The city was cold that night, cold and, surprisingly dark—surprisingly empty. I guess the Titans had things under control without me, because the monitors on Slade's computer showed a quiet unlike one I'd ever seen. It was literally as if he was really the only cause for trouble to us—and now that he had me on his side, there was no reason to bother the others, my "former" friends, seemingly completely meaningless now. For some reason it was a weird slap in the face to me, as if I didn't like the idea that I had in all reality been the sole cause for terror on this city by Slade's hands, or that he wasn't impressed by the others' skills even though that should have been endearing to me—that he wanted me, and only me. But it wasn't. I was angry, and offended, and now in this weird quiet that fell over Slade's secret underground hideout, I felt more anger towards him than when he'd been ordering me to attack my friends, as if then I was so engrossed in the fighting I actually wasn't thinking about what he'd done, or how it had changed my life. In this quiet now, with no duties from Slade but to be good and stay in this room, what I guess is now my room, I could really think about him—and how much I hated him.
Besides those huge screens on the walls of this place, I'd say his hideout is little more than a shelter for planning, nothing like a home, and nothing like our tower, which I had grown so accustomed to. It was freezing; maybe that was simply because heat travels up, and cold goes down—something I should have learned more about in school if I'd been a normal kid, which I was really wishing for at this present moment. But that was my general understanding; and I figured that Slade, in that suit he wears, must not be very sensitive to temperature, or maybe is just so soulless he doesn't care. Either way, I was freezing, and shivering, allowing myself to, now that I was out of his eyesight if just for a few hours. And of course I wasn't about to go telling him about the cold—in fact I wasn't about to go to him for anything, or take anything from him. I wanted to show him that no matter what he believed I would never see things his way, or treat him like a father—never. I would show him that no matter what he did, he would never make me his apprentice. He could make me obey him, but he could not make me his apprentice. So I would have to tough it out—tough being the key word here because we keep the tower at a warm seventy or so degrees during these colder days even though Raven can't stand it gets on the verge of locking herself in the freezer, so I wasn't used to it—and really wasn't looking forward to getting used to it.
Furthering my belief that he'd never meant it as a home, my room was basic, and though I knew he couldn't care less about interior decorating and neither could I, I could tell he'd had it prepared for some time—as if he'd been planning this thing for some time, but then he probably had, and I didn't doubt it. This underground factory-warehouse—whatever it is—wasn't built to be lived in, but he had put some thought into it, apparently, providing me with a big enough bed that was arguably softer than the one I usually slept on, but that was it. There was nothing else in the room, besides the small communication screen which Slade could use to contact me whenever he pleased. I couldn't tell if it was a TV also but didn't really care, though if I had I would have been too worried to touch it, that if I tampered with it he might find that as cause to murder my friends. Also a special hanger for the new suit I'm obligated to wear, and another one new to it that has clothes for sleeping—but apparently, if I'm not sleeping, I have to have that damn suit on, like I've been branded, though, and I'll never admit this to Slade, the suit itself is actually cool and is pretty versatile allowing for a large range of movement, and also coming with other features my old costume didn't have, I kind of liked it, even if I resented that metal S lingering there more than anything else—like in that S, there was the embodiment of evil. S was the devil's letter. But what surprises me more than anything about that suit—it fits me perfectly, which is so weird considering that while he could have been planning this thing for months there was no way he could have known my body like he did—but he did. And that, really to sum it up, makes me want to vomit.
Aside from that, the room's bare, allowing for a pretty boring experience when it comes to being cast into the room so Slade can have some alone time, doing whatever it is he does. That's only at night though, because during the day if there's any time when I'm not doing some sort of mission, stealing something, he makes me train—sometimes with him, and sometimes I just do workouts. Something, at least, like my life before this—before Slade. And I don't mind them, which is what makes it tolerable because it's not as if what he's asking me to do is all that hard. I can combat his stupid servants easily, or practice working out with my staff. But I knew that was a problem for him; he wanted to push me, to make me better than I already was, even though I've landed a few pretty good punches on him, and me simply doing something that was easy for me was a waste of both of our time. He increased the skill level, which again I didn't mind even though it was hard, because I liked the challenge. But one day I mouthed off to him when he told me to begin training. Said something like—"Easy for you to say when you're always just sitting around."
