And though it may be selfish of Rose to shove it right back to him, Grant was right about sins of the past being brought to light.

“I don’t have that kind of relationship with your father, Rose,” Dick says to her slowly. As if his words were enough to break her. “And I’m only twenty-six years old. I’d be… too young to have you then.”

The tension practically and tangibly eases in the room. Bruce even lets out a breath she didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Jason barks out a nervous laugh and Damian pushes his chair back and stands up, ready to push her out as he’d hoped the moment she arrived.

But then Dick opens his mouth and immediately everyone freezes, the tension returning in one fall swoop.

“But…” he starts, swallowing. “We can’t act like this is nothing.”

“Huh?” Rose dumbly lets out. She fails to keep her cool when Dick chews his lip, an unwavering gaze all locked in for her and her only.

Bruce was the first to react, already at his wit’s end. “You just said you didn’t have that type of relationship with Deathstroke.”

“And I don’t!” Dick insists. “But she smells like me, Bruce. And I can hardly think of any good reason for Slade to be doing this–-”

Dick looks down at his half-full plate, ostensibly losing his appetite. “Maybe we should take a maternity test.”

“You said nothing happened.” Jason grits out venomously. “If you didn’t have sex with the bastard and went through nine months waiting for birth, then there’s no reason for her to be yours.”

“You don’t get it.” Dick shakes his head in frustration. “I’ve always had the feeling. The instinct. I just didn’t look into it because I know nothing happened. And it’s impossible for a child to be born from nothing.”

A pause and Dick glances at Rose. “Though I’m sure this one is far from nothing.”

The clan immediately went to work and dinner was left unfinished. Their oldest alpha, Alfred, didn’t even have the heart to scold them for it, making Rose see that even his infallible force could stagger.

Rose waited in the living room alone, staring blankly at the black screen.

She remains still like in training, back straight and vigilant despite knowing none of them would attack. Although she’s not so sure about the youngest.

Wayne Manor was a lot different than the manors Rose reside in. Aside from the similarity in lavishness and differing aesthetics—there was an onslaught of pheremones that were unique to each member, a stark contrast to the same gunpowder, leather, and cedarwood emanating from all the Wilson villas.

Just like the Wilsons, the Bats were overpowered by sires—potent and supremely gifted alphas and a single male beta who so happened to also be born a prime of his sex. There were only two dams in their household, two omegas; Stephanie Brown and Dick Grayson, both soft and sweet pheremones strong enough to level the amount of spice and musk from others. Surely, if a lesser person were here, Rose believes they’d be unable to handle it without being overwhelmed.

“How are you fairing, Miss Rose?” she jumps at Alfred’s voice. The butler leans just slightly over the couch, his posture perfectly prim while one hand carries a tray of a tea set.

“Would you care for some tea?” he asks gently and Rose nods.

He carefully pours her a cup of light gold liquor. Dried chamomile flowers fall along with it, steam wafting above, and Alfred serves it to her with a saucer.

Rose manages a small, grateful smile and graciously accepts. She takes one big gulp, desperate for the calming effect the drink promises, and quickly lays it on the surface as if it scorches her to the touch.

She didn’t mean to act in such high alert nor show her frazzled nerves. But Rose couldn't help it.

She had expected that the clan would take her with repulsion. She expected that her mother wouldn’t accept her. But what she didn’t expect was to be denied of her existence entirely.

“It’s impossible for a child to be born from nothing.”

Had Richard Grayson feared and sorrowed from her existence so much that he’d wiped her away completely? If so, Rose couldn’t blame him.

She can't even think about her father right now without being sick.

But the truth is out now and Rose wonders about whether or not would he be able to go through with it. 

Then, she realizes her thoughts and shakes it off. Dick would be fine. He’s Nightwing, after all; the best of the best. 

“I apologize for the masters and mistresses' uncouth behavior at the dinner table from earlier,” Alfred says. “You understand that they are—”

“Shock?” Rose interrupts. “Revolted? Yes, Alfred. I understand it completely.”

She slumps against the cushions and sighs. "I feel it too.”

Alfred takes one long look at her and sighs as well. He sets his tray aside and moves to linger by the armrest, his voice soft. “They’ll be in denial for a while,” he says. “…Of your origins. However, I must admit it was quite jarring to smell you without those applicators of yours.”

He’s talking about her scent modifiers obviously.

That’s right, those blasted patches rich folks used to boost the potency of their scents, something which they clearly lacked. In the masked world, however, had those modifiers be used in a much more practical use—that is veneering the similarities between their civilian and undercover identities. Although the Wilsons have no need to hide themselves, it has proved itself useful to not chase away potential clients and prey.

But now Rose wonders if any of them were truly worth it.

She remembers Grant teasing her about the tinge of citrus in her scent. How, sometimes, she’d smell like cotton candy and the unexplainable scent of excitement. It used to embarrass her back then because he’d say it with a jeer and a haughty smirk. Old habits die hard, Rose supposed, as she never truly learned to stop altering it.

She darts her eyes to her reflection in her drink.

