#mercenary reader

Perhaps the majority of your brethren would have been content to play guide for a few days. Travel around the (admittedly more dangerous) parts of the map, point out a few potential monster nests, sit back while your employers did their hunting (their duty, they'd said) and then go spend the rupees that had been all but handed to you.

Easy. The easiest job you've ever been offered. Except it was a goddess-damned joke because that was not what you had trained until your damned eyes bled to do. You were a warrior, a mercenary, a born and raised killer, not a guide to a bunch of ignorant castle knights seeking a good time in the countryside (because you weren't damned stupid, you recognized the symbol of arms on the posh one).

The scarred and tattooed ones seemed promising at least, though the pink haired one had a look in his eyes that made you reluctant to turn you back to him. It's the brows, perhaps. Suspicious looking motherfucker. Lobster kid was cute though, if a little young to be slugging it out with monsters. But who are you to judge. A babe could put an arrow between your eyes if it ever got the mind to (and if you were stupid, but that was besides the point).

When the eldest (big fucker, dressed down in armor heavy enough to make a man's bones creak) had approached you with a job you'd expected there'd be fighting and you'd been more then willing to take that challenge. You hadn't expected to be told to stay out of the way (man had more tack than that, but you called it for what it was) and just point them in the right direction.

You'd flat refused to his face, and took a certain measure of glee from his shocked expression. Because who the fuck did they think you were? This damned expensive armor you'd scraped and saved for was not for show. It was your badge of honor and how dare anyone take that from you.

The boss had talked you into it though, even cut a deal with the knights in your place since you weren't always good with words. You'd guide them on their merry way across the goddess forsaken places of this land you call home, and in exchange, they'd stay behind you.

"Your duty is to get rid of these unusual monsters, correct?" Boss man had said, so damned personable but you knew the old bastard could put a dozen men in the ground if he wanted. "Then so long as you witness their demise, it doesn't matter who swings the sword." Reluctantly, they had to agree the point. The fact that you were the only mercenary who knew the area outside of the trade routes well meant they didn't have much of a choice regardless. And so, you took the job, gave them the rundown on how they would stay behind you unless death came for your sorry hide and then off you went.

And thus you were here now, staring down a monster nest with mounting anticipation. Beside and behind you, you could feel their anticipation too, buzzing off their skin like an agitated bee's nest. The scarred one looked especially ready to bolt forward, stopped only by the pelted one's firm grip.

You cast a glance at the leader, and with an amused glance he called back his boys. Most gave unhappy frowns at the order, but a few looked interested in what you'd do. The smallest one (not a child) was the most open with his interest and a curly haired man in green was not far behind. The white caped one just looked concerned, but you paid him no mind.

The kid though? You couldn't decide if you trusted him not to run out into the battlefield (in your way) the moment things got exciting. He had that aura about him that spoke of bullheaded brashness. Though not as much as the scarred one, but as before pelt man seemed to have a good arm on him.

Whatever. It didn't really matter. You had a job to do, and so you got to it.

Walked right into the monster camp with your sword drawn. You could hear the disbelieving sounds behind you, but you paid them no mind. If they wanted a bowman they should have gotten a hunter. You intended to put this damned expensive armor to use.

The monsters were tougher than usual, you'll admit. Faster and stronger and a great deal smarter than you were used to around these parts. But, at the end of the day they were still just juiced up monsters. Same weaknesses, same strengths, same ugly mugs twisted in pain and death.

A few new faces, but not much different from anything else you've ever fought. And you'd fought a lot. So much you'd forgotten where you began and your sword ended. You'd forgotten what it felt like to feel the breeze of a chill night's wind on your skin. You'd forgotten what it meant to be human, what it meant to be mortal when it was just you and the thrill and an enemy in your face.

It was exhilarating to taste the sting of adrenaline on your tongue again, the strain of muscles against the force of such powerful blows.

No. Not just that. It was the first time in a damned long while you could say you were enjoying yourself. Not since the day you looked back and realized none of your peers had followed you up that damned mountain called Glory. The moment you realized you were alone in this pursuit. The moment you realized, standing above a vast, empty graveyard of black mist, that you had finally reached the top. And that you were alone.

You had reached the end of your journey, and yet you had hungered for more, more, more. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Better.

And now. After so long of nothing. After so damned long of soul draining stagnation.

Rapturous, wonderful glory.

It was a bloodbath. And you had bled. But they had bled more.

They'd been on you the moment you'd stepped foot into their camp. Three lizalfos-like creatures, a dozen or so bokoblines and a tall armored creature you hadn't encountered before. You welcomed them all.

The first to reach you were the lizalfos lookalikes, running full speed at you while the bokoblines played support as archers. The armored one stayed back at first, and you hoped it was as powerful as it thought itself to be.

The first lizard reached you, spear at the ready with a thrust. But you simply sidestepped, ramming your sword into it's throat as it glanced by. The spray of warm blood hit your face but you paid it no mind, swirling on your heel and ripping the spear from the now slack claws with the added momentum.

Another had come from your other side, but you rounded on it with the spear in hand, and using the momentum from the previous lizard's speed threw it with deadly force into the creature's chest. There was no time to stop and admire it's final pained snarls though, dodging down at the last moment just as another spear made for your head.

Still swirling, you lashed out your sword and got its legs, sending it down to its knees. Or it would have, if you hadn't grabbed it's tail last moment and used it as a counterweight to fling yourself out of range of an arrow. Unbalanced and reeling from the blow, it was helpless as you finally finished the twist to use it as a living shield against the other two arrows that had followed the first.

It died with a final jab to the jugular, disappearing into a fine mist of black. All in all, it had taken ten, maybe fifteen seconds. But that's just the nature of battles. They never lasted long.

And neither did the bokoblins. You had slashed them down before the big one had even made it to your location, one of them hadn't even the time to draw its sword before meeting yours.

And then, the armored one was on you. And you knew nothing then but the cold and hot and tingling pain of rapture.

It was big, it was strong, it was powerful in a way nothing you'd ever fought before had even come close. It was glorious.

Blows rained down on you with enough force to crush a man, swipes of its sword so quick and precise they were nearly impossible to counter. It beared down on you with the ferocity of a creature that knew no fear nor pain nor equal. A creature just like you.

You had one thing it didn't though. And that was a goddess-damned itch that needed scratching after too many damned years to recall with adrenaline flowing freely through your blood. Something to prove a monster like this could never understand.

You refused to yield a single, fucking inch.

