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Jason was not a weapon.
In technical terms- Jason and his siblings were 'Tamashī no buki', or 'weapons of the soul', however given the American precedent that often overrides vocabulary its people deem too long, the connotation eventually landed simply on calling them Tamashī. He supposes it's better that way; he prefers to simply be called a 'soul' over a 'weapon' even in a translated form.
As much as the fearless great bad Red Hood hates to admit it, the reassurance that he was more than a weapon was a good thing to hear. Back when he was a smaller boy in the hands of an untouchable Shishō, he was often reassured that even when he was steel over flesh, he was undoubtedly his own person. Bruce didn't really use Jason (or any of the others) as much as a regular Shishō would, instead letting them become their own heroes and people out on the battlefield rather than a constant tool to be used.
He, maybe, in some deeper part of his torn barren soul, held appreciation for that method of approach. Maybe.
Still, it was supposedly an honorable thing, to be gifted the powers they all had. 'You must have experienced the depths of hell and still have a pure soul to devote to heaven', was some spread religious phrase he heard, where it was theorized that part of a Tamashī soul is already in heaven, which grants divine powers to the remaining part left to bless the Earth.
Jason rather detests the notion. No man nor woman would see him and believe he belonged in the good ol' place above.
Yet even after his revival, where he stewed so much in his own personal hell he might as well have been part of the terrain, he was still granted his powers. He found out the hard way, during his rampaging return to Gotham. He was confronted by his former father, back pressed to the wall with the bastard Clown Freak right in his trembling sturdy fucking hands, finally going to make the untouchable Bruce Wayne chose him over his murder-- when out of no where Bats decided to soul call him.
He ended up right in the man's fucking hands. Again. The mocking glint of his steel in throwing knife form was sharpened to a perfect degree to match his anger- and once again he was just another batarang in Batman's arsenal.
(He regrets ever letting the man give him a name. He regrets that he was ever glad to be owned.)
Bruce, after the uneasy tightrope of an alliance they made, thankfully knows not to call on Jason's soul unless it's a dire matter. Jason never asked for the tether to remain, he would have rather cut ties with Bruce long before even becoming Robin. The man kept the tie, though, using it to unfairly reign Red Hood in whenever he had been acting more villain than anti-hero.
Jason wonders if he would cut the tether now that he has been on a 'good behavior' streak.
Nevertheless, he begrudgingly still goes on patrol with the bats. Rarely does he agree to check a situation out in a colony, but tonight something special has apparently been brewing. Someone shady around town, potentially connected to a string of carefully done murders, who can even manage to avoid Oracle's watchful eye.
He gets the go-ahead to join the group on the top of Wayne Tower. A part of him whispers that the location may not be a coincidence, and he rushes to the scene faster than he'd like to admit.
-
Red Hood arrives at the roof the same time as Batman and Red Robin, their boots making a terrifying silent stomp in tandem that only a trained ear can hear.
Deathstroke, as it seems to be, is most definitely trained and enhanced enough to pick up on it.
Nightwing and Robin are already in position, with the addition of the other bats they effectively corner off all methods of escape for the mercenary. For some reason, the man doesn't seem to react.
"Ah", his voice sounded tinned through the orange and black mask, but used no voice changer to his surprise. " You're finally here. Good."
Bruce takes the lead; "Deathstroke. State your business in Gotham." he tries with authority, Slade remains unimpressed.
"Normally", he mulls, "I would rather just take what I own and leave. I guess an audience isn't always... unappreciated."
His words rumble through Jason's chest, his voice having a strange melodic lith to them as he commands the bats attention like he has all the time in the world. Of the few people Red Hood would hesitate to take on, the mercenary in front of him certainly makes the list.
That is until Nightwing shifts on his feet behind Slade. Jason is tempted to tell the hero to go home- he knows that there was a strange rocky connection between the two that no one really understood the full scope of. From what he's gathered, Grayson met the mercenary in his early Titan days, and their mutual antagonism of one another seemed to cut deeper than the usual villain feud.
(What he really knows is that Slade makes Dick freak out in a way he hasn't seen his older brother do with anyone else. His hesitance towards fighting the man wanes. Strange, were the neon lights of the tower always tinted green?)
"As a Shishō myself, it's handy to have a weapon around for combat."
Bruce immediately kicks into action, calling on Tim and Damian until the two transform faster than a person can blink. The demon brat in Nodachi form is sheithed to his side.
Tim is held out expertly in his hand, the strong metal of his bō glinting in the light like a taunt. (Jason will never not be jealous of his replacement for being such a strong, favorable, less lethal weapon than him. But he'd never let it show.)
The move is smart. If Deathstroke has a Tamashī he plans to battle with, Bruce can only really fight back with one. The soul metal that they're made of is impenetrable from any other known material on Earth- Batman wouldn't be able to fight with a regular weapon without high risk of it breaking against Slade's increased strength.
Plus, Jason and his brothers were more vulnerable in human form. Their impenetrability only comes through when being wielded, as flesh and bone they could be easily harmed just like a regular person.
