Barbara Gordon paced the kitchen, glancing at her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. The family dinner was set to begin in less than an hour, and Matt still hadn't returned her calls or texts.
"He's never this unreachable," she muttered, reaching for her phone again. "Never."
Dick Grayson watched her from his perch on the counter, munching an apple Alfred had explicitly told him not to touch before dinner. "Babs, he's seventeen. Almost eighteen. Probably just lost track of time with friends."
"Matt doesn't lose track of time," Barbara countered. "He's obsessively punctual. Always has been."
In the living room, Bruce Wayne and Alfred exchanged knowing glances as they caught fragments of the conversation. Bruce had been observing the Gordon household dynamics with particular interest since the Iceberg Lounge incident two months ago, noting the protective relationship between Barbara and her brother.
"Perhaps Master Matthew is simply experiencing the typical teenage desire for independence," Alfred suggested mildly, arranging place settings with military precision. "A phase Master Richard went through quite spectacularly, if I recall."
Dick rolled his eyes. "I wasn't that bad."
"You disappeared for three days to attend a concert in Metropolis without telling anyone," Bruce reminded him, his tone deceptively casual.
"That was different. I was..."
"Seventeen," Bruce finished for him.
Barbara's phone buzzed, and she lunged for it. Her face fell upon seeing the caller ID. "It's just Dad," she said, answering. "Hey, Dad. No, still no word from Matt... Yes, Alfred's already started cooking... I know... I will. Bye."
She tossed the phone onto the counter with uncharacteristic carelessness. "Dad's stuck at the precinct. Black Mask situation downtown. He'll be here when he can."
Dick slid off the counter, approaching Barbara with casual confidence. "Come on, Babs. Matt will be fine. The guy survived a chemical spill that would have killed most people. He can handle an afternoon in Gotham."
Barbara's expression softened slightly at Dick's touch on her arm. "You don't understand. After what happened at the Iceberg Lounge... he's been different. Taking more risks. Coming home late. I found brass knuckles in his room last week, Dick. Brass knuckles."
Bruce, pretending to study Jim Gordon's bookshelf, absorbed this information with keen interest.
"Maybe he's just being cautious," Dick suggested. "After what happened, that's understandable."
Barbara shook her head. "No. It's something else. I can't explain it, but it's like he's becoming someone I don't recognize."
The room fell into uneasy silence, broken only by the methodical sounds of Alfred's dinner preparations.
______________________________
The machete landed at Rose's feet with a decisive thud, skittering slightly on the rooftop gravel. Her father stood impassively, waiting for her to make the choice they both knew had only one acceptable outcome.
Matt sensed the change in Rose's body chemistry. The surge of stress hormones. The minute trembling in her normally steady hands. Most telling of all, the dampness on her cheeks. Tears. Silent but unmistakable.
"Pick it up, Rose," Slade instructed, his voice carrying neither cruelty nor compassion. "Finish this test."
Rose bent slowly, fingers closing around the machete's handle. Her heartbeat thundered in Matt's ears, a chaotic rhythm of fear and conflict that told him everything he needed to know about her internal struggle.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, so softly only Matt's enhanced hearing could catch it.
He didn't waste time with words or pleas. Rose was already committed to her path, whatever it might cost her. Matt had seen this moment before, in another life, with another woman torn between love and deadly loyalty.
As Rose raised the blade, Matt moved. One precise strike to the vagus nerve cluster in her neck. Her body went rigid, then collapsed. Matt caught her before she hit the rooftop, gently lowering her unconscious form.
"Interesting," Slade observed, his tone suggesting mild academic curiosity rather than paternal concern. "You disabled her more efficiently than the most highly skilled could manage. I may have underestimated you."
Matt straightened, turning to face Deathstroke fully. "You miscalculated on several fronts."
"Did I?" Slade circled slowly, assessing. "I asked my daughter to make a choice. She made it. The fact that you prevented her from completing the task doesn't negate her decision."
"She's not a weapon for you to wield," Matt replied, maintaining his position between Rose and her father. "She's a person."
"So naïve." Slade sounded almost regretful. "She's been a weapon since the day she was conceived. The only question was whether she'd be an effective one."
Matt bent and retrieved the fallen machete, testing its balance with a casual flip. The weapon felt strange in his hand. In his previous life, he'd avoided bladed weapons, preferring the control and precision of his batons. But beggars couldn't be choosers.
"You won't make it off this roof," Slade warned, drawing a blade of his own. "Even with your... unusual abilities."
Matt allowed himself a small smile. "We'll see."
They crashed together like storm fronts, blade meeting blade with a clang that echoed across nearby buildings. Matt relied on his enhanced senses to track Slade's movements, detecting minute shifts in muscle tension that telegraphed strikes milliseconds before they occurred.
