So, a few quick notes. The eventual pairing is Slade/Dick, but there's none of it in the first couple chapters. There's enforced nudity in these chapters, but it's not sexual (I swear). Slade is a uh... evil son of a bitch, but not a pedophile? Also all research I could find said Dick/Robin is like 16 at this point, believe it or not. If that makes you feel better. (It made me feel better.)

Anyway! This is another prompt; number 47, 'Creation'. I got reminded how hard I shipped Sladin and, well, this happened. For those of you trapped down in this pairing with me, welcome. Tags to be updated as we go because oh boy.

Warnings this chapter for: Casual violence, non-sexual nudity, threats of discipline, and some very fucked up power dynamics.

He hates the word the second Slade suggests it, hates the way it feels on his tongue when he drops to his knees — trying to prove he's not going to fight — and grinds out, "Yes, Master."

It feels like slime in his throat, and he has to clench his hands, has to steal a glance at the threat of the screens on the wall before he can force himself not to get up and go after Slade again. Before he can make himself stay still as Slade steps forward and slides a hand through his hair, tugging enough to force him to look up. There's no opening, and if he makes a move before there's an opening…

His own situation be damned; he won't endanger the lives of his teammates just to protect his own pride. Not like this.

"Better," Slade allows, voice as smooth as silk despite the crack running down his mask. Lowered again from the shouts of earlier, and the snarl of a threat he knows Slade will follow through on without a moment's hesitation. "So you can be taught. Well, that must have been a relief when your last mentor figured it out. What did he threaten you with to keep you in line, Robin? A little violence? A little discipline?"

He bares his teeth, clenches his hands a little tighter. "That's not your business!"

Slade backhands him, and if not for the other hand in his hair he would have sprawled to the floor from the force of it. Instead his head snaps to the side, the metal of Slade's gauntlet catching his lip and splitting it open near the corner of his mouth. He grunts in pain, sucking in a sharp breath afterwards to try and reorient himself. Which only works until Slade drags him up a half a foot from the floor by his hair, too high for him to kneel so he ends up awkwardly trying to balance with just the toes of his feet.

"Wrong again, Robin. Everything in that pretty head of yours is mine, now. You'd best get used to the idea; I will be making use of all that knowledge."

He glares, fighting not to swipe his tongue out to collect the blood he can feel beading on his lip. "I won't betray the identities of my teammates," he snarls, and Slade gives a low sound of amusement.

"I could not care less about your 'friends' secret lives, Robin. Though, I did not expect you to maintain quite as much of your attitude once I threatened to kill those you care for." Slade tugs at his hair, but then lets go and he drops back down to his knees. "I expected you to maintain your fire, but this willful disobedience? Well, that isn't helpful, now is it? I believe we need to break you of that habit."

He pushes up, getting to his feet to face Slade head on. There's still too much height in between them, but it feels better to be standing, where he can at least try and dodge if he needs to. Not that that option is a good one either, not with the axe Slade has hanging over the necks of all his friends.

"You may be able to make me obey you, Slade," he grinds out, "but you can't make me loyal. The second you give me a chance, I'll put you in a prison where you belong."

Slade reaches forward, gloved hand gripping the side of his throat, thumb pressing his chin upwards. "I believe you'll try, Robin. Now, have you already forgotten what we agreed on? Or are you asking for discipline already?"

He grits his teeth, fights not to strike at Slade. He'll lose. "No, Master."

"You'll learn," Slade murmurs, and then flicks his head to the side as he lets go, leaving him staring at the ground as Slade strides away. "Come with me," is called over one armored shoulder.

He looks up at the screens one last time, and then swallows and turns to follow Slade.

The drugs are the first clue that things are about to change. When he starts to get dizzy — after a mockery of a dinner where Slade sits just to his left and makes small, cutting comments he struggles to ignore — breath becoming labored as the world spins a bit, he immediately knows something is wrong.

"Easy," Slade says, as he slumps back against the chair, his head falling back. A gloved hand cups the back of his skull, bringing his head back up as Slade moves closer. "Just a necessary precaution, Robin. Give in; you have my word nothing will happen to you while you rest."

"Your word's—" He has to stop, gasp in a breath, clench his hands against the chair to try and stay stable. "Useless," he finishes, in a breathless snarl.

Slade pulls him over, and he's helpless to resist as he's lifted and gathered in against that armored chest. For just a moment, it feels all too familiar, and the chest he's pressed against could just as easily be black and broader, head resting near the emblazoned bat instead of the mix of orange and black.

