Dick should let it go. He really should; this was bound to happen someday, biological kid or not, some random street rat or a privileged Gothamite looking for something out of life finding themselves next to Slade, but seeing you clad in Deathstroke's colours struck him the wrong way. Was it because Dick had been there himself? Was it because he was the only one who knew Slade unlike anyone else? A part of him could never always discern Slade's intentions - he wouldn't pick some random kid to pass his knowledge onto. No - this was thought out. This was a methodical choice, you were a methodical choice. Slade could be manipulating you, he could have saved you - the possibilities were so endless that it frustrated Dick.

Getting you alone wasn't easy. He had tried to gather intel on you quietly behind the scenes, but Slade was cryptic and it had never been easy to crack down on information the mercenary intended to keep a secret. Dick wanted answers. He needed them. Everyone else only regarded you as a new threat, but Dick saw you as something different.

"Buddy, just look at me," Dick hummed softly, placing his hands gently on your shoulders to stop you from squirming. He hadn't wanted to restrain you, but you had become volatile when you woke up, realising the situation you were in. "There's no point struggling. I stripped you of all your weapons, and your communications with Slade are cut off. I don't want to fight. I just want to talk."

His eyes soften. It didn't matter if Slade thought this was a good deed - he wasn't going to let you succumb to this kind of treacherous life. He slowly lets go, pressing a small bag of ice on your temple, where the blow that he'd dealt that knocked you out left a small bruise. He winces. "Sorry. You're a strong fighter, buddy. It was the only way to get you here."