His eye narrowed. "What would give me any excuse to train—what need, what threat is posed to me? You, or your worthless friends, or anyone else in this awful city?" He chuckled scornfully within his mask. "Young man, the day you become as strong as I am now then you can sit idly. But you have a long way to go."
I reiterated to him what I was thinking now. "Yeah? So what about that crack in your mask? The one from my foot? Maybe you didn't realize it, Slade, but if you didn't hide behind that mask of yours like a freaking coward then you would have realized you were licking my goddam boot when I smashed it into your face."
I was so mad I could have spit, but he simply chuckled, keeping that calm, smooth tone of low speaking he had—which was really unnerving because you could never really tell whether or not he was amused at you and found no interest in fighting or if you were about to end up flung into the opposite wall. And I hate to admit it but I was scared of that; but I couldn't keep my mouth shut, not like this, not here, not for him. I was angry and fed up with this, maybe realizing for the first time that my friends weren't getting me out of this, and I had no way of getting out of this. Suddenly I was regretfully realizing that like he had said, I would be his apprentice forever and there would be no changing that; forever I'd have to fight my former teammates, steal for him, obeying him like some dog? How could I keep my mouth shut? But of course he expected that of me.
"Robin," he said, and my name came out of his mouth like a well learned song—almost carried out on a smooth breeze. "Have you forgotten yet again about our deal? Just because your former friends know of what I have done to them does not change a thing. Even knowing about my probes there is nothing they can do to remove them, not as long as I am in control of this button. And that means that you are still my apprentice and you will still obey me, and they will die if you do not. And unless you'd like that to happen, I suggest you learn to hold your tongue."
"You don't deserve that respect," I spat, my fists clenching tightly, slowly merging into fighting stance. "And I won't give it to you."
Now I could tell that he was agitated, but he wouldn't let it overtake his voice—only the slightest more narrowing of the eye. His hand went to the button on his wrist and he lifted the cover. "Robin," again, the voice was soft, in that eerie way, and I now definitely knew what was coming—and I knew there was no more messing around with this one, even before he continued, "Do you not take me seriously? Perhaps you need something to help you understand—perhaps the death of your little alien friend whom you care so much about? With such a petite physique I believe she will be the first to die should I activate my probes." His finger was hovering over the button, and I found myself immediately slumping, my eyes looking at my boots. And thus followed a similar conversation to the one we'd had just before they'd burst in—but not that that mattered, or would influence the way Slade thought about me. But I did wonder how much longer, really, I could push it without ending up killing one of my friends, not much further, I had a feeling—though of course their lives weren't worth taking that risk, experimenting to see for sure. If it had been my life, it would have been different. But I couldn't do that to someone else, especially my friends, no matter how much I hated Slade.
"Don't…I take you seriously…I won't…disrespect you…"
His finger still lingered there, and he was looking at me intently, waiting—and I knew what he wanted. Painfully, I gave it to him, softly and almost inaudibly but I gave it to him. "I'm sorry…master…" That word tasted awful on my tongue—but maybe that was just the bile I had been gulping back down.
"Good boy," he said, and thankfully he closed the cover and lowered his arm. "And you are forgiven. But if you ever speak to me in such a manner then I will kill all of them and I will not give you a second chance. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, master." And I turned to go train, praying I would get off easy.
But of course, he stopped me.
"Not so fast young man. I want you to do a thousand push-ups right now as an extra incentive to watch that mouth of yours in the future."
Inside my head that rebellious part of me had a really good comeback—"You seriously want my arms to be that much stronger when I nail you right in your good eye?" and I was really struggling to hold it back. Slade could see it to, the way my face was probably contorting humorously, and he waited, eager to see whether or not he would be aiming to add a fresh bruise to it. And thank god, I actually bit my tongue, literally, keeping the immature quip from slipping out and getting me or my friends nailed, even though there was no way in hell that I wanted to do a thousand push-ups on top of my regular regime—but I would not let them down.
