Inspired by latenight marathons of Amnesia: The Dark Descent gamepay and the pure awesome that is young justice RPG dot com, Rush decided to write a fic about it. I feel much more motivated to write about this fic, and I'm hoping it'll get a lot more loving attention and updates. A little hesitant posting this since, Rush has never ever written a horror fic or in the present tense, so if you guys wanna be amazing and point out any grammatical errors, that'd be totally turbing.

Young Justice needs updating because it's being neglected by the fine people at CN.

Please, keep your wits about you, and be on the look out for tinduhboxes.

So Slips Our Sanity

He is trained for this.

Deep breath in.

The lonely candle, dripping atop a wooden crate, casts a sickly glow on the scene. His assaliant is back-lit, face concealed by shadow. The hilt of long, jagged knife is pressed into his assaliant's hand. He can see the glint of a rusted blade. But he can't focus on that. It's better not to think about what's coming. Otherwise the panic, the fear, will consume him. And he is trained for this.

Dreep breath out.

His assaliant- male, judging by his hulking frame and big hands- breaths into his face. It smells hot and stale. A bit spitefully, he thinks his assaliant could use a tic-tac, otherwise, his assaliant doesn't need the knife; his breath is more than a sufficient means of torture. His sarcastic musings do not distract his focus, and he remains limp in his chains, head drooping down so his chin touched his chest. Behind his mask, his eyes- concealed by two lenses of white- are half-lidded, uncaring and dull. His enire body sags agains the iron bonds on his wrists and ankles. If he tenses, it will only hurt worse. He wishes it would start already, because if he was going to be truthful... the wait, the anticipation for his skin to rip and his blood to spill... it was worse than the actual punishment. No. No fear. He is trained for this.

Deep breath in.

Already, his ribs are bruised; while it would've been nice to remember how that came about, he doesn't fret over the how and why, intent on how best to respond to his situations. Along with his aching abdomen, his wrists are raw from the manacles, skin rubbed red and slightly bloody. Oddly, he can't help but feel that he is lucky. Compared to who or what? He can't say. It's all fuzzy as he tries to reach back into his memory. Beneath his lifeless facade, it frustrates him. He feels that normally, he has an excellent memory. But again, he can't say why. All he knows? He was trained for this.

Deep breath out.

He is getting nervous. His fear is getting harder to control as the blade has yet to make contact with his skin. Nor has a hand made contact with him. Still, he hangs limp. He hears three footsteps. Then a boot, scuffed with a mix of dried mud and muck comes into view on the stone floor beneath him. He can hear his assaliant's breathing. Nearly as even as his own. Unconsiously, his forefinger twitches. Then he is still again.

Deep breath in.

His fear, it was rising in his throat. He stubbornly refuses to give in to it. It is almost a relief when the blade finally enters his vision, to impress gently against his chest. It has enough pressure behind it for him to feel the cool metal through his tunic, but not enough to rip the kevlar weave. He does not allow himself to tense or shiver. His small body hangs weakly against it, pulse quickening slightly. Quietly, he licks his lips, tasting the dryness of his mouth. Just do it, he thought.

Deep, shaky breah out.

As soon as he exhales, the blade shreds through his skin. He intakes sharply, already bleeding, the warmth seeping down into his shirt. But besides that, he makes no noise. He objectifies himself, recoiling from his body. A medatative trick his mentor taught him. His mentor. In his distatched state, he thinks clearly, ignoring the steel biting into his flesh, drawing lines of red across his pale skin. His mentor. Dark. Caped. Caped Crusader. Batman! ...That means he...he is Robin? The information suddenly floods his brain. Robin. Boy Wonder. Civilain ID: Richard John Grayson. Son of John and Mary Grayson. Adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Father. A rush of desperate desire tears through him, clawing his throat. Batman would know what to do. He would save him. A thought brushes his mind: Did the pain bring back memories?

Shallow breath in.

Robin ignores the blood flowing down his sides. As long as he keeps his heart rate slow... he would be fine. He would be fine. Heart rate slow, think of a plan. His utility belt is not cinched around his waist. His gloves and his boots are gone, leaving his hands and feet bare. Though his fingers relax vaguely brushing around the manacles encircling his wrists, his toes curl, the only sign that he is in pain.

Shuddering breath out.