Slade's moving, carrying him somewhere, and weakly, he manages to protest, "No. Slade, no."

"Sleep," Slade orders, and deep in his gut he hates that the rich, smooth voice isn't all that different from his real mentor's, absent the growl. "We can begin when you've woken, Apprentice."

His eyes slide closed without his permission, and he can only cling to the sound of footsteps and the rush of his own breath for so long before the darkness sucks him under.

It feels like only a moment before he's waking again, having to claw his way out of the clinging strands of sleep as hard as he fought to stay out of it in the first place. He manages to drag his eyes open, staring at dull grey concrete for a minute or two before he can get the strength to pull his arms underneath him and start to push up. His limbs don't want to cooperate, but he breathes through the lingering weakness and forces himself up to his knees before looking around.

It's a small, square room that looks more like a cell than anything else. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same flat grey of concrete, the single door what looks like iron with two panels that look like they slide open, one about a foot from the ground and the other near the average height of an adult's eyes. There's a small cot in one corner, flat on the floor with a simple white set of sheets, and a bucket in the opposite one that he instantly hates the apparent purpose of.

He's still dressed in Slade's idea of a costume, and a quick pass over his limbs with his hands doesn't reveal anything that's oddly sore or feels wrong. Maybe, Slade might actually have been telling the truth.

Clearly they've moved, or at least he's been put in a room in Slade's complex that he's never been in before, but nothing else seems to be different.

Which is of course when the door opens — there's a heavy sounding clunk that must be the lock — and Slade steps inside. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling over but rebalancing and clenching his hands, glaring up at his captor. The door is still open, but Slade's in the way of it and he doesn't like his chances of escaping right at this moment.

"Awake at last," Slade drawls. "Welcome to your new home, Apprentice. It's a bit bare, I know, but if you're good we can see about upgrading it with a few more rudimentary comforts."

He bares his teeth, refusing to look away from Slade. "You think you can demoralize me with a room?"

He gets the impression Slade is smiling, further confirmed by the soft, satisfied noise that the older man makes. "You'd be surprised what a room can do, but no, not really. We're here to lay out a few ground rules for your stay here; are you prepared to listen?"

He doesn't answer, and Slade steps forward and grabs a handful of his hair, wrenching his head up a few inches. He grits his teeth, and doesn't lash out like he wants to. Instead he snarls, unwilling to back down even though he knows it's the smart move. It's probably the right move, but Slade is just… God, he's never wanted to hurt someone as much as Slade.

"I'll take that as a yes then. First rule, you will do whatever I order you to, and answer any questions I ask you as honestly as you're capable of. If you hesitate, if you disobey, if you fight me, you will be punished. If you are good, you will be rewarded." He bites his tongue not to snap at that, as Slade releases his hair. "Second, disregard your friends. They will not save you, and they are no longer of any concern to you."

"You've got their lives in your hand!" is what bursts out. "How can you expect me to forget them when every time I breathe you're threatening to kill them?!"

"Which brings us to rule three," Slade continues, as if he didn't even speak. "If you manage to leave this place, or to send any sort of message to alert them, your friends will die. However, anything else you do will not fall on them. You are allowed to fight me, Apprentice; in fact I expect you to, until you are taught to know better. You will be punished for it, but your friends' lives will not be the cost. Is that clear?"

He stares, and then Slade is moving and pure reaction isn't enough to get him out of the way. Slade's fist slams into his face and he feels the sick shift and crunch of his nose breaking as he reels backwards, gasping in pain. One of his hands rises to cradle his face, but he forces himself to look up and keep Slade in his sights.

Slade settles back, standing tall and calm once again. "I asked you a question, Apprentice. Am I clear?"

He swallows, feeling the blood start to trickle down beneath his hand. "Yes," he manages.

Slade snaps into movement again, one step forward and pivoting and he tries to jump back but Slade's legs are longer than he realized and a foot slams into the center of his chest, flinging him backwards. He crashes into the wall, the breath knocked right out of him and he tries to get it back as Slade strides forward, grabbing him by the throat and pinning his head back against the concrete.

"What am I to you?" Slade demands, fingers digging in enough to make his already hard-won breath catch.

"Master," he gasps. "Yes, Master."

Slade holds him for a moment longer, and then lets go. "Progress already," he mocks. "Now strip down, boy."