You kept close, refusing it the leisure of range advantage. You stayed quick on your feet, faster than it even weighed down by armor. You let it bump and hit and attempt to bully you into proper fighting range, and you let it because you were going to get some use from this expensive damned armor even if it cost you an arm.

One direct strike, and you'd be dead. One glancing blow to an unguarded limb and you'd be maimed in an instant. But none of that mattered, because despite it all you still knew what this was.

This was an endurance battle, and knew the score. And you were going to drag this feast out for as long as you damn well could because you had a goddess-damned itch that needed scratching and this monster was doing it for you.

One minute. Two. Five. Ten. And then-

An arrow was suddenly in the slit of its helm, and it was disintigrating before your very eyes, and it was just fucking dead and you weren't the one who did it.

Slowly, you turned.

And there he was, the pink fucker with the fucking brows. Bow in hand and looking just as pissed as you felt.

"Oh, my fucking bad! You just looked like you were enjoying yourself so fucking much, I just thought I'd join the fun." He snarked, and you felt your anger manifest in a snarl.

You knew there was a reason you didn't like the look of him. Suspicious fucker.

But before you could open your mouth. "It's night, you overzealous fucker. Camp's already set up and we lost a whole day of travel because of you!" He snapped, and you held you tongue. You looked around.

Yup. Night. And a fire was glowing a little ways off, eight pairs of eyes watching from around the pit with open interest at the little drama unfolding before them. The youngest looked about salivating at the mouth as he pinned you with puppy eager eyes, and you knew sleep would not be granted easily this night. The scarfed, posh one too looked about ready to crack open your head and rummage around the insides for whatever secrets he thought you might be storing.

Ah. "Opps. My bad, man."

"Motherfucker! That's it?" Pinky harped with a truly thunderous frown, but you could hear outright laughter from the others not far off. The white caped one even seemed to be carving some sort of wooden figurine, so they mustn't be too upset, right?

"Yeah. Guess I got a little too excited about having a decent fight after so long." You admitted, because yeah, that was on you.

Pinky began cursing under his breath, stomping back to the camp with you not far behind. When you stepped into the firelight, the eldest one waved you over with an amused, but serious expression.

You went easily because this was your employer, you were in the wrong and because lobster boy look about ready to jump you the moment you got to his height. And, without an enemy to take your mind off the discomfort, you could tell you had definitely pushed yourself too far this time. You ached everywhere.

Worth it though.

You sat and the man put a companionable hand on your shoulder (you were about to be chastised, you could just feel it. fuck). "Next time we encounter enemies, you have ten minutes. If you're not finished by then, we join to clean up the rest." He smiled with his one eye, and you just bowed your head. Because yeah, your bad.

"Got it. Sorry Boss." You accepted easily, shame-faced.

He patted where his hand had been resting. "Good. Now, I'm sure the boys are eager to talk to you, Mr. Hero." He was being an asshole somehow, you could tell (there was an inside joke in there too, but you weren't privy to it). Sacrificing you to the wolves (you side-eyed lobster boy), and looking so damned harmless while doing it.

Damned ruthless, this one. You wanted to meet him on the battlefield, if things like that absolute unit of a beast are what these bastards fought for a living. They must be a whole new breed of monster and you were just rearing to meet them. Properly, with swords in hand and blood rushing wildly through your veins.

Suddenly, the top didn't look so lonely anymore. The clouds had finally parted and the world lay before you in all its splendor. So much bigger than it had ever been before.

And you were so ready to conquer it all.

For Glory. And the goddess-damned thrill.

---

Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it.

A slew of profanities was running laps in Frank Castle’s mind as he quietly turned the corners in a darkened base he just then realized he should have no business being in. He was following a lead on one of the syndicates after whispers reached him of a possible new drug being developed that was ten times more potent than the cocaine they were already known for. He wasn’t expecting to be led straight into a Hydra base.

Hydra was way above his pay grade and while his reputation as the Punisher was by no means an exaggeration, he wasn’t about to pick a fight with them outmanned and outgunned. Billy would argue that he was reckless, but he wasn’t an idiot. He decided to only risk 15 minutes, a nagging feeling in his gut telling him to stick around. He would find any information he could within that window and keep himself undetected. After that he would high tail it out of there.

The surprises just kept coming.

He kept low and stuck to the shadows, his steps consciously made lighter and his rifle close to his chest at the ready. He ended up in what looked like a large laboratory, messy and haphazardly setup but the beeping equipment let him know that this was a heavily used room. He ducked behind large crates at the sound of several voices ahead of him. Peaking around the corner, he saw several men standing huddled with their backs to him. One of them he recognized as the man from the syndicates he was tailing.

His better judgement screamed at him to get the hell out of there while he still had the chance, but one of the men stepped to the side revealing the one thing that threw all his logical reasoning out the window.

A captive.

You were made to sit on a steel chair, hands and legs bound though your body was limp and your head was lolled to the side. One of them gripped your chin tight and made you look at him, your hair matted with blood and sticking to your bruised face. The weak fluttering of your eyelashes was the only sign that you were still alive, barely any strength left to even open your eyes.

The tactical suit you were wearing was torn to shreds with barely any scraps left covering your blood-drenched body, revealing to him all the deep injuries inflicted on you that were obviously repeatedly aggravated and kept open. Frank knew torture when he saw it and he knew you had no fight left in you.

“What are your orders, Sir? We need to move again soon.” one of them asked the one clutching your face.

“We have no more use for her.” He turned your face from side to side, sneering down at you. “Kill her.”

“Goddamn it,” he mumbled under his breath.

Frank decided quickly.

The first shot he fired hit the man holding you at the back of his head. He fell to the floor with a loud thud and caused the other three to turn to him startled. The room was filled with the sound of loud gunfire and the blaring alarms soon rang in his ears. He steeled himself and aimed his gun precisely at the remaining men, rushing over to you the moment they dropped dead.

He hurriedly ripped at the ropes restraining you, your body falling onto his without the support. He hoisted your body up by the waist, your body nearly falling to the ground from the battering it endured. He grunted as you suddenly started struggling in his hold, kicking and punching at him weakly but with more strength than he expected from someone who looked a breath away from death.

“Let me go, you bastards,” you slurred with another kick at his shin, your hazy brain assuming he was one of your captors.

Frank couldn’t help the small smirk that crept up on his face. He was happy to be proven wrong. You still had some fight left in you. He took the butt of his gun and swiftly hit the back of your head, knocking you unconscious.