Rose should feel humiliated by how hopeless she’d been. The fierce countenance she’d been used to was drawn to resemble a saddened kitten with flattened ears. So small and utterly useless.

Slade’s deep and scolding voice rings in her head but she quickly shakes it off.

“You’re too kind, Alfred.” Rose finally lets out. “You butlers are always so caring.”

Rose thinks about Wintergreen and wonders if he knows the truth. That his best friend was a sick louse despite the praises he received for self-discipline.

“You misunderstand,” Alfred says, a strange gleam in his gaze. “It’s simply my duty to serve those who are family.”

Alfred takes the tray and steps away, leaving Rose alone once again.

The elder hadn’t doubted her but that should hardly be a surprise. Old people had a knack for knowing, or rather, are just too old to look anywhere but—and Rose is quite thankful for that.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there alone, contemplating, until she realized that none of the Bats would be coming back up here anytime soon.

Rose imagines them somewhere in their cave, reeling and positively furious at the results. She bets that they’re doing the test over and over again just to get something else, knowing that even if they do, that would be the fault and not the other stack they took beforehand. Or perhaps they’re planning an attack against her father and contemplating whether or not they’d detain her in one of their watchtower cells for quick disposal afterward.

Either way, Rose feels too numb to care.

She decidedly waltzes off to stroll through the long halls of Wayne Manor and briefly scans at each picture. She noticed that it was rare to find pictures with the whole family together, even rarer to have them smiling in the camera with the exception of Dick and Stephanie Brown.

Rose walks further in until she reaches the end of the aisle. Instantly, her eyes travel to the portrait displayed at the dead-end.

A skillful painting of the infamous Flying Graysons was drawn in soft strokes of the brush, brimming with hues of red, yellow, and blue. The painting truly enraptured the thrill and color of the circus—especially with the quantity of design in the background with elephants, show tents, and performers—but what stole the show was the trio who posed in the air mid-dive; grinning so wide that Rose’s lips hurt just by looking at them.

It would be sweet if she hadn’t known what happened to them. That they’d lose their lives when doing the one thing they loved the most.

All of a sudden, she senses a presence from behind. Rose quickly stricken, her back straight as she shook off whatever expression she could’ve been wearing.

“I was just looking,” she tells whoever it is.

“Look as much as you want,” he replies.

Rose whips her head around so fast, her breath nearly hitching when she sees Dick standing right in front of her with an uncharacteristically bashful stance. His hand was rubbing his nape and his smile was a tad more awkward than its usual charming flair.

“Damian made that for me.” Dick continues. “It was my parent’s death anniversary and he decided to be sweet…”

Rose blinks at him questionably. “The Al Ghul brat made that?”

Dick’s smiles strains a bit at the mocking name. “He’s very talented.”

She doesn’t expect any less from the direct spawn of demons and the Dark Knight himself. Frankly, Rose thinks that Dick’s praises would do no good for the brat’s already high ego.

“Yeah,” Rose says instead. “He is.”

Dick relaxes subtly and a much more genuine smile returns. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Of course, I do,” Rose answers easily. “Do you?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have that type of relationship with Slade,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure I never bore a child before.”

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” Rose states dryly. “Didn’t you see the results yourself?”

“I did,” Dick admits reluctantly. “Everyone but Bruce doesn’t seem to believe me when I said nothing happened. Though I don’t think Bruce can count since he appears to be leaning more towards the denial of things than trusting me.”

Dick’s tone was slightly bitter in the end but Rose pretends she didn’t hear it. “Why are you still denying it?”

He frowns. “I’m not denying anything—”

“Liar,” she says coldly. “If you want to reject me, then do it. Just quit lying to me. Because the fact that you’re not even trying makes it so much worse.”

"I'm not!" Dick hurriedly retorts. “I know it sounds unlikely...”

Rose blocks out whatever he says next.

She knew she was being irrational. That it was she who entered their home where she was inexplicably unwanted. But Rose at least hoped to be rejected so she’d be able to move on—and maybe, just maybe, it was foolish that despite growing up the way she was—still had the audacity to carry that small glimmer of fruitless hope to be accepted either way.

What difference does it make? Dick was soft on her when she was Slade’s child. What makes it different when she was his?

Dick shouldn’t be so burdened by his past. He’s a Bat, after all. He’s not like anyone and therefore shouldn’t act like anyone in something like this. He’s supposed to be better.

“…and I think he…”

“I’m going out for a walk.” Rose interrupts. “To get some air.”

Dick falters, his lips pursed. “A-alright.”

She turns her heel around slowly and walked off in a steady pace; but the moment Dick was out of sight, she ran.

Roy gazes at his sweet daughter through the kitchen window, playing tag with her friends at the playground he worked vigorous hours to assemble.

There was some old alpha-dominant rustling, but Roy wasn’t too worried as Lian mostly seemed to be the one reigning. Roy had it far worse with his peers—with one of them quite literally bagging weapons after one bad game of freeze.

He heaves out a mild breath after a large gulp of coffee, savoring these fleeting moments of peace. However, it was all put to a halt when the abrupt knocking came on his entrance door.