"Fine," I said simply, trying to talk as little as possible to control that inner hot spring of rage boiling inside me, and lowered down onto the floor on my hands and feet.
I thought I'd probably get away with doing less, but no—he counted every single push-up out loud to me as I did them like a drill sergeant. But that wasn't the worst part of that experience; though the push-ups themselves wouldn't have been that bad, after about the hundredth push up I felt a weight on my back and realized that he had placed one of his heavy, leaden boots there. From there, the other nine hundred were not fun—considering the whole time I was dripping with sweat and trying my hardest not to pant, but considering I was about to collapse to the floor after about five hundred, I wasn't very successful. But even if he had given me the option to quit I wouldn't have; I would have done two thousand just to show him that I was not weak and that he wouldn't break me. But I was also recognizing that I had more training to do afterwards…
When I had finished, I collapsed beneath his foot, finally releasing all the panting I had held in and gasping in what air I could. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more to faint, especially considering I couldn't move an inch of my body and wouldn't be able to if I tried. The thought of more training came to my mind and I wanted to start shrieking. But thankfully, amazingly, Slade went easy on me.
"I'm surprised at you, Robin. I didn't expect such stamina today from you. But I'm pleased." He took his foot off my back and I groaned; even through the metal of my suit it felt like that freaking foot had been embedded in my skin the whole time, searing like an iron. I tried to get up, and at first could not.
I didn't expect him to offer me his hand, and it really, and when I say really I mean really, caught me off guard. I actually just stared up at him for a few moments, totally stunned, having thought that for sure he would have just watched me struggle on the floor like a dying fish out of water; and even though the gesture wasn't much—not like picking me up and carrying me to bed would have been—but it didn't matter. This was something new and different that just happened between us and I felt it, sappy and probably stupid as that sounds. It was like a bridge was immediately built and no longer was I just his apprentice but something he actually cared about. Or maybe it was a seriousness I felt between us—like from that moment on this odd, painful bond we had would never be broken. We were more than just forced partners—we were two people with an understanding of each other, not one that was only about hate and violence and what we'd do the next time we saw one another. Yeah, it was weird and childish and probably all in my head, probably because of my fatigue, but more than anything it was an excuse for what I did next—something I would never have done no matter the circumstances.
I accepted his hand, taking it weakly. I thought he would have maybe returned that surprise—allowed a sparkle of amazement to shine in his eye just long enough that I could see it. But of course, he didn't, because he wasn't surprised. He knew I would accept his help, after all—why would he have bothered if he didn't believe something would come of it? And even though it was my decision to accept his help I still felt embarrassed and defeated simply because he could not give me that one thing—that notion that I'd caught him off guard. And for the first time I was really beginning to understand that he was in complete control in this relationship; I might be able to land a good punch on him, or kick his mask so hard it split in two, but ultimately he was the one who made the rules of our game, and my resistance was probably just another benefit of playing—it gave him good sport which he couldn't get from anywhere else. And I really started to hate myself when the thought crossed my mind—then why don't you just obey him and stop fighting? Where will it get you?
It'll keep my integrity, I told that voice, but in the end I knew I was really kidding myself, because I knew the truth—there really was no point in fighting Slade because he was in total control and there was nothing I could do about it. What good, really, would it be to make myself do a thousand push-ups a day just so I could mouth off to him? Was it really worth my time or energy? And putting it like that made me feel like I had the upper hand—like I was the mature one who was just being considerate and realistic. At least, that was what I would convince myself then, as he easily pulled me off the ground and to my feet, amazing me because he did it so effortlessly yet without straining my sore arms at all.