He supposes that's why he and his older brother were out, while the brat was safe in his sheath. 'This is ridiculous', he hears Damian say across the bond. The rest of them elect to ignore the complaint.
Truthfully, Jason was curious himself what weapon- who Deathstroke even had to arm himself with. Shishō are ludicrously rare occurrences after all, there were honestly a handful of times Jason (or even Bruce) had ever actually engaged against one.
Deathstroke sighed.
“Batman” heard Oracle's voice from his ear, confusion lacing her tone. “There shouldn't be anyone within soul calling distance from the roof. Either he already has the Tamashī in person or he's bluffing.”
Bruce doesn't let his stance betray anything.
Slade, based on his bemused expression, somehow seems to know anyway.
"The funny thing about having an Uwaki- is that you get to play a little tug-a-war with the fellow shared owner's strenth." He states.
Uwaki? Surely not one of his brothers- they were all loyal to Bruce to the extreme. Only Damian has ever been wielded by another person, and even still his tether to his grandfather was cut-
"Kokuzoku" he called on.
Screaming.
Dick screamed so loud his voice must have been fried. Red Hood could only watch as his brother landed on his knees in pain- energy sparking around him in defiance.
It was not the sound of a willing soul, no. The voice felt like it tore straight through Jason- the agony bouncing in his head. It was the sound of something pure being dragged and clawed and scraped at until it gave and bended to its captor's will.
One minute, Dick was screaming.
The next, there was a longsword in Deathstroke's hands.
-
Dick had never really wanted to be a weapon.
Some archaic part of his brain hums in pleasure when he's being put to use. It's part of his soul, afterall, to be helpful to his handler- and though Dick was never very good at staying still in human form, he could be utilized in whatever way was necessary as static metal.
In his father's hands, he was a set of sturdy escrima, detailed carvings engraved in his steel for grip, and a taser he didn't gain until he agreed to work with Bruce again for the first time as Nightwing, not Robin (when he gained his bite on top of his bark).
A small part of him wishes he was a bit sharper, like Jason and Damian. Or more balanced, like Tim. Bruce didn't use him much, while he was trained in everything under the sun, escrima sticks just weren't one of his top choices of weaponry. It was part of why Nightwing used them in the first place.
Oh, right. The fact that he didn't want to be a weapon.
When Dick was newly 15 and in a terse relationship with his guardian, he spent a few months building and working with the Teen Titans. He would split his time between the tower and the manor, and at almost 16 retreated to the manor entirely after an extended altercation with his arch nemesis of the time, Deathstroke.
(Then he would be kicked out a few months later by Bruce, before he even turned 17. Sometimes he thinks his story just isn't meant to have any periods of peace.)
Slade Wilson taught an unforgettable lesson in the time Dick was caught under his thumb, with the life of his friends on the balance.
Dick Grayson was only as useful lethal as the master that wielded him.
In Tamashī culture, the most taboo thing one can do is belong to more than Shishō. It is seen as a disgrace of the highest caliber to betray a weapon master's trust, and lend yourself to be used by another.
They were called Uwashi, but even by his colleagues he would hear much worse slang for what he was.
Because yes, in Slade's hands he was a sword.
A bastard sword. The irony of the name was not lost on him. He was sharpened steel, lethal, and a weapon evolved for efficient, non-flashy combat. He wasn't a more elegant katana, or a more efficient gun. He was a sword.
Dick had done a lot of thinking of why he was a sword.
The simple reason is that Slade demanded it. He wanted Dick to be like him, and be useful to him, in a way that he couldn't provide as a non-lethal weapon like escrima.
It wasn't until after Grant's death, that he learned more about Slade's sons. Joey's muteness and childhood fondness of dragons and medieval knights. Rose, Adeline. Their falling out.
He stops questioning, after that.
Renegade was only with Deathstroke for four months and eleven days before his rescue, but it was far from the end of his torment.
On rare occurrences Slade would make his way to Blüdhaven, for business related in his city or otherwise, and call on him for a mission. It was never planned, and Dick never agreed to go. But one minute he would be on his regular patrol route, the next he would be on a rooftop, bruised and battered and numb throughout his entire brain and body. Dicks tether was never cut.
He couldn't recall most of what happened, when the Terminator would come and he would black out, but it was enough to know that nobody in his life would understand. Whether it be as an accessory or not, Nightwing was a murderer, and nobody could know.
The longest Dick was ever knocked out was two weeks, usually it lasted a few days as the mercenary had business to attend to all around the globe and little care for a superhero's schedule. The downtime of when the man left him alone, however, lasted months. And sometimes, after enough time has passed since he was last stained with blood, he could almost forget.
He never succeeded entirely in that department, unfortunately.
Dick never told his family. He... never seemed to succeed in doing that, either. While being an idolized hero among the League, his friends, and even his family was never his goal- he found he was stronger for hiding his past behind a smile. It was admittingly too much for one person to carry- which was precisely why he didn't push the massive weight of his trauma onto anyone else.