He stiffens. "What?"

This punch hits his gut, and he doubles over, gagging until Slade grabs his throat and slams him into the wall again. He's struggling to breathe, eyes squeezing shut for a moment so he can try and gather himself. It doesn't really work.

"Strip down," Slade repeats, voice a lower hiss. "You don't have the right to question me."

He shudders, shakes his head in silent refusal as he grabs at Slade's arm with his hands. He can see Slade's single eye narrow, feel the fingers on his throat tighten. Slade drags him up the wall until he's hanging in the air, feet kicking uselessly as he tries to lift himself a few inches on Slade's arm to keep some of the pressure off his throat.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go, boy. I'm going to let you go, you're going to strip all of your armor and clothing off, and then I'm going to punish you for this refusal. If you don't, then I will tear it off of you myself, before we get to a much worse punishment. Either way, I will get the outcome I want. Do you understand?"

Slade drops him, and his knees almost buckle underneath him as he hits the floor, having to press back against the wall to keep his footing. He has to drag in a rough lungful of air before he can gasp, "Yes, Master."

"Good." Slade's hand snaps out, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward, towards the center of the room. "Now, you won't be needing this anymore."

One of Slade's hands grabs his hair, pulling his head back, and the other goes for his face. He realizes the target a moment too late to stop Slade from hooking fingers underneath the edge of his mask and peeling it off his face.

"No," he gasps, trying to twist away, trying to close his eyes to preserve some tiny bit of his anonymity.

Slade lets go, and he can hear the slight sound of his mask hitting the floor. "Relax, I may know your name but I have as little interest in your identity as those of your teammates'. Now, have you made your decision, boy?"

He opens his eyes, raising his gaze to Slade's. There's a knot in his stomach, a sick twist that he wishes he could attribute to the punch. What does it really matter? His face is bare, Slade already knows. What difference does more skin make, apart from whatever satisfaction he can get out of being stubborn, before Slade makes him pay for it? Is that worth it? Shouldn't he save his strength for whenever Slade gives him a real chance?

His breath catches, and he jerks his gaze away from Slade's and brings his hands together, slowly working the catches to the metal vambraces open. It's awkward, still unnatural because this costume works differently than his Robin one and he hasn't adjusted yet. He doesn't know it as well. It takes a bit of work to get the vambraces off, and he grits his teeth — which makes his nose throb — when he drops them to the ground to his right and they clang against the ground.

His belt is next, despite how uncomfortable it makes him to give up pretty much his only source of weaponry. Slade watches impassively as he removes the pieces of metal from the costume, stripping it down to just the reinforced undersuit. Then, when he reaches to pull off the gloves, Slade moves. He freezes up for a moment, but Slade doesn't reach out to touch him, just slowly starts to circle around like he's being examined. He swallows, disliking the feeling, but continues to strip the undersuit off.

"Without this," Slade starts, as he reaches back and starts to pull the zipper down the line of his spine, "you're nothing. Not Robin—" Slade's fingers brush the back of his neck, and he flinches "—not Dick Grayson, not my apprentice. You haven't earned the right to an identity yet, and until you behave, you won't."

His hands are frozen where they've peeled the suit off his back and to his shoulders, fingers curling tight into the stiff fabric. "You— That's not how life works. You can't—"

Slade cuffs the back of his head hard enough to make him stumble forward, and then grabs the back of his neck in steel fingers and drags him back again. "When you can be trusted to obey, boy, then you can have a name again. That is how your life works, from now on. You will earn everything you receive, or you will go without. You are not entitled to anything; you are simply mine, and how I choose to treat you relies entirely on how you behave. I imagine you'll learn the ropes soon enough, pet. You've proven adaptable before."

He swallows, the idea clicking into place that this is really happening. That this is… This isn't a joke. Not that he thought it was a joke, but he didn't… He expected torture, maybe, or the same kind of enforced obedience under the threat of death to his friends. Not being stripped of his clothes and his name, and being offered the choice to obey. This isn't…

His breath is coming sharp, too sharp and distantly he knows that. He's had enough training to recognize when he's messing up.

Slade's fingers squeeze the back of his neck and then let go, lowering to rest over the bare skin of his right shoulder. "Accept it," Slade murmurs. "I know it's difficult, but you'll feel better when you submit to your new role, pet. To me."

He snaps.

