A/N: -.x Don't blame me; this is all Wynja's fault. She demanded that everyone go forth and write Sladin, and so of course I told her that I'm not a writer and that it'd be a bad idea and that there's no way in hell. And I meant it, too! And yet... So now you'll all just have to suffer the consequences. My apologies. Thanks to the people who reviewed Understanding, though you also share a part of the blame for encouraging me.

Anyways, I am not delusional enough (yet) to believe that I own Teen Titans; all lines of dialogue in this chapter belong to someone else, yadda yadda yadda... And for purposes of this story, let us assume that the events in The Apprentice took place over a somewhat longer time frame than is actually the case.

Oh, and fyi -- christ, the auto-formatting bullshit they nail you with now really freaking sucks. Is this new? Either way, someone really needs to update this site. Again, I mean. This never used to be a problem... (fumes)


Masquerade
by Dream

"And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade."
-Alexander Pope

The thing about masks is that no matter how uncomfortable the fit, if one wears the mask often enough it starts to feel like it belongs there. The wearer slowly ceases to notice the feeling of the material against his face; his skin becomes more resilient where the mask tends to chafe and cause irritation. When others get accustomed to the sight and cease drawing attention to the mask, it is surprisingly easy for the wearer to forget its existence altogether. It becomes as a part of him as his eyes or his skin, always present but rarely noticed. In time it becomes the absence of the mask that is unfamiliar. The skin becomes sensitized, so that when the mask is removed even the slightest breeze against one's face sets off alarms. It feels freeing somehow, pleasant in its rarity, yet there is also a sense of insecurity. Somehow after such a long time in the mask it has not only ceased to bother the wearer but has became a comfort. He suddenly feels naked, as exposed as if he had forgotten to put on his pants that morning and then taken a walk somewhere very public.

Masks of a more symbolic nature, however, can be far more dangerous in their subtlety. To don one successfully over significant periods of time requires no small skill at acting, and any actor worth his salt will admit that to be wholly convincing one must necessarily cultivate one's latent inclinations towards schizophrenia. It is not enough to study the behaviour one wishes to project; one must try to think the way that particular persona would think, to react to stimuli the way that persona would react. In essence, it is not so much acting as becoming, and therein the danger lies. For no ordinary human, no matter how disciplined and how studied in the art, can convincingly adopt a new persona without having the potential to be that person in the first place. He must truly understand the mask he wears, think the way the mask thinks, and thus if he continues to keep up the charade for too long he will start to find it more and more difficult to slip the mask on and off. Pieces of the mask will start to slip into the 'true' personality; he will start to behave in ways that he may not have believed himself capable of, as what had previously been two distinctly separate personalities start to meld into one. The wearer slowly comes to realize, and often with no small amount of horror, that he can no longer distinguish between the 'real' and the 'fake' personalities. As with the physical mask, having worn it for so long he has become altogether too comfortable in it; it has become a part of him. In fact, a particularly honest wearer might come to realize, it has always been part of him. If he had not constructed it from bits of repressed and unexplored personality traits to begin with he would never have been so successful in his charade in the first place. No longer forced to sit dormant, these traits have deepened and gained hold over the past several months, slowly imposing themselves over those that had previously been dominant. In time the mask may start to feel like the truth, the original the mask. For as any good actor knows, no one can keep up a part for long without making it his own. To wholly switch between multiple personalities at the drop of a hat one must be truly mad, and severely at that.

And even then…

"I know it seems bad now, but trust me … you'll learn to like it."

Robin spends many hours lying awake that night, fingering the new mask he's been given. It's nearly identical to his old one but curves up at the sides into sharp points, and somehow this makes it feel as strange and oppressive against his skin as if Slade has given Robin one of the villain's own masks to wear. If his friends were to see him like this, he wonders, would they even recognize him? The costume Slade has forced on him isn't actually so different from his old one, but he can't help but feel that Slade has given him a new identity with the mask. Robin would never have willingly donned Slade's colours. Robin would never have let Slade clap a hand on his shoulder as though they were comrades. Robin would certainly never agree to follow Slade's orders, regardless of where they fell in terms of legality of morality. Robin's friends knew these things, or so he'd hope, and that's why he feels like they might not recognize him now, despite the poor job his costume does in concealing his identity. Or more accurately, he doesn't want them to. But if he doesn't find a way out of this mess soon, eventually he's going to have to come face to face to them. Slade will no doubt make sure of that. Robin is equally certain that the man will order him to attack his friends, to kill them if possible. Slade will be satisfied with nothing less than their utter defeat at his hands.