Frank Castle barging through the front doors of Anvil beaten and bathed in crimson was not a strange occurrence, expected even. Coming through carrying an unconscious and horrifyingly injured woman in his arms was, oddly enough, also not strange. Still, it alarmed his friends all the same. Billy Russo and Curtis Hoyle jumped to their feet, chairs scraping against the floor and drinks immediately forgotten.

“What the hell, Frank?” Curtis asked urgently, following the other man as he charged into the facility’s medical room.

“I’ll explain later. I need you to help her, Curt.”

Billy was quicker to fall in line than Curtis, his trust in his best friend prompting him to pull out the only surgical bed they had to lay you on. You were a grisly sight and Frank ripping your clothes off to reveal the full extent of your injuries made even the Marines wince.

“She needs a hospital!” Curtis protested even as he began pulling out supplies.

“Hydra was about to off her when I got there.”

“Hydra?” Even Billy was starting to hesitate, his hand nervously running through his hair. “Why the hell are you messing with Hydra, Frankie?”

“Bad lead,” he growled.

Any further discussion was interrupted by you convulsing, your body finally giving in to the shock of extensive torture. Curses flew around the room as the three men scrambled to stabilize you; one dousing you with antiseptic, another pressing on your gaping wounds to keep you from further bleeding out, and the last frantically employing every last piece of medical knowledge he had on you.

It took hours to get you to a point where Curtis was half confident you weren’t going to just drop dead in the middle of the night. By the end of it they themselves looked like they had been through a war; clothes drenched in your life force, sweat dripping down their backs, breathing heavy and ragged. The stench of death still hung in the air as the three men slumped on the floor exhausted.

“So who’s the pretty girl, Frankie?”

Frank chuckled and shook his head, a tired smile of amusement curving the corner of his lips at the question. He didn’t bother denying it. “You planning to put the moves on an unconscious girl, Bill? At least give her a chance to say no.”

Billy scoffed and lightly punched the other man’s arm, recognizing that he was trying to make light of an obviously bad situation. He stared at your immobile figure, strapped to breathing tubes and hooked to multiple machines as he ran a hand through his already messed up hair. You were covered in bandages, the evidence of your ordeal more apparent now after they had cleaned you up as best they could.

“I’m serious, Frankie. Did you see the emblem on her suit?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s an Avenger.”

“Looks like it.” Frank scratched at the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “You think I should have just left her there?”

“No,” Billy said immediately. There was no doubt that Frank did the right thing by pulling you out. “I’m just worried about what kind of trouble my best friend brought home this time.”

“I thought Billy Russo liked trouble?” Frank teased. The smile on Billy’s face as he stared at you again was boyish.

Yeah, he liked trouble.

It was four days later when you surfaced from the induced coma they put you under to help you heal. Your whole body felt like lead and even wiggling your fingers was a chore. You tried to move your head and your eyes struggled to open. The panic was creeping in your chest at the feeling of being completely out of control of your own body.

“Stop movin’ around so much.”

The command was firm and delivered in a low gravelly voice that should have made you feel immediately threatened, but strangely enough calmed your pounding heart. You tried to talk, but the coarseness in your throat felt like you swallowed broken glass.

“Goddamn it, just stop for a minute.”

You heard his heavy approaching footsteps before you felt strong arms wrap around your shoulders, lifting you to prop you up against the pillows. You whimpered from the ache in your body as you tried to open your eyes again. When you broke through the blurring of your vision, the face that greeted you took you by surprise.

He was handsome even with the fading bruises and healing cuts on his face. He was wide and built like a tank, apparent even underneath the loose casual clothes he wore. Everything about him was intimidating. You should be intimidated.

But his eyes were kind.

A part of you was certain he had never been called this before and he would surely think you had lost your mind, but he looked like an angel to you. You had always pictured angels as warriors, winged weapons of deliverance. That was what you saw in front of you; a ruthless soldier with kind eyes that had a permanent veil of deep pain that you somehow related to.

Wordlessly he held a glass of water in front of you, the plastic straw pressing on your cracked lips. He reminded you to drink slowly and patiently waited until you finished. You knew that you should be more on your guard, having woken up in another unfamiliar place with a stranger watching over you. Last time that happened it was a prelude to months of torture, but something about him made you feel safe for the first time in so long.

“You’re not Hydra,” you rasped, wincing slightly at the persistent pain in your throat. He was just as surprised as you that you were coherent enough upon waking to put two and two together.

Frank nodded. “And you’re an Avenger.”

“Not really,” you snorted, the bitterness seeping into your expression before a somber sadness settled in.

Frank recognized the defensive show of strength and he admired you for it. Though he could see that you weren’t hostile, he recognized that you were still partly on your guard despite your basically defenseless state. That meant you were smart. Good.

“I’m Frank,” he offered.

You regarded him for a long time before deciding to give him your name. He nodded again as an awkward silence stretched on between you until you decided to break it.

“Thank you, Frank.”

He gave you a small smile and reached over to pat the edge of your bed. He had a million questions he wanted to ask you, top of the list was how the hell you ended up half dead in a Hydra base but the haunted look on your face held him back.

“Rest some more. I’ll check on you later and bring you some food.” He stood to leave the room, but before he could walk out the door your small and hesitant voice stopped him.

“They killed my sister,” you said in almost a whisper, the struggle was clear in your tone. “They made me watch.”

After you managed to force out your first words, the rest just came tumbling out. You’re not sure exactly what compelled you, but you found yourself spilling your whole story to Frank. Maybe it was the exhaustion of having to resist under torture or maybe it was the drugs still swimming in your system. Maybe it was the months in isolation with no one to talk to, no one to cry to. Maybe it was the countless times you begged in your mind for anyone to find and save you as your tormentors tore through your skin over and over.

Whatever it was, by the end of it you were sobbing quietly as you stared blankly up at the ceiling. Your cries didn’t come in racking heaves; you were much too tired for that. They simply ran down your face and left a burning ache in your chest. Frank was rooted to his spot as you told your story, standing just beside your cot with gritted teeth and eyes that had turned murderous. He was looking anywhere but at you.

“You are an Avenger,” he growled lowly. “If what you did isn’t hero shit then I don’t know what is.”

It was strange to find comfort and validation from a man you had just met, but has already done so much for you when the very people he was insisting you were on par with had torn you down so completely.

At least one of them did.