It took a great effort not to simply allow myself to crash back to the ground, or, worse, right into him, because I was so unstable and too weak to keep myself up right. My legs felt like rubber—something I rarely felt, this intense pain in this form. They started to shake and buckle while my stomach was rolling over like waves and my heart was beating rapidly. And—adding to my humiliation—he moved his hand up to my forearm to steady me. Strangely, from his grip, I felt this weird strength that kept me from falling—like his grip affected the rest of my body, not just my arm. And because of that I didn't fall, which I appreciated and resented at the same time. Normally I would have pulled away—no matter how much logic reasoned with me—but being too weak to do anything else, I didn't see that I had much of an option. Either I could accept his help or wind up back on the floor, where he would undoubtedly leave me for an extended period of time, or even perhaps force me to train—something that would teach me some lesson about pride. And I felt weak, but really—I just couldn't take it anymore. So I did nothing as my once arch-enemy led me to my "bedroom" wordlessly, walking in with me and bringing me to the bed then releasing me. Then then he promptly turned to leave, and for moment I thought I had something—some knowledge that he had realized he'd shown too much affection and was embarrassed and wanted to leave. I was sure that he hadn't meant to coddle me like he did, and for a moment, even though it was a hazy, sleepy moment, I was sure I had him.
Of course, I didn't.
He turned around and his eye narrowed a little. "Sweet dreams, Robin," he said softly and purposefully, and then in a moment the lights were off, the door shut, and he was gone.
When I woke up I felt, in a word, horrible. My body ached all over, my arms and back screaming out for relief and a tightness in my chest that made moving nearly impossible. My stomach gave sickening resistance, making me have to hold back the urge to vomit; but my mouth and throat were too dry anyway, and then I had been dripping with sweat, still wearing Slade's uniform from before I'd fallen asleep. And I wanted to get up, more than anything, feeling suffocated and that if I didn't move I probably wouldn't for a while—and I wanted to get out of those clothes, which were made even worse to me now that they were drenched in musky sweat. I had had to start by weakly kicking off my boots, because my legs were truthfully the strongest part of my body at that time, and then I used my hands gradually introducing them to their tasks of removing the suit. It probably took an extra hour, and it was a painful one, but when I had finally removed everything from my body I collapsed back onto the bed and just lay there, fully naked and panting, probably momentarily forgetting, I think, that I had no privacy now—not with Slade, who I knew had his eye on me every minute of each day. Still I was startled when he came in with a new suit for me to put on—startled, and of course, seriously embarrassed, because I was laying there on the bed with nothing on, not even the bed-sheet to cover me. And I couldn't help it—my cheeks were blushing, and were so hot I could feel it.
But now thinking about it he really didn't seem to be caught off guard the way I was, and I figured in the wake of this that he probably had a pretty good knowledge of my body—after all, the suit he had made me was perfectly fitting of course, and even though I didn't know how he did, I just knew—my body really wasn't a mystery to him. But thankfully for me, uncomfortable as it may be as it is, Slade seeing me naked is like to me if Beast Boy and I were in the locker rooms showering after we've sparred, or something; maybe—and though this really makes me want to cringe, or maybe just curl into a ball and die—he was already beginning to view me as his son and so it was only natural to have viewed me in this state and not be disturbed by it—because after all he thought I was his son (and considering he had already thrown out the idea that I might think of him as a father into the open, I wasn't too surprised at his belief). Either way, ultimately, to him it didn't matter, but because it did to me, it amused him, much to further my unfortunateness.
"Good morning, Robin," he said softly as he walked in, again with that unnerving purposefulness. I sat up so quickly to try and cover myself that I cringed and fell back onto the bed, letting out a groan the encompassed the majority of those thousand push-ups, which now I resented more than I had I think when I had been doing them. He ignored this, coming over to the bed and setting the stack of clothes down next to me. "Sore, are we?"
"Thanks to you." I was reaching for the clothes and had my hand on them when suddenly his, maybe twice as big as mine, covered it and rested there. You'd think from experience it would have hurt, that those metal hands would have crushed mine—but it didn't. Not even as I tried to pull away, when it tightened lightly in this weird, steady way that made it impossible to move my hand but didn't feel uncomfortable.
"Robin, you're blushing."
