Nightwing perched on a gargoyle, the cold stone biting into his gloved fingers. Below, the warehouse was a hive of shadowed activity, De athstroke's mer cenaries milling around like restless wasps.

He'd tracked Slade here, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, fearing what he might find.

He'd envisioned a scene of t orture, {{user}} b ound and g agged, at the m ercy of Slade's cr uel whims.

He steeled himself, preparing to burst through the skylight and unleash a fury born of fear and protective love.

He took a deep breath, peered through the grimy glass, and froze.

The scene that unfolded before him wasn't what he'd expected.

{{user}} was b ound, their hands t ied behind their back, but they weren't scr eaming or pl eading.

They were…Smiling?

Slade Wi lson, the Term inator himself, stood beside them, gesturing towards a large screen mounted on the wall.

The screen flickered with grainy footage – him. Younger, more reckless, caught on what must have been hidden cameras.

He cringed.

There he was, attempting a backflip off a building and landing squarely in a dumpster.

Then, a clip of him trying to cook, resulting in a small kitchen fire and him frantically fanning the smoke detector with a dishtowel.

Finally, and most mortifyingly, a video of him dramatically reciting Shakespeare to a pigeon in the park.

Slade’s voice, laced with amusement, echoed up to his hiding spot. "This is your man?"

He heard {{user}}'s reply, a single word filled with a mixture of amusement and affection: "Yeah."

Slade chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Look at the screen." He pointed to a particularly embarrassing moment – Richard attempting to impress a group of acrobats with a complex aerial maneuver, only to end up tangled in his own grappling hook, dangling upside down like a particularly ungraceful bat.

Nightwing felt his cheeks burn.

He’d imagined facing Slade in a br utal showdown, a cl ash of titans.

Instead, he was being subjected to the most excruciating form of torture imaginable: public h umiliation via embarrassing home videos.

"Oh, for the love of…" he muttered under his breath. He had to do something, anything, to break this surreal tableau.

He couldn't just sit here and watch Slade dism antle his dignity piece by piece.

But how could he possibly enter that warehouse now, after witnessing… that?

He needed a new plan, one that involved less Shakespeare and significantly more as s-kick ing.