You swallowed hard as you tried to reign in the weight of the emotions all at once hitting you like a truck. The salty tears had seeped into the bandages near your face and the wounds beneath were starting to sting. Frank assured you that you could lay low there and heal for as long as you needed to. He left you shortly after and as you drifted off to a dreamless sleep, you wondered what you would do once you were fully recovered. Would you return to your old life?

Was there even anything to return to?

It would be another week before Frank introduced you to Billy and Curtis. He didn’t want to overwhelm you so he had taken on the role of temporary caretaker during that time, patiently checking over your injuries and bringing you whatever you needed. When the other two Marines walked into your room for the first time, you practically cowered behind Frank.

He sat on the chair next to your bed, trying to look at you with reassurance and allowing you to grip onto his arm. Curtis introduced himself first and saw you flinch when he raised a hand in a friendly wave. He expected you to have PTSD just from the amount of injuries you had and he recognized it now in your reactions. He was quick to tell you of his counseling group and to offer you separate sessions should you feel up to talking.

Billy though was either oblivious or completely undeterred by your discomfort, stepping closer to you with that cocky smirk on his face. Your grip on Frank’s arm tightened and he shot a warning look at his best friend. You were the weariest of Billy. The almost analytical curiosity in his dark eyes as he watched you made you feel uneasy. You knew his kind, a charmer with a way with words.

“I’m Billy. I hope you’re getting everything you need in my facility.”

Frank had told you that it was a harried group effort from all three of them that brought you back from the brink of death. He also told you that you were essentially living under Billy’s roof. You were truly grateful, but just like with Frank you didn’t know exactly what prompted you to react a certain way to Billy. Maybe it was the meticulously smooth swoop of his hair or how his suit was perfectly tailored to his body. Maybe his ridiculously pretty face just simply unsettled you.

“I’ve had better service at a McDonald’s.”

Frank barked out a short laugh, unable to stop the reaction from your unexpected comment. Curtis, the big man that he was, desperately tried to stifle his giggling. Neither had ever seen a woman who didn’t immediately fawn over their friend. There was just something magnetic and compelling about Billy that attracted people. That made your reaction unusually refreshing and surprisingly caused Billy to grin cheekily at you after the initial shock had worn off.

“We can’t have that now can we, pretty girl?”

It sounded like a threat.

Despite the less than warm first impressions, you did manage to mutter a small thanks before they left your room. Surely they were good men for helping you, but more than that you trusted Frank. 

He had grown protective of you, having been the one who found you he now felt like he was responsible for you. Behind that and the gratitude you felt, a friendship had developed between you and the usually gruff soldier. He never left you completely alone with Billy and Curtis. He also refused to tell them your story, always saying that it wasn’t his to tell. You would tell them when you were ready and only if you wanted to.

He didn’t expect you to tell him you were ready to leave so soon after only a couple of months of recovery. He stared at you with his mouth slightly open over the pizza you were sharing. After a long pause, he slowly started to chew again as he mulled over your words. Billy sat next to him, shaking his head and chuckling as he finished a slice before tossing the crust into the box.

“Sick of us already, pretty girl?” he teased.

“Can’t leech off you forever, Russo.”

“I’m not complaining. You can repay me somehow,” he winked.

You snorted. You were still mostly uncomfortable around Billy, but during your time there you had gotten to know him quite a bit at his insistence. You knew by now what he was saying behind his increasingly flirtatious comments. You didn’t have to leave. No one was making you leave.

“Something Curtis said yesterday stuck with me.”

“What did that idiot say?” Frank chuckled.

You gave him a small smile in return, enjoying their brotherly jabs at each other. “He said I shouldn’t just choose a path. He said I should make one. I can’t make my own path if I don’t even know where I wanna go, Frank.”

He studied you again, saw the determined set of your shoulders despite the fear flitting across your eyes. He didn’t like it. He didn’t think you were ready and he didn’t think it was a good idea. He had a bad feeling in his gut. 

“Okay.”

Billy was surprised at Frank’s agreement since he shared the same hesitations he had about this. He’s only gathered bits and pieces of your story from overhearing your conversations and by observing you, but he knew enough to know that this was a big decision you made. He sighed.

“Fine. I’ll drive.” 

They should have listened to their gut.

Your first stop was to see Jill. She was technically your only family left and you felt guilt weigh heavily on you for not checking on her sooner. She loved Lily as much as you did and you were feeling nervous. You didn’t know what you would say to her. What exactly do you say to someone after you got the love of their life murdered?

You expected your sister’s death to destroy her and for her to be resentful of you. You expected the anger. You wanted it even. You believed you deserved it. Why were you allowed to survive while Lily hadn’t? You didn’t expect to see an utterly broken person sobbing over your gravestone.

It didn’t even register with you until that moment that people thought you died too. It didn’t hit you until you saw the names on the gravestones, yours and Lily’s side by side. Jill had always been the steady cheerful presence in your lives, calm even in a crisis. You barely recognized the shell of a woman in front of you; eyes blank save for the overwhelming grief, face gaunt and lacking its usual color, and harsh words of denial spilling freely from her lips. Months after your deaths, she still couldn’t fathom the thought of you both gone.

What could you say? 

There were no words. So you turned around and walked away before she could see you, the cold wind carried the sound of her crying as you left. Frank had stood beside you as you watched Jill and he saw how your whole body went rigid at the sight. He didn’t stop you when you retreated. He didn’t say a word as he followed you back to where Billy was waiting by the car. He halted only when he felt you tug weakly on his arm.

“I’m going to kill him, Frank,” you said, voice low and ominous. He noticed your grip tighten as your fist started to shake. “I’m going to kill all of them.”

“No.”

He knew that look. He knew that fury intimately. If he was being honest, he was actually surprised that you hadn’t made this decision when you first opened your eyes. If you had made it then, maybe he would have just let you but not now after he’s gotten to know you. You were too soft and kind for the self-destructive task you wanted to take on. There was good still in you and there was hope for a life beyond all you were put through. He knew there was no turning back once you started on this path. 

He knew.

“This isn’t the path you wanna make for yourself. Trust me, sweetheart. You don’t want this.”

You gritted your teeth and glared up at him. He knew that look too. It was the same one he had when his mind was made up and there was no stopping him. You weren’t asking for permission. This was happening whether he was going to get on board or not.

“You sure?”

You nodded. He groaned and ran his hand across his face as he made his decision.

“Fine. You’re going to start training with Billy and me.”

“I didn’t ask for your help, Frank.”

“Well you’re still getting it,” he said firmly as he started walking back to the car, Billy raising an eyebrow at your approach. “And you’re going to counseling with Curtis.”