Not about being kicked out at 16, not about Jason's death, not about the court of owls, not about mirage, god forbid not about Blockbuster. And no, not even about Deathstroke.
He supposes he should have learned from his father's secret-keeping tendencies that everything comes to light eventually. Truly, a masterpiece of karma painted by his own sins.
Dick never wanted to be a weapon, he laments. Until his name is inevitably called by the demon of his past before him, and everything fades to nothing.
-
Slade turned the sword in his hands as a taunt. Previous echoes of anguish abruptly cut off, with the inescapable grasp of the mercenary's will finally snuffing out Nightwing's rebellion.
The handle is two toned, interweaving black and orange in the man's signature colors. The blade is long, sharper than Damian's steel but not as sharp as Jason's own murderous intent.
Because after the shock clears up, that is undoubtedly his leading emotion. Pure, unbridled, murderous rage.
"Kokuzoku, sharpen", the object of his hatred demanded. Over the bond, Jason could hear a flat acknowledgement of 'Yes sir,' from his brother- a tone so unlike the usually overly cheerful optimism that radiates of Nightwing, that he almost thought the voice to be a stranger.
Even in the devil's hands, they can hear Dick over the bond. He unconsciously notes this before rushing towards the man in front of him at a speed even he didn't know he could possess.
"Red Hood!" Bruce calls. Jason elects to ignore it, before feeling the spark pull at his tether like a leash, as Bruce demands "come," and Jason is back in his hand.
Even as metal he's sure his rage and displeasure radiates off of him. The world is a sickly green, a terrible mountain dew colored emotion that threatens to drown him entirely in find, kill, die, find, kill--
He feels himself moving and- oh. Batman isn't just benching him. For the first time since his Robin years, he's being properly utilized.
Steel meets steel. Jason feels the vibration of clashing against the blade, as Slade seamlessly engages into combat. Bruce catches Jason again, keeping him between his fingers on one hand and quickly bringing Tim in front of him to block an oncoming attack.
His opponent seems unbothered, the silent amusement enough to pierce through Batman's uncaring facade. Jason is murderous, but Bruce is pissed, and despite the mountains of arguments and disagreements between the two since Jason last trusted him- he still had full faith that this righteous fury would save his brother.
Blow after blow was exchanged between bō and sword, the Bat’s offensive tactic being hitting any possible weak points in the armor Slade donned. Tim was focusing, but Jason could hear Damian plead over the bond in a way that forced him to remind himself that the demon brat was a child under all that sass, and his heart clenched more than he thought it could for the younger boy.
Unfortunately, the effect was to that of begging a wall, as eerily silent Dick did not respond.
Bruce suddenly went low, and Jason found himself thrown again towards the Terminator's shoulder at a surprising hit. The man knew what he was doing, testing different parts of the armor before finding an angle to attack.
Jason felt the warmth of the man he stuck out of, about two inches of sharpened steel sunk into flesh. He revelled in the blood dripping down his blade onto the cold, uncaring concrete below. Slade, while slightly hindered, continued to fight without wavering- and Jason had to remind himself that this injury would truly only affect the enhanced individual for a day or two before healing.
The man in orange managed to grab Tim and throw the staff a few feet away from the fight, as the two Shishō slowly came to a stare down, one that would have made Jason's brawls look like a middle school kitty fight, awaiting their next move.
Slade moved slowly as he dislodged Jason from his shoulder, and he could feel the cold grasp of the man's glove as shivers ran down his metaphorical spine. Jason was a smaller weapon, and to be encased in the large hands of someone who wasn't his own weapons master was a fear he didn't know he held so heavily until now.
He can't imagine how Dick must feel.
"You should be careful where you leave your things," Deathstroke taunts, lazily trailing a thumb over Jason's metal. "Wouldn't want me to take another one for my personal collection."
'Get your fucking hands off of me and my brother' Jason growls over the bond, despite knowing full well only his family could hear him. Bruce responds with his own growl towards the mercenary, and some animalistic part of him feels comforted to hear his leader be so outwardly protective over him.
Something beeps in Slade's ear, after a second or two of what must be an informational intermission, he turns to the Bats and lets out a playful sigh.
He relaxes his stance, "Looks like I'm out of time for our playdate. We should do this again sometime," he says, letting Jason unceremoniously clang to the ground in a puddle of his own blood. "Renegade," he calls.
In a light, his brother is next to Slade in a bow, one knee digging into the concrete and his form deceptively relaxed. He is covered in small scratches.
"Release," Deathstroke says. Nightwing collapses to the ground, knocked out cold.
As he turns to leave, Bruce is holding him from behind in a flash, Damian's blade to the man's neck as he simply demands, "Why."
Behind the mask, he can tell Slade is smiling. "You let your own weapon go to waste. I simply took that opportunity." His father is then thrown away at an inhuman speed only a meta could accomplish.
When Batman is standing again, Deathstroke is already gone.