bWho is Red X?/b
This question; simple enough to ask but is probably one of the most difficult to answer.
Originally it was I, Robin: The Boy Wonder, who went by the persona of Red X. I created the suit and the itoys/i. All for purpose of finding out the identity of another psychopathic criminal.
I thought I had it all planned out. It seemed simple. The Red X approach was fool proof. Or so I thought. I hurt my friends and I've never truelly forgiven myself for that. I dought they trust me as well as they did before that despite what they tell me. They know what I'm capable of now. I can lower myself to ithat level/i if I so wish.
Unfortunately for me, my plan failed. I ifailed/i. Until that day, the word 'fail' wasn't even in my dictionary. That criminal I mentioned before; smarter than I thought. I won't make that mistake again. I ican not/i make that mistake again.
I locked it away. I watched the door swing shut and dead lock seal.
So how did he get it?
How did this person steal imy/i technology, right from under imy/i nose?
They couldn't have been just some random kid feeling the teenage hormones kicking in. They would have to know ime/i pretty well to figure out all the passwords. They would have to be: quick, agile, strong and educated as to how such a suit even works. And then to use it and be able to fight as well as I do. Well. They would have to have been trained by the very ibest/i.
He pushes my buttons. He pushes them hard. And he does it on purpose. Like he's mocking me for something I've previously done.
I could know this person. He could be an old friend. He could even me a ishe/i in disguise. And I know nothing of this person. Or do I?
It's a Friday night. The clock dead on midnight. A quick breeze whistles past my window.
I'm leaning against the back wall of my dimly lit room. These walls plastered with; article's from different news papers, photo's, letters and other little reminders of things I don't iever/i want to forgot. They taunt me. These images. All these words. Things from my past. The memories echoeing inside me. Screaming at me.
I narrow my eyes at this object in my hand. It's smooth all over and it sometimes catches against my gloved fingers. It white and dirty and cold. I hate it. The red symbol in the middle stands out and I'm crazy enough to even say I hear it laughing at me. Telling me how much of a ifailure/i I am. I lean my head back and hear a small thud as it connects with the paper covered wall and slowly bring the frustrating commodity infront of my masked face.
"Who are you?" I murmer bitterly.