When he went to answer it, Jason was the face that greeted him. Or more specifically, Red Hood, considering the tank of a man was donned in the full ensemble with holsters loaded with numerous of firearms he calls his ‘babies’.

“How’s daddy?” Jason says, the modulator in his helmet making him sound gravelly and threatening.

Roy scrunches up his nose in mock disgust. “Don’t call me that again.”

Jason laughs. Though even with his modulator on, Roy notices that it is cold and harsh—disingenuous that it pricks his nerves in a way that urges his instincts into dangerous territory. When he takes off his helmet, his disheveled jet-black hair pops off and his eyes shine a perilous Lazarus gleam.

“Did you know?” he asks as he ambles closer.

“Know about what?” Roy levels with his tone. He tries to tell his instincts to calm down, that this was Jason and not some douche of an alpha trying to pick a fight.

“You and Dick have been best friends since the scaly leotard era, am I right? Neon and painfully gaudy.” Jason goes on, setting his helmet aside on a table he passed. “You have to know. You and Wally and Donna.”

Roy blanched, surprised at the mention of Dick. Usually, both of them tiptoed around bringing the golden boy into their conversations to avoid awakening any grief they have. Give it to Mr. Perfect for being both the beacon and bane of people’s existence.

So, he scoffs. “You really expect anyone, specifically me, to know anything about Dick? Fucking please. The dude’s basically a less broodier version of the Bat.”

Jason looks as if he’s swallowed a large ball of sour gum. Roy sees him curling his fists, fingers digging into his skin that it must’ve bled. “…what do you know about Dick and Deathstroke?”

Roy blinks, caught both in surprise and confusion. Quickly, he recovers and clears his throat, nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen counter. “Well, the guy’s been often pegged as his arch-enemy if that’s what you're asking.”

Jason scowls in frustration. “What about his youngest?”

Roy turns to look at his daughter again. Now they’re playing a different sort of game, a more harmless one than the last as the three were just playing house in a toy kitchen set.

“Rose Wilson?” he recalls. “What about her?”

“Did you know she’s Dick’s kid?”

At first, Roy thought he was joking. That Jason got into another nasty fight with Bruce and decided on taking it out on him with fucked up pranks. But the absolute seriousness Jason wore had him stumbling for words.

“You’re kidding.” Roy chuckles incredulously. “Do you know how old Rose is? Dick? He’d be way too young to…”

He stops talking when Jason only persists on being silent. Roy whips his head around to Lian and then back at Jason, left eye twitching as he lowers his voice and leans in close. “Why are you asking me this?”

“She’s his kid.” Jason swallows a painful bile. “We found it out ourselves.”

“Bullshit.”

“I wish.” he huffs. “Dick keeps denying it. He even fucking trackered me so that I wouldn’t go after him.”

Roy could feel the blood rushing in his ear.

No, that shouldn’t be possible. Roy had been with Dick for so long, in the same team and in the same tower. He wouldn’t miss something as big as that.

“He’s telling the truth,” Roy says. “There must be something wrong with your guys’ equipment.”

“We mulled over that too,” Jason explains. “But   it could be wrong. Maybe– maybe we’re just getting tricked.”

From that, Jason relaxes tremendously, but it couldn’t be said the same for Roy.

His mind ultimately races back to the time of Renegade. When the entire Titans team was infected with nanobots and got young Dick Grayson working for Slade for who knows how long.

Dick wasn’t just pretending to be an apprentice—he was one. It was all under duress, really, but none of the Titans ever tried to fool themselves into thinking that their Robin hadn’t gotten his hands dirty for them. He disappeared at the face of the earth after a messy encounter with his team during his debut and abruptly did Slade’s contracts up in speed alongside it.

Roy felt like he was about to freak the fuck out.

As much as he resented Dick for being a version of himself that he never could be—for being so perfect and always the better person, the better sidekick, and being so obnoxiously beautiful that it makes Roy want to punch the living daylights out of him—only god knows the lengths Roy would go for him.

Dick is one of his bestest of friends. His leader. His bastard that made him feel things that he wouldn’t dare to name. And his family.

Roy would cut off Slade’s hands and shove them back into his filthy mouth if the horror he was thinking of turns out to be true.

“I should go back to the cave,” Jason mutters to himself. “That little rat must’ve bugged our equipment somehow…”

Roy hesitates, wondering if he should tell him about Renegade or not. There’s still a chance that the other alpha would go into a rageful frenzy and Roy wouldn’t even bother to stop him.

“Where’s Lian?” he asks. “It’s been a while since I’ve last seen her. Ought to wave her goodbye before I leave at least.”

Jason turns expectantly at Roy but he can’t help his expression from growing blank. The younger arches a brow at him, perplexed. “Roy?”

“I think…” he starts. “I may – know something about Dick and Wilson.”

All ease Jason regained was lost just like that. "Tell me.”

Roy wavers, contemplating his words. He just hopes that the other Bats went to Wally or Donna for this. Or any other Titans in that matter, because Roy wouldn’t give much except for bad news.

Which is this.

“Have you ever heard about Renegade?”