"No shit. Next are you going to tell me that the grass is green, or the sky is blue?" I said bitterly, trying to keep my cool—trying to play it off, but I was embarrassed, and I didn't think I was hiding it that well. But unfortunately it was really all I could do—one last little measure to try to preserve what little pride I had left. I tugged my hand unsuccessfully, growled, and glared at him to cover up that shame, and it took all my power but I made my eyes fix on his own, made them stare him down to try and show him he wouldn't intimidate me under any circumstances. But it was really pretty dumb, because he saw right past it—and I had managed to get myself intimidated. And he knew it, too.
"You're very good at getting yourself into trouble, Robin. Still. I know you're a smart boy, so tell me, how long are you going to continue fighting? This hurts you, doesn't it—to go against your better judgment and to throw tantrums like a toddler because you can't be with your worthless little friends? You know it will do you no good, and yet you are too prideful to admit it, even to yourself."
"That's because," I growled, clenching my fist beneath his hand, making my own begin to sweat and to writhe like a caged animal, "it will do me good. I already told you—the minute you let your guard down I'll get you."
His eye narrowed slightly. "And I already told you, Robin, that that is why we are very much alike. I understand your pain of your stupidity and pride-fullness. I was once there myself, Robin, and I understand that struggle. I am trying to keep you from having to learn it the hard way, like I did. Pride comes before a fall, Robin—but what good would that do if you can learn it less painfully?
I understand that you think giving into me is a sign of weakness, but you are a smart boy, Robin. You'd be weaker to protest. A strong man is the man who uses his brain and applies intelligence. I suggest you begin with how you behave. I'll reiterate again—you know it will do no good to fight me and I offer you to perhaps consider all I am doing for you."
"Threatening to kill my friends if I don't obey?" I scoffed, looking at him now with little trace of the glare left and mostly just a stunned, disbelieving look of—are you serious?
"You'll thank me for that in time, Robin. You don't need any friends. They will only cause you a great deal of heartache which could otherwise have been avoided—after all, you're in pain now, aren't you? Had you have never had those friends of yours you would never feel this way. You would not feel so strained, exhausted, conflicted…and perhaps you would see all that I can do for you."
His hand was tightening now—and again, not in a painful way but in a way that was almost…comforting. It reminded me of when my father would have my hand and he would have this firm grip on it that was so steady, so controlled, so reliable—like it made everything okay. When he did that my parents weren't dead anymore, and there wasn't any pain of their memory, and the world around me didn't seem as sad and lonely as it always had. It brought a sense of warmth on me, made that city—so long ago—lighter and brighter. It was that touch that kept me going, and probably that touch alone, that kept me connected and kept me away from falling into something I shouldn't and veering off from who I really was. To feel it now—for the briefest minute, a stunned second, it felt okay. And for a second—looking at Slade was like looking at my father.
But then it was gone, and I was back in reality, the present, looking at the monster who had a button which would kill all my friends in an instant if I disobeyed. I was shaken, but still had the urge to fight—even if I knew that he was right in saying that I knew too it would do me no good to protest but I was too prideful. I guess I had decided I owed it to my friends not to give in so easily, to let him suede me onto the dark side; as if giving up was dishonoring our relationship and their memory, but of course that had been one of those mind tricks I was playing with myself, to keep myself from realizing that Slade, the guy I had once thought was completely off his nut, was totally, one hundred percent right. I was fighting to keep the truth out, to keep my pride intact, but more than anything—to keep myself from realizing how much I resented the Titans for putting me in this position and then blaming and accusing me for my actions. I couldn't win and it wasn't fair. But I wouldn't even consider this then.
Instead, I'd just keep trying what I was doing and hope it finally worked to my advantage: "Well if it weren't for them I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't be strong, and I wouldn't be your apprentice. You wouldn't have even known about me."
"Exactly, Robin," he said. "Was it not for them, you'd be free of me, wouldn't you? I suppose they aren't as worthless after all—to me, of course. But you see how they have affected you, in a way which you now see as negative and which is painful to you? Had you been independent you would not have had to worry about such worthless things."
