I wrote this a while ago but decided to scrap it because it felt like too much. Decided to post it anyway just for entertainment's sake. Hope you enjoy!
He'd known instantly something was wrong when Slade gave orders to come, immediately.
Even if he'd had any inkling whatsoever of what faced him, he had no choice to come when Slade asked (told) him too. It uncomfortably reminded him of Bruce, because he'd never really had a choice when he wanted to see him either, but there was definitely a more malicious intent with Slade. He walked in knowing that.
But there was something even worse this time.
The echoing of his footsteps told him there was more than just Slade there. There were three of his robots, and the usual things. His robots (except for the metal copies of Slade himself, which were always somehow perfectly like a man) were always off, their weight never lifelike. It was always too near their feet or their head, and their punches and kicks and even footsteps set off warning bells in his head. From the beginning, he'd known they were robots, and the fact Slade hadn't cared if he'd known made sense now. He'd wanted him to. It made those Slade decoys fool him even more easily.
It honestly pissed him off he'd been tricked with so little effort. He hated those robots.
"Take your shirt off."
The words broke his thoughts, and without a word, he obediently followed orders, despite the nervousness suddenly settling in his stomach.
He hadn't even time to get dressed properly, his scarred bare feet far too cold against the metal floor. Slade had even controlled the clothing he was allowed to sleep in, the pants and t-shirt far too tight. He didn't mind form-fitting, as he couldn't have worn his Robin outfit otherwise, but it was wrong. The texture itched and almost irritated his skin, and even if it probably wouldn't have really bothered a normal person, he hated it more than his villain uniform.
Slade probably knew that too, the bastard, which made this all the more suspicious.
"Tie him down."
He stiffened (god he was going to have even more issues with touch now, wasn't he?) as the cool metal hands secured around his arms and pulled him forward and down into a chair. He knew better than to struggle. A metal bond instead of fingers tightened down his right wrist onto the arm of the chair, and another a couple inches above his elbow. On the other arm, he only gets one across his wrist. Bad, bad sign.
"I don't care that you're blind."
The way Slade says this almost makes him flinch, but he settles for a grimace instead.
"I really don't. I think it only increases your potential, because despite your disability, look what you've become? With my guidance, you'll become even more."
As if, he thinks. He only gets more nervous when he hears the clink of iron as Slade picks something up. He's slowly walking away, towards the heat on the other side of the room.
"However, something is bothering me."
Cold, his voice is too cold. He knows from previous bouts of anger how bad that is.
"Your team, your previous family, they all can see something you can't. My mark on you." He was talking about the uniform right? He'd felt it on weapons Slade had left many times before, that 'S'. His stomach dropped.
"They know that you're mine, without a doubt. It is not the Batman's Robin uniform on you. Now you wear one of my own design. But you don't see that."
"I can feel the difference," he said stiffly, not liking where this was going at all.
"Don't talk," he orders without skipping a beat, suddenly walking towards him again. "That's not what I mean. Besides, you'll have plenty use of your lungs in a moment. Patience."
Well, that didn't make him feel better at all.
"So I came up with something I rather like. The uniform is for them to know, but this is just for you. Just for to remember who you belong to."
Something hot moved with Slade, closer to him with every word.
"If you know what's good for you, don't move. Otherwise you'll ruin it."
Like I even can, he wants to say, but he can't as Slade presses the iron against his shoulder, and he screams. The searing hot pain (combined with the mental implications of what is happening) is worse than any pain he's ever been through, and hot tears run down his face, but he barely notices. This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening, he recites, and he can't even tell if it's just a mental mantra or if he's actually saying it aloud.
He doesn't have time to decide as he promptly passes out.
Hours later, he wakes, and his left hand instantly snaps up his right shoulder. Stabbing pain and soft bandages meet his fingers, and he bites his lip to keep himself from crying out.
I'm sorry, he thinks, all he can think when he's so numb. The voices and the sounds of the Titans flask through his mind. He was going to come home and be fine, get right back to life. They weren't going to worry because he'd be okay. But now... He'd failed them. This was a physical reminder that he'd failed them.
I'm sorry.