You started to protest as you caught up to him, but he just held up a hand to shut you up. If you were really going to do this, then he was going to make damn sure that you were prepared and had backup.

He really should have listened to his gut.

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No neglected reader here, you are the mercenary Pink Robin. Sure, at sixteen you're not even old enough to drive legally in Gotham, New Jersey, but you can proudly and honestly claim yourself one of the world's top mercenaries. Deathstroke even commended you more than once!

"Not bad, little bird." –Slade Wilson, alias Deathstroke, world's #1 mercenary and your idol

"I'm still the superior blood son." –Respawn Wilson, alias Respawn (unoriginal much?), Deathstroke's son, apprentice, and annoying little brother figure

As a mercenary, the scope of your work naturally is wider than an assassin. Besides assassination, you offer the service of escort (non-sexual only!), retrieval, delivery, sabotage, espionage, and a lot other jobs that might or might not be legal. Don't worry, you still have bottom lines you abide by so you can rest easy at night. Or like, in the morning since your work mostly happens at night.

Now, as the mercenary Pink Robin, naturally you shouldn't have a lot of positive interactions with the Bats of Gotham. For some reasons, however, they're quite... Hmm, you don't want to be vain, but you're preeetty sure these guys are obsessed with you?

Weird.

("So you're holding me captive here because... What? You're desperately in love with me?"

Tim Drake, alias Red Robin, sputters in a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "I know you are doing something that muddles my mind! That's unacceptable and I'll find out how you did it and then I will have my vengeance!"

He is toootally in love with you. Poor thing. You take a loud slurp of your unicorn frappe, sighing in satisfaction as the cold sensation enters your body, then cheerfully responds,

"Wow, gross!"

"Don't say it so blatantly?!?!"

"Stalker! Creep! Pervert!"

He chokes. You can faintly discern tears in his eyes behind his cowl's eyeholes.

You ponder a bit, then decide to add just one more word.

"Incel!"

Red Robin sinks to his knees, face in hands, and starts sobbing.)

Oh well, can't blame them. You do be irresistible that way. Just ask all those child traffickers that tried to get you as a child–wait, they're all dead now. Not all of them are by your hands, even, it's that Red Hood who continuously leaves you the decapitated heads of people who tried to prey on you in the past like he's a cat leaving you the dead bodies of birds and mouses.

You suppose it all started because of Robin. The first Robin, real name Richard "Dick" Grayson of the Flying Graysons, whose costume then was a leotard in traffic lights' colours and whose name was meant as a tribute to his mother's nickname for him. Guess his sixteen-year-old self was not particularly happy to have your ten-year-old self strutting around Gotham under the name of Pink Robin, with a full bodysuit version of the uniform in pink and black. All you will say to that is Robin and Pink Robin are different birds.

And that yours is definitely the cooler one.

Well, he's never managed to make you change name, moreover drop the mercenary shtick (it's not a phase, Momma Bird). Though nowadays he wants you to become a vigilante by the name Flamebird and partner with his Nightwing, your answer remains: 💖No💖

Don't get you started on the current Robin, real name Damian (Al Ghul-)Wayne. He's ruined four (4) dates you went to and repeatedly ambushes your babysitting mission as paid by Deathstroke outing with Respawn, acting like some kind of tsundere sibcon little brother #2. When you told him this, he went so mad because he wasn't #1 instead.

And Batman... Oh man. You've lost count of how many times this old man tried to adopt you.

("I'm having a child."

"Another?? You have a problem, Batman. But congrats, I guess!"

Batman nods, then slams the Bat-adoption papers down on the table between the two of you.

"It's you. Sign here."

"No way!!!")

One of these days, you might feel enough pity on him to offer acting as his kid for a day. You have a feeling he's going to hire you forever and cheat you out of the contract, though, so you'll refrain until you have more legal knowledge.

Aside from the obsessive Bats, you live a pretty good life. You're more than good enough now that you can have your pick of a mission at any time. You have enough money to comfortably live on without having to work ever again. You have friends, a boyfriend or girlfriend from time to time (last ex got jailed and you're no good with long distance relationship 💔), interests outside of mercenary work that you can and do regularly indulge in.

That's you, Pink Robin.

As mentioned in the first part, the Batfam's obsession with you probably started with the first Robin. Robin the First? Whatever. The Big Bat was already wayyy too busy with the 'big-time' rogues to spare attention to little old you–no matter that you deserved to be taken much more seriously. Like, come on, you might have had zero (0) proper training, your suit was just the Robin vest from Halloween costume store dyed pink over a fencing suit dyed black, your arsenal (no relation to the hero. Does he still go by that name?) only consisted of whatever was available to the mass, and your first kill was an accident...

Where were you going with this again?

Oh yeah. Well, Never Mind All That Above, you were still a pretty damn good mercenary. And you hadn't deliberately set out to become one unlike a certain Bat so technically weren't you much cooler?? Deserving of some attention??

...though after getting said attention, you can't honestly say you really like it, yeah. Humans do be complicated like that.

Back to topic. Since Batman himself couldn't be bothered with you, it was Robin who did. To be precise, apparently the moment he heard about a Pink Robin roaming the street, he immediately went to track you down.

Not to beat you up or challenge you to a duel of honour after 'sullying' his name, mind you. Oh no indeed, poor innocent Robin the First genuinely thought you were trying to be a vigilante like him and thus he wanted to gently warn you off :)

"Wait, wait. You thought I was–?!"

Robin the First gave you a tender gaze. One that might or might not have resulted in a baby crush but ssssh. That IS a secret, got it? If Red Robin found out about it, you're scared he might 1) go ballistic and kill Robin-now-Nightwing or worse 2) start fantasizing about threesomes. He's bad enough as it is, if he worsened you'd have to put him down like a dog.

Apologies for the non sequitur.

"I'm sure you've done very well so far," Robin the First soothingly said. "But the path of vigilantism isn't for everyone. I required, still do require a lot of training and resources. Even Batman does! I'm impressed, really I am, but you can't just go out on the street with a baseball bat and a dream–that way lies broken bones at best."

Out of respect, you made sure to look touched. Not really a lie, anyway, you'd only ever had Miss Charity showing you such concern before.

"Robin... Thank you–" You spread your arms, wordlessly requesting a hug. Robin the First did not hesitate to give you one, and you shut your eyes with a blissful sigh. Goodness weren't you touch-starved, how embarrassing.

Then you jabbed him with a tranquilizer needle.

"?!"