And the worst part of it all is that Robin suspects that he's going to go along with it. Much as he's trying to hold onto the hope that there would be an opportunity to escape, that the Titans will figure out what has happened and find a way to counter it, that Slade will have a heart attack and drop dead – he knows that the odds aren't very good for him, and that means he's going to have to abandon his preferred methods of combat and resort to heavy strategy and subterfuge to foil Slade's plans, the villain's own favorite tactics. It's going to be very difficult; Slade seemed to have seen through his Red X disguise in an instant, and that was under the best possible circumstances. This time he's on Slade's turf, and it's going to be far more difficult to hide his plans. That means that it's going to take time, and lots of it; he will have to hold his cards close as Slade himself, and the slightest slip up could mean his failure.

The strategy is quite simple, of course. Over the course of several weeks he will make it seem as though he's slowly giving in to Slade, and in doing so he will gain Slade's trust. Then he will simply wait until that trust provides him with an opportunity to destroy the trigger. It's really all he can do at the moment, and Slade will no doubt be expecting it. Robin can only hope that an opportunity will come along soon, and that he won't screw it up.

Robin finally falls into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, and is woken much too soon for his first training session. Robin is used to running on very little sleep, but that day he really could have used it. Slade works him long and hard, and when he's finally allowed to return to his quarters that night he collapses onto the bed and immediately slips into unconsciousness, too exhausted to dream, let alone plot.

Slade glances at the screen showing Robin's sleeping visage frequently as he works that night, smirking to himself beneath the hard metal of his mask. It has begun.

"That's not Slade. That's…"

"Robin."

His confrontation with the Titans comes even sooner than he'd expected. Evidently Slade is already quite satisfied with his skills, and is more interested in showing off his new toy.

"Robin! Why are you…?"

He had tried to steel himself against what he knew he would have to do, but the few hours he'd been given weren't nearly enough. Maybe that was Slade's plan. In any case, it's one of the hardest things he's ever had to do, and that he manages it at all is a staggering testament to the strength of will instilled by Batman's training. Of course, he's certain that Batman had never intended him to use his training like this.

"Not a word, Robin. They're not your friends anymore."

Hearing Starfire cry out after he attacks her is surreal, almost too much for him to take. Robin, the leader of the Teen Titans, would never, ever have hurt her like that. He would have died before raising a hand against her. But he's Slade's apprentice now, he firmly reminds himself. And Slade's apprentice does do these things, and will probably do much worse. Just for a little longer, just until Slade slips up. He will continue to be that person, because he has to be.

"Excellent, Robin. I'm pleased. You've already proven to be the perfect apprentice."

So later that evening when Slade praises him for a job well done, Robin doesn't crush the sudden, perverse thrill of pride that sparks in him as violently as he would have any other time. When he talks back to Slade and maintains his rebellious attitude it's not just his resentment talking; it's strategy. Slade's apprentice is allowed to feel a little pride, but because he's not broken in yet he's also allowed to strike back in whatever small ways he can. Robin likes those parts of his little charade best, even taking into account the bruises that inevitably result.

"You're going to keep stealing, Robin. You're going to keep getting that thrill. And sooner or later, you will see things my way."

Good. Let Slade taunt him with his body's responses, let Slade think that some part of him likes it. Let Slade think that that means anything. Robin keeps to his strategy as carefully as he can, pushing a little too hard here, reacting just a tad too defensively there. He plays like the bird making a show of trying to hide its broken wing, leading the cat away from its nest with such subtlety that when the bird suddenly leaps up and flies away, the cat is left disoriented and vulnerable in its frustration. He just has to make sure this isn't one of those times where the cat reacts too quickly and pounces before the end of the game. For the sake of his friends, though, Robin knows that he can do anything.

