Slade doesn’t know what exactly just happened, but he’s going to find out.

And he’s going to find out soon, because he hates Gotham stench more than a lot of things in this life. His armor shifts against him slightly as he peels himself off the roof he landed on, surveying the smoggy red-tinted night skyline of this accursed city. He doesn’t want anything to do with the Bat. Only his little bird, so far from the nest— who he really needs to be getting back to.

After all. The kid is far too loyal to those Titan friends of his, and is likely to attempt escape in his absence. It was practically child’s play to plant those nanobots into their bloodstreams, able to end them all with a single press of a button. The bird didn’t appreciate that much. Kid’s training with him now to be his successor. There’s just so much potential brimming inside of that child if only he would forget his pathetic moral rules.

Slade shakes his head. Now’s not the time to be thinking about that. It’s time to be thinking about what brought him here and how to get him back to that moody teen primed for breaking. After all, he’s not in the mood for a Bat-themed beat down, and there’s no way he’s taking a job in Gotham. He’s about to draw his swords when a stray newspaper clipping hits him square in the face— and he pauses. Because that damn date can’t be right. It’s not 2025. Last time Slade checked a calendar, it was 2014.

His mind is whirring so quickly that he almost doesn’t hear the batarang about to hit his shoulder. The man dodges just in time, swords coming out of their sheaths on his back.

“I didn’t come here for games, Bat,” Slade growls, his voice low and uncompromising. “As a matter of fact, I was just leaving.”