Slade was good. Better than good. Every movement executed with lethal efficiency, no wasted energy, no telegraphed attacks. Matt blocked a downward slash that would have opened him from shoulder to hip, metal screaming against metal.
"I was wrong again, whoever taught you...was exceptional." Slade observed, disengaging to circle again. "Military? Private instruction?"
Matt didn't bother responding, focusing instead on the asymmetry in Slade's attack pattern. The mercenary favored his right side slightly, a flaw so minor most opponents would never detect it.
They clashed again, Matt using his smaller frame as an advantage, slipping inside Slade's guard to land a precise strike to the brachial plexus. Slade's right arm went momentarily numb, earning Matt a grunt of surprise.
"Nerve strikes," Slade noted, switching the blade to his left hand without missing a beat. "Not common in conventional martial arts. Who trained you, boy? Answer me."
Again, Matt remained silent, conserving breath and focus. He ducked under a horizontal slice, responding with a sweeping kick that Slade easily avoided.
The fight continued, both combatants testing boundaries, assessing weaknesses. Matt landed a series of strikes that would have incapacitated most opponents, targeting nerve clusters and pressure points with surgical precision. Slade absorbed the punishment with inhuman tolerance, adapting his strategy with each exchange.
Matt felt sweat soaking through his borrowed t-shirt, muscles burning with exertion. This wasn't a meta-brawl exhibition match with predetermined rules and limitations. This was combat in its purest form, against an opponent specifically enhanced to kill.
And somehow, it felt right. Natural. As if he'd been waiting for this moment since awakening in this new world.
A flash of silver caught Matt's attention too late. Slade's blade sliced across his cheek, opening a shallow cut that immediately began to bleed. The sting of it brought sharp focus, reminding Matt that this wasn't just about proving himself. It was about survival.
Rose stirred on the rooftop behind them, consciousness returning as the effects of Matt's nerve strike wore off. Her heartbeat spiked with alarm as she processed the scene before her. Matt facing her father, blood on his face, machete in hand.
But fear quickly gave way to something else. Confusion. Disbelief. Awe.
Matt was holding his own. More than holding his own. Moving with a fluid grace that matched or even exceeded her father's legendary skills. Landing strikes that actually seemed to cause Slade Wilson pain.
"Impossible," she whispered, struggling to her knees.
Matt heard her voice, sensed her movement. The momentary distraction cost him. Slade's boot connected with his sternum, sending him skidding across the rooftop. The machete clattered from his grasp.
"You're good, very good," Slade acknowledged, advancing steadily. "But distracted. Emotional investment is always a liability in combat."
Matt regained his footing, breathing through the pain of what felt like at least one cracked rib. He needed to end this. The family dinner waited, and each minute prolonged the fight increased the chances of serious injury that couldn't be easily explained away.
He abandoned defense, launching into a flurry of strikes that drove Slade back toward the roof edge. The mercenary countered expertly, but Matt pressed forward, channeling every lesson Stick had drilled into him across two lifetimes.
A precision strike to the solar plexus. Another to the femoral nerve. A third to the carotid sinus. Each hit precisely calibrated to cause maximum effect without permanent damage.
Slade staggered, momentarily disoriented by the barrage. Matt seized the opening, delivering a final strike to the vagus nerve cluster. The same technique he'd used on Rose, but with significantly more force.
The mercenary dropped to one knee, blade still clutched in his hand but temporarily unable to utilize it effectively. Matt stood over him, breathing hard, victory within reach.
Then he stepped back. "This ends now," he said firmly. "I'm leaving. Rose is free to make her own choices. You won't interfere."
Slade's laugh was ragged but genuine. "You think it's that simple? That you can just walk away?"
"I think you're smart enough to recognize when a situation requires reassessment." Matt gestured to Slade's temporarily compromised state. "Next time might end differently."
Before Slade could respond, Matt backed toward the roof access door. He needed distance, a head start. The nerve strikes would wear off within minutes, and Deathstroke wasn't known for accepting defeat graciously.
"This isn't over," Slade called after him. "You've merely complicated the equation."
Matt paused at the door, turning back one final time. "Rose deserves better than being your weapon. She deserves a life."
"We all deserve many things," Slade replied cryptically. "Few of us receive them."
"If only you could see that.."
Matt disappeared through the doorway, descending the building with practiced efficiency. The cut on his cheek had already stopped bleeding, but the bruises forming across his torso would be harder to explain. He needed a cover story before reaching home.
There would be consequences. There always were.
___________________________________________
"I think we should start without him," Bruce suggested gently as Alfred brought the roast to the table. "Matthew would understand."
Barbara shook her head stubbornly. "Just give him five more minutes. He'll be here."