That was hard to hear—yes. Really hard to hear because that voice in the back of my head was agreeing and trying to get me to recognize it by doing so as loud as it could. But I just wouldn't let Slade have that—couldn't let him have it, to preserve their integrity but to also preserve mine, my pride. I continued, but weakening:
"Well I wouldn't be who I am without them. No matter where I've ended up, I wouldn't have had my eyes opened up to see how much good there is in life—which explains a lot in your case, considering you've never had any friends to help you see that."
His eye narrowed again; the hand, tightening around mine, now in a way that made it totally present and unable to ignore in my mind; in a word, it was invasive. Suffocating. Like through that hand he was letting me know just how much he was really present. And he leaned down so our faces were very close.
"Ah, but I don't need friends, Robin. After all, I have you, don't I?"
I gritted my teeth at him, trying to hold back the urge to spit right in his goddam eye, suddenly infuriated. "Get. Away. From me."
His eye narrowed, and at first I thought he was angry; but with only a little amused chuckle, he pulled back and released my hand, turning away towards the door. "You have much still to learn, Robin. But that's alright—after all I wouldn't have chosen you hadn't I believed I could mold you the way I wanted. You will start to see things my way, Robin. It's just a matter of time. But for now why don't we start with something easy: you've by now accepted that you will be here at least until you can—" He chuckled softly, turning slowly to look back at me. "—catch me off guard, but until that moment you would best do to start eating what I give you, because sooner or later when you're too weak to stand and dying of hunger my compassion for you will have dwindled."
"And if I eat whatever the hell you give me I'll have ingested some poison or some little device you can use to control me, or…"
"Control you, Robin?" The eye narrowed, yet again. "I don't need to. I have those worthless fools you call friends for that. Besides, what good would it do to control you? If I wanted to control someone to be my apprentice, I would have picked any of the thousands of guards I already have doing my bidding—with something similar to what is in the bodies of the Titans, a little probe which could control movement and the like. I could have had an army of them. But I didn't want a robot, Robin. I wanted you."
"Well if you wanted me for my attitude, you seem to think it's pretty shitty—so I don't really see any relevance here," I said, glaring back at him, even though this conversation had left me feeling really weak and wanting nothing more than just to collapse back into bed and fall asleep. So you might imagine trying to hold a death stare was difficult, but it was necessary, and it was pretty nature, considering my mind had been processing what he had said, about wanting me. Feeling creeped out and offended and strangely flattered, which bothered me, all at the same time. It made me realize and resent the control he obviously had over me in this matter and I couldn't control my frustration, no matter how tired I might be.
"It is, now, yes. But you are still adjusting, and as I have told you, you will see things my way in time. I'm not worried; I foresaw this problem of course. But I'll take the good with the bad when it comes to you, Robin, unlike many things. You're simply that perfect. I see so much potential in you, and you will let me realize that within you in time," he said softly, looking at me with a narrow but somehow this eye that was kind of…admiring. Kind of affectionate, indulgent, doting. And that was something that I had not seen once in all of the times that I had ever encountered him, probably because we were fighting. But for that reason also it threw me off that much more, making me freeze with my mouth hung open and my eyes wide with one question bouncing around in my head—does Slade actually have a heart underneath that metal or am I going crazy?
And the idea of that on its own had stunned me so thoroughly that I couldn't respond.
So, the cold, unfriendly eye returning, almost immediately after it had left, like his body was telling him that that look he'd had shining in it was foreign and needed to be promptly removed, without him ever realizing the interaction had taken place, he continued him speech about "good starting goals" (and notice as I think this that if I had said it out loud it would have been in the most sarcastic, flippant tone of voice), but of course I wasn't really listening. Simply my mind was fixated on that eye, its image burned into my skull, and I couldn't un-see it—in fact, even today I can't forget it, though I'm not really sure yet if it's something that should be forgotten. And it will probably be a while more before I actually come to a decision about it. At first I felt like I was staring at a book that was all in some language I didn't know but that I had to read otherwise I would end up dying, like it had an antidote recipe to a poison I had drunk—that is, if I didn't figure out what that look meant and what I would take away from it, I would probably end up killing myself from my brain overheating. Just because this was Slade, so, in reality—how the hell was I supposed to feel when suddenly, after years of chasing after me and causing me trouble, he gives me a look like one my father had given me before?
