Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans, but I do own Irene.

Irene O'Sullivan hummed to herself as she turned the silver knob in her shower and stopped the flow of hot water. The white marble on the shower walls dewed up, steam rising from its glistening surface as she slowly opened the sliding glass door and let in a rush of cold air. The white tiles of the bathroom floor were cool beneath her feet. Irene shivered and quickly snatched her towel from its designated hook, drying off before wrapping up in her favorite purple satin robe. Outside the bathroom door she could hear Watson, her grossly overweight black cat, meowing and pawing at the doorknob to be let it. He didn't typically like to be out of his mistress's company for more than two hours, which was about how long it had taken her to unwind from the stress of the day in the bathroom. Her French manicure, pedicure, and long, hot shower were well deserved. Thank god her current job at Starbucks was only temporary, or she would need to check herself into a mental hospital.

"I know, Watson," Irene sighed in reply to the cat's yowling.

She gave her hair a quick once-over with the towel to get rid of excess water and tossed it on the bathroom counter. When she opened the door Watson purred and immediately shot inside, winding between her feet for attention. What he really wanted was a treat, and Irene had been in too much of a foul mood when she got in from her shift to properly spoil him this evening. She scooped him up in her arms. The walk to the kitchen in her small apartment was a short one. Irene took four steps down the hallway and turned right, idly trying to remember which cabinet the cat treats had been—

The fact that there was a large presence in the room when there should have been no one registered before anything else did. A shot of adrenaline thumped through her body and Irene blinked once, clutching Watson closer on instinct. She gasped the instant she fully saw the figure sitting at her kitchen table, a shudder running through her when she saw the glint of the light off of the phantom's cold copper mask. He sat comfortably in the chair facing the living room, the fingers of one hand drumming silently on the tabletop. It took all her willpower not to drop her cat on the floor and run. Instead she clutched him tighter, backing slowly away from the kitchen and trying to breathe. The door to the building's hallway was directly behind her but she knew she'd never make it. Few incidents in her life had left her literally speechless, and this was one of them. She just kept staring at him, mouth agape, trying to make herself believe that he was really there.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Slade asked, his silky, malevolent voice sending another shudder through her body, "But a promise is a promise…so here I am."

"S-Slade," Irene stammered, "How—you're dead. You're not real."

"I'm very real," he replied, rising from his seat and advancing smoothly toward her, arms locked smartly behind his back, "And you know why I'm here. It's time to pay your debt, little girl."

She numbly shook her head, her mind still reeling. This was impossible. Slade had died over a year ago, everybody knew that. The Titans had made a written statement. They'd seen him die with their own eyes—the man fell in a pit of lava, for God's sake! Watson, unhappy with the way she was crushing him to her chest, wriggled out of her arms with a protesting meow and landed on the red living room rug. Irene's eyes left Slade's only once, when she took another step backward and almost tripped on the rug. One brief glance downward at the apartment's hardwood floor and her gaze was glued to the man in front of her once again. He was a monster. There was nothing human in his cold, harsh stare but she couldn't look away.

"Don't, please. I have a life here, and family, and friends…I can't just disappear! I've—I've been accepted into Harvard law school!"

A babble of excuses poured out of her mouth. Irene couldn't hear what she was saying anymore, she only knew that it was a desperate plea for compassion and sympathy that wouldn't come. Irene fell silent out of fear when Slade took her face in his gloved hands and tilted it upward. She flinched at the contact, blinking back tears as she refused to look into his single piercing eye. His touch was rough and analytical, as if he were examining a particularly troublesome specimen, and Slade's black gloves were coarse against the sensitive skin of her jaw. Irene knew he was strong and he held Irene's face tilted at the angle he wanted with no effort, causing a slight strain in her neck. For a few seconds the only sound of in the apartment was her own panicked, shallow breathing.

"I told you I would come for you," Slade replied quietly, "I gave you four years to say goodbye, but now you belong to me."

At this declaration Irene attempted in vain to wrench herself free. All she succeeded in doing was making her neck muscles scream in protest as Slade's hands locked against her jawbone. She instinctively brought her hands up and started tugging at his wrists, trying in vain to pull his fingers away from her face.