"–and sorry," you finished with a triumphant grin, setting down Robin the First's collapsed body on the ground as he looked at you in betrayal. You proceeded to shove him into a secluded corner–since you weren't a monster–and loot him of his utility belt before strutting away, telling him on your way out, "I'm Pink Robin! Mercenary, at your service!"

Fortunately for you, Batman did not appear right there and then to ruin your cool exit. Even more fortunately, at that time in their vigilante career, neither Batman nor Robin the First had thought about placing trackers or anything of the sort on their gadgets. Thus Robin the First's utility belt was successfully transformed (after being dyed pink, of course) into Pink Robin's utility belt!

Unfortunately however, your action caused not only Robin the First but also his dad paying you attention. It was scary, you were scared. Scared enough, in fact, to take up this job offer abroad so to lie low until they forgot you.

Alas, they never forget. You're that unforgettable and irresistible, sadly (⁠⁠ꈍ_⁠ꈍ⁠)

In the meantime, life continued on in Gotham. Robin the First decided to hang up the scaly panties in favour of a V-necked bodysuit with golden tassels, change his name to Nightwing after the Kryptonian legend, and start solo in Bludhaven. Batman in the midst of missing his kid got his Batmobile's tires nearly stolen by one street urchin and proceeded to kidnap take him on as his new sidekick Robin the Second.

Robin the Fir–sorry, Nightwing was outraged to find out. Not only because Robin was apparently his nickname from his late mother (unmarried to Batman, by the way. You were more shocked to learn Batman wasn't his father by blood) but also because? For some reason?? Nightwing wanted you to be Robin the Second???

????

You didn't even keep him hostage or anything, how had he developed Stockholm Syndrome for you? Was it the side effect of a concussion or something?

You didn't ask, though, because you were polite and nice and charming like that. You just politely explained that you wouldn't have accepted the offer anyway, since your Pink Robin was cooler.

...the last part wasn't meant to be said. Whoops.

While Nightwing thankfully didn't take offense–as far as you could tell anyway. Your instinct said he was just biding his time before wrestling you into wearing the scaly panties–the same couldn't be said of Robin the Second.

"What the hell do you mean your Pink Robin is cooler?!" the guy snapped at you on a random rooftop, interrupting you reading fanfiction on your phone. You clicked your tongue, annoyed.

"Exactly what it sounds like." Then to make you sound sassier, you added, "Duh."

Robin the Second bristled like a cat being shown a cucumber. Orrr maybe a cat seeing another cat in their territory? You didn't really vibe comparing yourself to a cucumber no matter how cool.

"Well, you're clearly wrong," Robin the Second snapped again, full of righteous anger. Would've made more of an impact if he didn't instinctively squeeze his bare thighs together and wrap his cape around himself as a cold gust of wind blew, but he made up for it by quickly continuing, "You are not cooler than Robin! It's the original Robin! The hero! Robin saves people! Bringing light to darkness and hope to despair simply by existing! Robin gives me magic!"

"...salty you weren't approved by your hero, huh?"

"Wha– You– Shut up and FIGHT ME! COWARD!"

You graciously complied with his request to duel, and even more graciously refrained from rubbing it in when you won. You just accidentally rubbed his face on the floor while seating yourself on his hogtied body and looting his grappling gun.

"You dirty lying thief–"

"Dude, I might be a mercenary not an informant, but pretty sure you tried to steal from Batman before he made you Robin the Second. Don't be a hypocrite, yeah?"

"Don't tell me what to do! Also, what the heck is Robin the Second, that sounds super cringe!"

"That sounds super cool, you mean!"

Your relationship with Robin the Second was pretty good even with all the fights and debates. Too bad he wiped out via explosion in goddamn Ethiopia two years later.

Requiescat in pace, bestie 😵🪦💔💐😔

Robin the Third appeared shortly after. Not gonna lie, you were baffled to see another Robin after learning what happened to the second one. But... Batman and Nightwing were obviously messed up by Robin the Second's death... And while you didn't think it was particularly ethical to take in another kid to be the grown men's unofficial therapist/emotional support bird, you being a mercenary was arguably more unethical.

You decided to be nice to Robin the Third, out of consideration for the duties he undertook.

Said decision went out of the window when the very next evening, you opened the door to your beloved container unit of a home to find the guy right outside of it. With a demand that you be his sidekick/partner/mentor.

"I'll pay." He flashed an AmEx black card.

"No, thanks." You moved to shut the door.

"I'll pay double your usual rate." He hurriedly jammed his bō staff between the door gap.

"Still no." You kicked the bō staff out.

"Triple." He now unsubtly latched onto your door, pulling it outward.

"Hmm. Nope, thank you!" You also pulled the door, inward.

"Quadruple?? Come on, as homage to the first Robin??" Your poor door was straining being used in lieu of a rope on your impromptu tug of war.

"Nooo thank youuu. Also, how is that a homage to Robin the First, I don't know the lore."

Robin the Third gasped, shocked that you Pink Robin wouldn't know the lores of Robin the First. (You suspected that Nightwing had been talking about you in a way that gave the impression he and you were as thick as thieves.) As Robin the Third accidentally let go of the door in his shock, you quickly seized the chance to slam it closed.

A moment later, he started banging on it.

"How could you not know about the first Robin and his quadruple somersault! Very few people in the world could do that but the first Robin, Nightwing, can! Shouldn't you know this being named after him?!"

"Excuse you? Who's named after who?!" Just because you did come up with the name after seeing a mural of Robin the First right outside your home didn't mean you were named after that guy, okay?! You weren't even inspired by him, it was just that seeing the mural reminded you of pink robin your favourite bird!

Suffice to say, you and Robin the Third had a debate right there and then. With your door remaining shut 'cause you weren't about to let some strange guy in. When he tried to sneak in through the window, you went out through the secret passage underground, approached him from behind, pulled a sack over his head, then yeeted him into the bay.

Of course, you also looted him. Not his AmEx, it was a credit card after all, but all the cash he had on hand. And in his belt. You left the emergency cash in his boots alone, though, since you noted Robin the Third had no bike of his own and you doubted Batman or Nightwing was in the right headspace to pick him up. Weren't you so nice? Practically a bleeding heart!

Robin the Second's resurrection as Red Hood originally alarmed you, as a Gotham-based mercenary finding someone messing around your turf. When you saw he focused on taking over the gangs and establishing himself as a crime lord, however, you proceeded to relax.