He is aware he is alone again. Somehow, he must have missed his assailant leaving, perhaps bored of his lack of response. His head swims, unable to remember how long he had been alone, or even when the carvings into his skin had ceased; the gap made the boy nervous. Had he blacked out? Robin had a clear view of the crisscrossing gashes of raw red and ripped cloth, the leftovers of his costume. He sighs, the breath causing his aching chest to expand, igniting another throbbing burst of pain throughout his ribcage. Everything is still fuzzy, but he'll figure a way to escape. All he needed was a little bit of luck. His toes splay out, stretching to graze the cell floor, searching. The chink of chains sound explosively loud in the oppressive silence, making Robin grit his teeth. For the first time, he tastes blood, but like the rest of it, he ignores the metallic ooze coating his teeth. His toes brush against a forgotten scrap of iron.

Uneven breath in.

Focusing, he grabs the iron between his toes, then, aware he has one shot, flicks it upward. The candlelight is his saving grace, allowing him to track its progress through the air. His aim is true, and he snatches the metal scrap in his hand, running his fingers over its jagged edge, breath coming in quick gasps. He has his means of escape. His training- from Batman, he reminds himself, fiercely clinging to his identity- enables him to use such a useless piece of metal and turn it into the means of his escape. Quelling the protest from his raw right wrist, Robin picks the lock, with slow, dilberateness. Inside, he was panicking, frantic to be freed, but that irrational (well... it was actually very rational at this point) fear would more likely than not cause a mistake. And with his chest a bleeding mess, mistakes could potentially endanger his life. Robin optimistically believes his wounds are more superficial than harmful, but reserves judgement. Once he gained his bearings, patching himself up is on his list of things to do.

Hacking cough out, to clear the phlegm.

Robin's right hand is first, his entire body dangling forward by his left arm, the manacale cutting into his already raw wrist. He winces but gives a shaky sigh of relief. Curling sideways, he reaches up, carefully jiggling the makeshift lockpick in the manacle. With a crisp, blessed click the manacle opens. His body falls forward, gracelessly, landing on his elbows and knees, teeth gritting as the impact jars him. The floor is hard stone, leaving bruises to purple beneath his skin. His head raises, scanning the room, tongue running over his teeth, again tasting blood.

Stuttering intake.

The cell is small, square. That lone candle shows him the door, and he crawls to it, unwilling to trust his legs just yet. It's a thick wooden door. And if his cell isn't enough to remind him of an old European castle, this door, with its wrought iron handle and wooden construction definitely is. His breath spawns tiny clouds of white fog. And suddenly he is aware. He is cold. Very cold. Chill settling in beneath his tattered clothing. His eyes narrow scrutinizingly beneath his mask. Then he grips the iron handle, a circle with deadbolted latch, and pulls himself to his bare feet. He rattles the handle, hoping that somehow it'll open just like that. Then, knowing it won't, because realistically who would leave a prisoner in an unlocked cell, he turns, leaning against the door, eyes probing the cell around him.

Irregular exhale.

There's a pot of something tucked beside the crate. At first, his gaze moves over the pot, missing it because of the shadows cast by the candlelight. Unsteadily, he bends down to take it in his hands, bringing it up beneath his nose. An experimental sniff tells him all he needs to know. Oil. Robin dips his fingers into the pot, then with this callused fingers sufficiently coated, he brushes them in a circle around the door's handle, swirling his fingers through the oil as needed. Once he is finished he grabs the candle, accidentally spilling searing wax over his knuckles. He sucks in a breath, but carries the candle steadily to the door none the less. Robin smirks at the door. It is a tiny smirk, blood smearing the edge of his lips. Then, he tosses the flame at the door. Immediately the oil catches, sickly yellow fire eating up the door's woodwork. Smoke begins to pour from the flames as the door weakened. Well, Robin thinks neutrally, I don't feel so cold anymore.

Exhilirated intake.

As smoke fills the ajoining corridor, a figure, silent as a shadow, creeps out of the black cloud. Robin is free, bare feet padding softly against the cold stones. Now, all he needs to do was escape. But, he reminds himself, forcing down the fear and confusion, when one was trained by Batman, how hard could it be? An indistinct smirk, a slight show of confidence and defiance, lights on his stained lips. The boy doesn't look back as he disappears into the gloom, listening to the quickened beat of his heart.

I think, despite Robin being the physically weakest of the team, he's got mental fortitude that'd make Batman proud. Hence why there was no whimpering or broken Robins running around in this chapter. But never fear, there's plenty of time for several meltdowns later on. I loves me some angst.

Reviews are adored and mounted on my wall. HEE.

Next up, we'll get to see why Robin was one of the lucky ones...