"Get dressed. Wear something comfortable."

He finally let her go of his own accord and easily broke her grip. Irene's momentum worked against her. She stumbled backward, catching herself on the sofa and looking up at him through watery eyes. Slade stood in front of her with his arms folded, watching her every move. Maybe she should call 911. But if she did, they'd get here too late, so what did it matter? Irene was almost numb with shock. Desperation and sorrow would come later, when she thought about her parents and grandparents and friends, but for now the adrenaline in her veins kept her in a state of nervous panic. So she did what he said. Irene turned the corner and fled down the hall, stumbling blindly to her bedroom. The small, sparsely-decorated space seemed warmer and more inviting now that Irene had to leave it. She'd picked out everything herself, from the mahogany furniture to the light blue paint on the walls. This place was home, and now Slade wanted her to leave it all behind. Angrily swiping at her tears, Irene turned away and opened the closet door. Her movements were jerky. She was shaking as she yanked on a dark green jogging suit along with her "Jump City College" tank top. It was a desperate bid to hold on to a bit of her past, along with the treasured strand of pearls she swiped off of her nightstand. The clasp was difficult and she settled for stuffing them in her pocket. Surely Slade wouldn't object to her saving her grandmother's necklace, right?

She ran back out in the hallway and paused out of habit to check her reflection. Catching a glimpse of herself in her floor-length mirror, Irene flinched and wiped away her tears. Her green eyes were puffy and bloodshot and her hair was still very damp, laying flat and matted in different places. Irene put it up in a ponytail with the elastic band on her wrist and took deep, gulping breaths as she walked back out into the living room. He was still standing there, arms crossed in front of him as he waited for her come out. Slade's presence was making her hysterical and she averted her eyes as she stood in front of him and tried to keep from crying anymore.

"Time to go, Irene."

"Okay."

It was barely the ghost of a whisper, but she forced the word out just the same. Slade turned and headed to the door and she glanced over at Watson. She couldn't just leave him here all alone, could she? Without sparing a glance at Slade Irene fetched her cat and followed behind him. He shut the door and walked toward the stairwell. His footsteps made absolutely no sound despite the fact that he appeared to be wearing heavy, steel-toed boots. They took the three flights of stairs to the ground in silence, Irene forcing herself to stay at least three steps behind her captor at all times. Once they got outside Irene shivered in the nighttime fall air. They'd taken a side exit out into a small alley, where some of the residents' cars were parallel parked along the narrow street. The headlights of a nondescript, black BMW flickered on and she followed Slade to the car, wordlessly getting in the passenger seat. She put Watson in the back and scrunched down against the black leather seat, trying to make herself as small as possible. For a second Slade glanced behind him and Irene thought he was going to object, but he remained silent for a moment.

"Take off your jacket."

"What? Why?" Irene asked, as she instinctively clutched it tighter around her body.

"You heard me."

Slade reached over and took the zipper in his gloved hands, leaving her too paralyzed to move. Irene squirmed against the contact when the cold metal of his uniform bit painfully into her collarbone as he leaned in to get a better grip on her clothes. Slade yanked her sleeves down, exposing more of her arms to the cold air. He was definitely invading her personal space, but she did nothing except try to move away from him. Her jacket, however, was finally wrenched off despite her best efforts. Nothing but a tank top separated the two of them and she hugged her arms across her chest, drawing her feet up as well. She was used to thinking of Slade as a robot who mostly left her alone, but right now she wasn't exactly sure what he was planning on doing with-or to-her while she was trapped in his car. Irene let out a small yelp when he grabbed her left forearm, his vice-like grip putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on her skin and muscles.

"Relax, Irene."

She looked down and felt the small prick of a needle going into her arm. It was filled with some sort of clear fluid that Slade slowly shot into her, and before too long she realized that it was a sedative. Her body uncoiled, legs sliding back to the floor of their own accord. She slumped forward. Slade caught her and adjusted her unresponsive body back in the passenger seat, and last thing she heard before everything faded to black was the sound of the car starting up.

Author's Note: Please read and review! Suggestions/comments are always welcome.