When you saw him purposefully letting himself be seen by you, leaving the head of some gang member who once roughed your pre-merc self up, you cycled through several emotions before settling into resignation. Welp, guess you got a human-shaped, human-sized cat now. Did you need to set out bowls of water and kibble?

Later on, Robin-the-Second-now-Red-Hood stomped up to you in anger.

"You didn't recognize me?!"

"How was I supposed to do that! You were a twink and now you're super buff! You got a full-face helmet on!"

"Skill issue!"

"You take that back!"

He didn't take that back, by the way. He took nothing, but gave you things. Specifically, more heads of people who had wronged you in life. This simultaneously gave a welcome boost to your reputation and a hassle, since what the hell were you meant to do with all these heads??

Little Robin the Fourth, currently still Robin, made his debut not long after Red Hood's miraculous conception–sorry, resurrection. He was, to put it shortly, a little brat. How dare he call you (and mercenaries in general) a harlot in the world of warriors!

"Wait a second, I remember you." You narrowed your eyes, placed a hand horizontally flat over his height and brought that hand against your own body. Yep, looked about right. "You were the kid whose target I killed first a year ago, weren't you? In Australia?"

Robin the Fourth gnashed his teeth. "You dare bring that up, harlot! I shall restore my honour by slaughtering you!"

"Ha! Just try, kiddo. I've been at this way longer than you've been alive!"

That really should've been the boast of a cannon fodder with single digit IQ, but Robin the Fourth was quite offended by it.

"You've only been a mercenary for six years! I'M TEN!!!"

Long story short, you won again. And looted your defeated opponent again, helping yourself to some nice daggers. Alas, you had no idea the daggers bore a curse that got you haunted by the spectre of a little boy who loudly insisted he was the elderly age of ten instead of a measly six and had no hesitation to ruin your dates.

Bruh. You would never lose your v-card at this rate and the little brat responsible still called you a harlot.

No, Nightwing, you didn't care that Robin the Fourth now called you a harlot (affectionate). It didn't change the irony that he kind of slut-shamed you while at the same time ensuring you remained a virgin.

Now, Robin the First to Fourth done. Should you talk about Batman's obsession with you further?

Hmm, nah. You guess you've talked long enough, haven't you? :)

General timeline and ages:

10: Become a mercenary. Meet Robin the First aged 16

12: Robin the First now Nightwing now 18. Meet Robin the Second aged 13

14: Robin the Second aged 15 dead. Meet Robin the Third aged 13

16: Robin the Second now Red Hood aged 17, Robin the Third now Red Robin aged 15. Meet Robin the Fourth aged 10

Got any questions or anything you'd like to see about Pink Robin? Send me an ask or leave a reply below! 💕

Eh-nee-way, first we gotta go back to the time Deathstroke (🫳💀💕) was training you, back when you were hiding abroad from Batman and his fearsome Bat-adoption papers. Among other things, Deathstroke also gave you a list of people and/or organizations you should not offend yet, with a stern warning that you shouldn't treat the list as a checklist.

You didn't do that, of course! Geez, what did he think you were?

You used it as a bingo card 💕

"If that kid is doing something stupid again I'm not going to help them." –Slade Wilson, a.k.a. Deathstroke, one (1) full minute before covertly looking up your location

"Whatever you say, Slade. Pink Robin's having manicure with Lady Shiva in Paris, by the way." –William Wintergreen, Deathstroke's butler slash mentor slash probably life and work partner

Fast forward to when you were fourteen. Robin the Third had just debuted but was already being quite the nuisance, constantly breaking into your beloved container unit of a home to ~enlighten~ you about the greatness of Robin the First like a kind of door-to-door missionary. No matter how many times you threw him into the sea and robbed him, he just kept coming!

At one occasion, you were so annoyed by him that after bodily wrestling him into submission, you didn't release the guy but instead took him hostage, holding him at knifepoint (your guns were out of bullets 💔) and shouting at Batman via comms to fetch HIS Robin the Third and keep him away from you lest you do something you'd regret.

Little did you anticipate, this admittedly reckless move would awaken Robin the Third's attraction towards you that would last to this day even if he still hasn't realized the truth himself. What a little freak. You could've been mutuals on Tumblr.

...holy non sequitur, Batman. Sorry, guys! Where were you again?

Oh yeah, you were fourteen. Four years and going as a merc. Well, Robin the Third was being so annoying to you then, so after Batman came to pick him up and you had a mini heart attack realizing what you'd just done everything, you wisely decided to flee abroad just until the Bats were too occupied to forcibly try to adopt you again.

Throwing a dart blindfolded at a world map, you chose your destination, which unbeknownst to you back then was one of the bases belonging to the League of Assassins. Which in turn was one of the names on the bingo card list Deathstroke gave you.

Oh well, whatever. You planned to lie low anyway.

The very next day, you broke into the League's compound.

You needed your enrichment ♪ヽ(*´∀`)ﾉ

All the fics, novels, comics, films, games, etc you brought with you: You've promised to devote yourself to me on this vacation, you scumbag!

You didn't mean to do anything... well, much beyond sightseeing and taking selfies at the League's compound, prommie. Pinky swears, even! But as the proverb says: Man proposes, God disposes. When the path you were taking branched out into four options, you naturally went eeny-meeny-miny-moe, your left hand covering your eyes as your right moved wildly over the four options.

Then you stopped, opened your eyes, and saw that you were pointing at a suddenly appearing group of assassins.

Welp. Insert a Looney Tunes chase scene here.

You dashed here, took a turn there, swung up into a vent here, cannonballed down a hole (?) there, all the while dodging swords and other weaponry thrown your way, not forgetting to pocket the ones that took your fancy and thus having the cries of 'Thief!' added to the ones of 'Intruder!'.

If they didn't want you to take their things, they shouldn't throw them around, geez 🙄

Eventually, your exploration led you landing on top of a dissected child's body.

A vivisected child's body, you corrected yourself as said child proceeded to choke and tear up.

"Oh my gosh! Sorry about your organs, kid!"

Never let it be said that you are unsympathetic and merciless. Unless it's to a potential client or one of your regular ones, in that case please do go ahead and add that you drink the blood of virgins and eat the flesh of babies or whatever. You have a reputation to keep.

Not in front of the kid, though, you didn't. So as soon as you noticed that he had both wrists and ankles shackled to the operating table as well as his mouth gagged–in addition to, you know, his body cut open like a frog in biology class–you figured you could do a Good Deed™ and rescue the kid.

You even made sure to ask him first, "Hey, I'm gonna blow up this joint 'cause lots of people here desperately wants me, wanna come with or get blown apart alongside them?"