"…affects your training. You know it won't do you any good to try to keep yourself awake while you're here."
"…And risk letting you do things to me while I'm sleeping? No thanks," I quipped after I was present enough to understand our conversation, but my heart wasn't in it. I was still really distant and removed—not really caring but providing protest like it was my job, a boring one I hated, at that.
"You've been sleeping for the past twelve hours, Robin."
I was stunned. Twelve hours straight? I'd never slept that long, and was really unnerved and upturned by the idea, especially when I considered all that time Slade had had while I was in a deep unconscious—but what was more, I was infurated at what he had made me do and how it had affected me like it had—how he'd had that power. But I was still too distracted by the eye to really comprehend this just then, so I said simply, giving reason to the job resistance, "Because you made me do a thousand push-ups. Thanks, by the way."
I was gradually becoming more aware of him at present and pushing the weird image back, at least for now, until I could get him out of the room and be done dealing with him, at least for a while.
"I can tell you haven't learned your lesson quite completely. Would you like to do a thousand more, young man?"
I had something sarcastic to say, but faced with the idea of enduring another thousand push-ups, I kept it to myself. "No. I don't."
"Then remember your manners. You try my patience, Robin, and if you continue to back-talk me you shouldn't expect such leniency in the future."
"Fine."
"Then as I was saying, you know that you can get sleep while you're here with me, and I suggest if you'd like to continue having time to rest that you utilize it."
"It's not my fault that I can't let my guard down around you!" I suddenly snapped, aiming to jump up even though I was naked and in pain—so of course I couldn't. But even when I fell back down onto the bed with a groan of pain, I still looked up at him and growled, my fists clenching into tight spheres, about as much movement as I could really do in regards to my upper body. I know I shouldn't have been stupid; I should have just agreed, thus getting him out of my room faster and letting me put my clothes back on, but I couldn't believe him—couldn't believe he thought he could just go tossing his balls around all the time and expecting everyone to bow down to him. Who, really, did he think he was?—and what was more, who did he think he was to insinuate something like that upon me? After all the years of fighting and pain and frustration, he just expected me to be able to act like he was my father—even my friend, at that? And I had had enough, but I had been lucky; had I not been too weak to stand, I would have thrown my fist his way. No good ever came of that, really.
"And I don't expect that of you, Robin—at least, not yet. In time, yes. For now, however, you'd be best to refrain from jerking your eyes open every time you start falling asleep."
"Why do you even care?" I had snapped again, my fists clenching more tightly, again, lucky that I couldn't move or I would have lunged at him because I couldn't control myself. I was growling so loudly, my lips snarled so tightly that they were hurting. But I didn't care—I couldn't care. I hated him and more than anything, than at any other time, I wanted to show it to him.
He tilted his head, staring at me in amusement and raising a hand out to me, keeping on still tucked behind his back formally. "Come now, Robin, you don't want to hurt yourself, do you? That's another thing you must learn—to relax. And so we come back to your sleep; though I don't owe you an explanation I'll humor you. On the most basic of levels, that of the surface, if you don't sleep then you are of no use to me. You'd be equally beneficial dead. And you don't want that to happen, do you?"
"Not before you, no. Not a second before you."
"And neither do I, Robin. Should such a situation take place it would be…unfitting. And so unfortunate. After all you will be following in my footsteps."
"No, I won't," I barked, and bolted up off the bed, pain shooting through me, but then I would not allow myself to fall, even though I was groaning in pain and my legs were shaking, even though the minute I did my body tingled with reopened agony and I was instantly warm with sickness. But I wouldn't let myself fall, clutching onto the bed for support at first, and then slowly finding balance on my feet so that I could glare into his eyes, of course with much trouble, because at the same time I was also trying to keep upright. But again, I wanted to prove something, though I hadn't been sure at the time exactly what that was—but I knew I needed to do it. It was stupid and went against all the logic I possessed, but I couldn't refuse it, like an addiction, a necessity, the job. "So get the fuck out of here."