And so later that night, when Slade follows him into his room to give him his 'reward' for a job well done, Robin doesn't fight as hard as he could have. He claws and he kicks and shares with Slade some of his less charitable opinions of the man, but not to the point where the villain will be forced to seriously hurt him to get him to comply. When Slade turns off the lights and removes his mask in the darkness, he restrains himself from trying to smash that unseen face in, and when Slade joins with him in a way he'd only been vaguely aware was possible he allows himself to be distracted by the hand on his cock, ungloved hands caressing his skin, and the strange sparks of pleasure when Slade moves against what he assumes must be his prostate. It costs him in pride, but in some ways it's easier than stubbornly trying to remain unresponsive – and besides, he isn't really Robin right now, is he? This is just another opportunity to make it look like he's breaking, another way to make the broken wing look that much more believable. There's nothing wrong with accepting a little pleasure when it's required for the mission, no reason for the sense of indescribable loss that overcomes him when Slade gives him a final kiss on the lips, chuckles in satisfaction, and finally leaves him alone for the night. No reason for the sense of betrayal the rises within him when he calls out Slade's name in the throws of passion the following evening, either. It's all just an act, after all; he's only doing what he needs to win.

"Sooner or later, you'll let your guard down. I will get that controller. And the instant they're out of danger, you will pay."

"You're not walkin' out of here, Robin. Not without a fight."

Robin runs at Cyborg with a growl that's not entirely feigned, his frustration at his team's blindness coming out in the only way that's safe. He doesn't want to fight them, God he doesn't want to fight them, but Slade's never going to let him ignore a direct challenge like that.

He beats them soundly that night, taking ruthless advantage of their hesitance to hurt him. He tells himself that he'd had to, that Slade would have killed them if he'd disobeyed. He tells himself that he'd done everything he could to avoid injuring them, even at the risk of incurring Slade's further wrath.

It doesn't really help.

So Robin carefully fixes the mask of increasingly desperate rebellion on his face and prays that his team got the message.

"Uh, I know where Robin picked up that heat ray, but … where did he learn that little glowy hurty trick?"

"Robin!"

As Robin runs for the machine a million thoughts flash through his mind. He wonders if he's gone mad to even consider doing what he's about to do, if he's throwing away the possibility of a later opportunity for escape only to get them all killed. Slade really does hate to lose, and he's nothing if not ruthless. Even if it means losing the apprentice he's worked so hard to obtain, it's likely that he'll take their lives as compensation. There are few villains of Slade's temperament who would let their enemies go after holding their lives in the palm of his hand.

Along with these thoughts, however, come the memory of the pride he feels when Slade praises him. Intense sparring sessions that don't require him to hold anything back, finding himself improving at a rate he hadn't thought himself capable of. He remembers the Titans staying on the defensive even after it becomes very obvious that Robin isn't there to talk, risking injury to try to get him to explain himself, and he remembers a single eye measuring him in a way that burns, making him feel uncomfortable and exposed but strangely breathless with anticipation. Casual touches during training, leaving him feeling almost as dirty as he does after coming back from a mission – and inexplicably more excited. His friends come to save him, even knowing that the cost will most likely be their lives. Slade's hands bandaging his arm after a particularly rough fight with more care than is strictly necessary, and the tears falling from Starfire's eyes.

Robin prepares to launch himself those last all-important feet to the poisonous glow that will grant him either death or salvation, and … hesitates.

And then Slade's there, tackling him to the ground with bruising force. They slide against the floor, the villain's much larger bulk pressing him painfully to the ground. Later he'll find out that Slade was too late, that his fingers had just barely brushed against the machine and he'd been infected with enough of the nanoprobes to make Slade's continued usage of them hazardous to his health. Later he'll find out that Slade destroyed the trigger himself, but was able to escape before the Titans could regroup. At the time, however, Robin hits his head on one of the gears, and combined with the nanoprobes it's enough to pull him from consciousness. When he wakes he's on a bed in the sickbay, a nasty headache pounding at his temples and making him feel vaguely sick.

The first thing he sees is Slade's face.

He isn't sure where they are, but he's reasonably certain that it's not Jump City. Slade tells him about what happened unconcernedly, and, as far as Robin can tell, truthfully, but Robin knows that Slade's ambitions are anything but crushed. He will find other ways to control his apprentice, more reliable ways, and until that time comes he won't let the boy out of his sight.

In the meantime, Robin feels like he's finally starting to run out of defiance. He glares at Slade stubbornly, refuses to apologize for his actions even when Slade's hand threatens to crush his windpipe, and then submits tamely to his master's will when he's led to the new training hall for a few rounds of sparring.

He will just have to keep playing the apprentice for a little bit longer. In the meantime, he might as well enjoy kicking Slade's ass – and the deep satisfaction they share equally between them when Robin is nearly successful.

A/N: (disgruntled) This isn't how I was expecting this to go at all... What do you think, should I continue this? Review and I may consider it... -.o;