He's whipping around, lashing out before he can think it through and releasing a cry of wordless rage from the feeling exploding in his chest. Slade steps back, out of range as his fist whistles past, and then retaliates by jabbing rigid fingers into his exposed side, making him fold in on the sharp burst of pain. He gasps, before Slade is grabbing him by the front of his suit, wrenching him forward and then flinging him back. He flies through the air, hits the ground hard on his back and skids along the concrete until he comes to a stop partially on his side, all the way across the room.

He forces his head up, pulls himself in and struggles to push himself up as Slade starts to cross the room, each step slow and measured. He glances around for something, anything, and realizes that Slade's flung him partially into the open doorway. He doesn't take the time to think about it, knows he can't, before he's scrambling up and back through the door, reaching forward to grab the door.

Slade's eye narrows, and he snaps, "You'll suffer for it, boy."

Somewhere, he finds the voice to spit back, "Not if you're locked in here!"

He drags the door closed, slamming it shut and then quickly finding the handle for the lock and wrenching at it until it falls into place with that same heavy clunk. Then he runs, not waiting to see if Slade will actually be stuck in his own cell.

The cell is one in a corridor of several, and he makes a break for the exit to the corridor, slamming through the door and just moving. He has too much respect for Slade's skills to think that one heavy door is going to contain him, and the need to run, to get away, overrides all other thought. The corridors all look the same; dull grey concrete with doors that vary between steel and wood, some of them with small plaques next to them that he doesn't risk slowing down enough to read. He hits three dead ends, and starts to panic, before he runs into a corridor that's wider than the rest.

There's a door at the end of it, circular and imposing with a wheel handle, and he sprints to it. He grabs the handle, struggles to turn it and manages that much, feeling it start to give under his desperate strength. He can hear the grinding of whatever mechanisms are there coming loose, and when he pulls it actually starts to come open. He can see light from the crack, shifts enough to catch a glimpse of nearly blindingly white snow.

Then static screams in his ears, and he shouts and jerks back, hands going to his ears as he trips, falls, hits the ground on his back.

"Didn't remember you were wearing these, did you, boy?" Slade's voice says in his ears, still sounding calm and amused.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and his chest heaving as he tries to breathe, tries to recover from the disorientation of that noise in his ears.

"Now, you haven't forgotten our arrangement, have you? What did I say would happen if you left?" He squeezes his eyes shut, remembers Slade's promise and bites his tongue not to curse, not to just curl into a ball and scream at the frustration of having his freedom so close. "That's right. Now, get up and close the door, boy. Take one step outside, and all your friends will die in agony. I'm sure you don't want to be responsible for that."

He forces himself up, bows his head for a moment while he's sitting just to shake, though whether it's in fear or fury or pain he doesn't know. Then he gets to his feet, refuses to look at that open crack when he pushes the door shut and turns the wheel until it won't go any further, until the door's locked again.

Then there's a hand gripping the back of his neck, and he jerks and yelps in surprise when it shoves him forward against the door. He flails a bit, but the way that hand squeezes is unmistakably Slade and he freezes in place, pressing his hands against the metal of the door.

"That was good," Slade murmurs, easing the grip on his neck. "We can work up to teaching you true obedience, now that I know you're capable of it. However, it looks like we'll have to start out with the discipline you've earned, to stop you from trying to pull a trick like that again. Firstly, you have a job to finish, pet. The rest of your clothes, now. Trust me when I say that you don't want to add to what punishment you're already due."

Haltingly, he lifts his hands and pulls at the suit. He keeps his forehead against the metal as a grounding point, closing his eyes as he drags the suit off of his arms and then pushes it down off of his hips. He shudders when he presses his hands against the door, pinning the suit beneath one foot to pull his other free, and then repeating the process until he can kick it aside. He's trembling, but he's not sure whether it's being exposed, naked in too many ways, in front of Slade, or simply because it's cold in the corridor. He doesn't know how to figure that out.

Slade lets him stand there for several long moments, and then slowly pulls him back from the door. He doesn't have any choice but to go, even as Slade uses the grip on the back of his neck to turn and steer him back down the corridor.

"We're going to go take care of the issue of your punishment," Slade tells him, staying conversational. "Then, if you take it well enough, we can see about getting around to teaching you what your new life will entail. Do you think you can take your punishment without struggling, pet?"

He shivers, staring at the ground but managing to get out, "No, Master."

Slade's hand squeezes his neck again, almost like it's supposed to be a comfort. "You'll learn, pet. I promise."