Unsurprisingly, I found myself flung against the opposite wall, and inner-most intelligence was laughing at me—ha, stupid, you had that coming. Guess you can't push him as much as you thought. I had collapsed onto the bed, groaning and letting out sounds of pain, my whole body sparking with agony making me writhe helplessly. My teeth were clenched, clenched hard, trying desperately to take back control of my body, but mostly my emotions, at the same time knowing that I had none and there was nothing that could be done to regain that control in the back of my mind. I moaned when his shadow loomed menacingly over me, like something out of a slasher movie.
"You will learn to obey me, Robin. It's only a matter of time before you realize fully your situation and that logic I know you possess kicks in. You will realize your foolishness and you'd be damned if you ever said that to me then. Soon enough, you'll come out of your denial. But for now I have some advice for you, young man: the next time you have something clever to say, keep your mouth shut."
He left me alone then, groaning in pain. I ended up passing out again, and another long chunk of time went by before I woke up, feeling better than I had but still sore. Mentally I was drained; when I came out he asked me how I felt, I said I felt fine; he told me to eat, and I did, saying nothing. When I was finished he told me to go back to bed; I did, and fell asleep almost immediately. And from then on I didn't say a word about sleeping or eating, and never protested doing either.
Still I didn't do much of either—especially sleeping. Because the room was freezing I had a hard time sleeping more than five hours at a time, but I never complained about it. And I never moved from the bed, wanting to avoid confrontations which would drain my already empty body and mind. I stayed there until he contacted me through the little screen to tell me it was time to start training—even if I couldn't fall asleep. And tonight was one of those nights, where I actually could not get my eyes to close, no matter how much I tried. In the end, I just wasn't tired, and wanted nothing more than to be right now outside, roaming the streets of the city looking for crime like I used to—from one in the morning until light hit the next day. I loved that time—liked to be awake and loved to be alive. Sleeping made me feel useless and unproductive—but it felt even more so to start a fight which would undoubtedly end in the same pointless conversation, robin if you don't obey me I'll kill your friends and blah blah blahhhh…. That just wasn't worth it. Not worth the energy or the mental strain.
I was startled when my door opened and I saw Slade standing there, that one eye fixed onto my face with interest already as he entered. I sat up like a bolt of lightning, thoughts going through my head—what does he want? What did I do wrong now? Can I just die right now, please? Can he skip the dialogue and just hit me right away so we can get it over with?—at a dizzying speed. But I made myself remain calm, restraining my fists from clenching and my eyes from narrowing, getting up and taking a fighting stance, etc—because even though I wasn't tired I was exhausted and wanted to get over whatever he wanted done, and I knew being passive would make it go faster. Not as much dialogue exchange. That was good. Just that many fewer opportunities for me to say something dumb.
"Awake again, Robin?" he said, walking over to my bed so he was only a few feet away. His arms, typical of him, where clutched behind his back.
"I can't sleep," I said simply, in keeping with my theme of passiveness, though the real, witty Robin would have said something like—no shit, Sherlock. I would have probably needed a textbook to tell me that. "I'm not trying to stay awake."
"I know, Robin," he said, going over to the hanger where my suit was kept and removing it, coming over to me and handing it to me. "So there's really no purpose to lie there."
I looked at him incredulously, surprised and instantly confused. "You mean…"
"I know you like the night, Robin. You are fixated with it. And I understand that. I also live in darkness—I live for darkness. And after observing your behavior more closely since our agreement, I can see that that is when you are at your best. I won't strive to change that about you."
"So you mean…?"
"Get up and get dressed, apprentice. You'll sleep tomorrow morning. Tonight we have much to do." His eye was gleaming at me in a way that made my stomach lurch, instinctively.
I was opening my mouth to question him, any one of the thousand questions that were spinning around in my head in that moment. But he held up his hand to silence me, and said curtly, "Five minutes, Robin," before walking out, leaving me in silence.
It took a minute, but I got up, dressed, and left the room to meet him in front of the screens picturing the insides of my friends…