Dick exchanged concerned glances with Alfred. The dining room had fallen into an awkward limbo, plates set, food prepared, but the meal suspended in Barbara's determination to wait for her brother.
"Perhaps Master Richard could try calling again?" Alfred suggested, breaking the silence.
Dick obediently pulled out his phone, but before he could dial, the front door opened. Matt slipped inside, looking distinctly disheveled.
"Matt!" Barbara exclaimed, relief and irritation warring in her voice. "Where have you been? We've been calling for hours!"
Matt offered an apologetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry. Got caught up with a friend. Phone died."
Bruce Wayne observed the young man with careful attention, noting details others might miss. The slight stiffness in his movements suggesting bruised ribs. The fresh cut on his cheek, shallow but recent. The subtle vigilance in his posture, as if anticipating threats from all directions.
Most telling of all, the machete fibers clinging to his borrowed shirt. Distinctive weave pattern, likely Indonesian manufacture. High-end. Military grade.
"Sorry for holding up dinner," Matt continued, hanging his jacket by the door with careful movements that betrayed physical discomfort. "Let me just wash up and I'll join you."
"Take your time," Bruce said genially. "We were just discussing Dick's upcoming summer performance review at the GCPD."
"Right," Dick confirmed, following Bruce's lead. "Internship stuff. Super boring."
Matt nodded gratefully and disappeared down the hallway. Barbara watched him go, her expression troubled.
"He's hiding something," she whispered, more to herself than the table at large.
Bruce sipped his water thoughtfully. "Teenagers often do," he replied, his casual tone belying the intensity of his interest. "Part of growing up is establishing boundaries, even with those we care about most."
"Not Matt," Barbara insisted. "He's different. Always has been."
"Different how?" Bruce inquired, seemingly innocuous.
Barbara hesitated, suddenly aware of having said too much. "Just... structured. Reliable. This behavior isn't like him."
Alfred saved her from further explanation by announcing dinner was ready to serve. The conversation shifted to safer topics, but Bruce's attention remained divided, part of his consciousness cataloging Matthew Gordon's movements as he rejoined them, monitoring breath patterns and microexpressions that told a story significantly different from the one the young man presented.
......
.....
....
Across town, two figures remained on a rooftop long after Matt's departure. Rose Wilson sat beside her father, both silent as they processed the unexpected outcome of their confrontation.
"He beat you," Rose finally said, voice flat with disbelief.
"He escaped," Slade corrected, though without his usual edge. "There's a difference."
"I've never seen anyone move like that against you. Not even Batman."
Slade studied his daughter with his single eye. "You care for this boy."
It wasn't a question, but Rose answered anyway. "Yes."
"Interesting." Slade stood, sheathing his blade with practiced efficiency. "Perhaps his existence presents opportunities rather than complications."
Rose's gaze sharpened with sudden fear. "What do you mean?"
"The boy has potential. Remarkable potential. But he's hampered by conventional morality. By connections to people like you."
"Leave him alone," Rose warned, rising to face her father. "He's not part of our world."
Slade's laugh held no humor. "He became part of our world the moment he engaged me in combat. The moment he chose to protect you, knowing what I am. What you are."
"So what now?" Rose demanded, hands clenched at her sides.
"Now?" Slade turned toward the Gotham skyline, the Bat-Signal visible against gathering clouds. "Now we see what 'Matt' is truly capable of when everything he values is threatened. What darkness he harbors beneath that carefully constructed façade."
Rose felt cold dread settle in her stomach. "You don't know what you're playing with."
"Don't I?" Slade glanced back at her, his expression unreadable. "That was the most violent boy I've ever seen. Someone intimately familiar with violence and its applications."
"He was defending himself. Defending me."
"Yes," Slade agreed. "And therein lies his vulnerability. His weakness." He gestured toward the Gordon residence, miles distant but clearly in his thoughts. "He has too many people to protect. Too many pressure points."
Rose stepped forward, defiance overriding years of conditioned obedience. "If you hurt him or his family, I'll..."
"You'll what?" Slade interrupted, his tone almost gentle. "Kill me? You had your chance today. You made your choice."
The reminder struck Rose like a physical blow. She had chosen, however reluctantly, to follow her father's command. Had picked up the machete. Would have used it if Matt hadn't stopped her.
"Your trial continues," Slade informed her, moving toward the roof access door. "But with adjusted parameters. Watch the boy. Learn what drives him. What he fears. What he loves."
"And then?"
Slade paused, framed in the doorway. "And then we'll see if he is worthy of joining our family... or if he needs to be eliminated from the equation entirely."
The door closed behind him, leaving Rose alone with the knowledge that she had placed Matt squarely in her father's crosshairs. Whatever happened next, whatever sick game Slade Wilson chose to play, she had helped set it in motion.
And no amount of regret would change that simple, damning truth.