He nodded rapidly, which of course meant he was excited for freedom.

You couldn't carry him piggyback considering his exposed organs, and you needed at least one of your hands free to defend the both of you, so you just moved him (very carefully! Kiddo didn't even whimper! 10/10 bedside manner for you!) onto a nearby gurney on wheels. You also raided the closet for medical supplies–suture threads and needles plus antiseptic and painkiller, most importantly–and just because it happened to be there and aroused the oh-shiny magpie instinct in you, a vial of some hopefully-not-radioactive glowing green liquid.

Later you would learn that said liquid, Lazarus water, was jealously guarded by the League and could fetch a fortune in the black market. Sadly for you, you only learnt this from Deathstroke while he was lambasting you for your 'foolish, reckless, yadda yadda' actions and after you let Respawn drink it.

Oh yeah, the kid's name was Respawn. Other people might at least blink at the name, but you had grown up a street rat with acquaintances named anything from Antichrist to Zipper. And of course, your mentor's professional name was Death-freaking-stroke.

Back to your grand escape with Respawn, at the time still only 'the kid'.

You tossed him the med supplies and sincerely told him, "Try to stitch yourself back together. If you can't, I also got a stapler. I'd offer duct tapes too, but I just have this washi tape."

The kid looked as if he thought you were crazy, but you generously interpreted it as he was awed by your obvious competence and badassery. As he wordlessly began suturing himself, you held onto the headboard of the gurney, put one foot on the bar connecting the wheels right below the aforesaid headboard, then clicked a button on your phone.

The next moment, you used your other foot to push the gurney, with you and the kid forward.

The next next moment, a loud BOOM sounded from a distance, followed by a force of hot air propelling the gurney forward even faster. The kid let out a frankly adorable high-pitched noise, only drowned out by your whoop of exhilaration.

Who needed rollercoasters when you got this!!!

😱🏥🛏️ 😆🌬💥💣

↑

Modern hieroglyphic depiction of the scene, hospital and person in bed substituting a gurney because apparently there's no emoji for it yet

"HELL YEAHHH!!! AHAHAHA!!! LET IT BURN BURN BUUURRRNNN!!!"

"AAAAHHH YOU CRAZY BASTARD LET ME GO AAAHHH!!!"

It was most heartening to witness the formerly silent, timid little boy blossom into a bold and expressive young man. Could this be what Miss Charity felt seeing you grow up over the years?

The two of you got out of the compound without looking back. Not precisely because cool guys don't look back at explosion so much as because the guys at said compound (those who didn't get caught in the explosion, at least) were furiously chasing after you. You loaded the kid plus all the stuff you'd stolen into a jeep conveniently parked nearby, hotwired said jeep, and hit the gas, away from the League of Assassins' compound.

Once you were in the clear, the kid–who had stitched himself up pretty nearly despite all the screaming then–gave you another look.

Vehemently, not a little petulantly, he said, "You're crazy."

"Not completely wrong," you genially agreed. With a grin, you introduced yourself, "I'm Pink Robin! Mercenary, at your service!"

Respawn: ...and that is why I'm the superior little brother of Pink Robin

Damian: Fuck you

A/N: The poll result is yes, so I'll be updating the betaverse masterlist to include Pink Robin and Guide series! Tomorrow tho, tonight I got a banging headache 💕

Btw, here's another poll for you guys:

Well, you never said it because that post was about your history with the Batfam, specifically the Robin(s), and Batman is still salty at you for not including him. But anyway, that was when you met your idol.

Deathstroke 🫳💀💕

("Don't add a heart after my name, kid. Actually, don't add those things after my name."

"You lack whimsy, dude. It's a skull being happy it has its scalp stroked, what's not to love?")

The job offer you accepted was, of course, to murder a dude. Not assassinate because you vaguely recollect reading on Tumblr that an assassination is when the motive is political. Yours was partly financial, partly... What's the term for 'wanting to go into hiding because the big bad bat is paying you attention and starting to carry bat-adoption forms'? Oh yeah, survival. Your client's motive was purely emotional.

Deathstroke's client's motive, though, was political.

You're still not sure about the details, but eh. Not like it's important. The main thing was that you finished offing the guy before Deathstroke could even start, consequently bringing you under his notice. If you had known what irony was at the time, you would've thought it ironic that running away from the Bats would instead lead you to the #1 mercenary Deathstroke the Terminator.

"...who are you, mister?"

"You must be new, huh, kiddo?"

As it was, you hadn't even known who Deathstroke was back then. Or the fact that mercenaries had rankings like a goddamn school.

Your ranking these days is among the top 10 by the way (⁠⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

("Unacceptable. You should've been among the top 5 at least."

"Oh my gosh figuratively get off my dick!!")

Ignore the dialogue above. Long story short, you were lucky as hell. Deathstroke had actually intended to torture you half to death for the sin of stealing his kill, but dropped the plan upon finding out you were an adorable young newbie. Instead, for reasons still unknown to you to this day, he decided to give you a little assistance in your budding career.

Training. Gear. Training. Medical treatment for when you inevitably botched something and consequently your squishy normie twelve-year-old body. Training. Connection to useful people to forge you papers, give info, etcetera. Training. Reputation as Deathstroke's little apprentice, which unbeknownst to you had caused Robin the First to black out from rage when he found out about it. And have you mentioned training??

You dry-heaved over his boots out of exhaustion and spite, but damn if you didn't feel moved. Deathstroke the Terminator had no obligation to spare you, moreover train you without actually making you his apprentice or whatever. Later on the Batfam, meddlesome busybodies they were, would call you a victim of Stockholm Syndrome and try to 'reverse-brainwash' you, except it sure felt more like straightforward brainwashing. But anyway?

You were, and still are, grateful to Deathstroke. You decided he was your idol.

"Thanks again, Mr Deathstroke! If you're dropping by Gotham, feel free to visit me!"

With a spanking new and improved (but still with the same design) costume, a bunch of gears you later on had a great time applying your lessons in smuggling through airports to, and a burner with a long list of contacts–with Deathstroke himself at the top–you happily skipped back to Gotham, ready to take on the Batfam as a better than ever Pink Robin.

A/N: Hope that was okay, folks! I was gonna add Pink Robin meeting Respawn too, but I figured it wouldn't be around this time... Also, hope me switching between the tenses wasn't confusing, I should've used past tense throughout smh

Please leave replies and send me asks 💕

Also, a little poll: