Author's Note: As promised, the second story of a two fic deal, the sister fic of Fallen Olympus on ShadowMajin's account. That one's starting to go full speed ahead, so if you haven't looked it up, do. And speaking of looking up, any newbies checking this story out should know that this is a sequel to a previous story, Three Sides of Fate that you can find on my account. It's all part of a fanmade universe between ShadowMajin and myself, starting with The Ninth Circle on ShadowMajin's account. By my count, this is story twelve and we're still going full speed. So yeah, a lot to catch up on.

Now, this is a larger expansion of this fanmade universe, the first one being the first Justice League story. So there will be a few old characters, a lot newer characters added, and hopefully some twists and takes on some well-known origins. So whether you want to sit down and start with this one or go back to the ten completed stories that came before it, whatever you do, enjoy.

Disclaimer: We do not own Teen Titans

Warning: language, violence, death

She Fell from Uranus

Space travel was a highly complicated process. Even for an advanced race such as those under the rule of the Citadel, many factors came into play when planning and executing a voyage among the stars.

For one, Outer Space was enormous, mind-boggling so. Even their mighty rulers could not fathom the distances from one end of a galaxy to the other, much less that of the universe itself. Second, there were no landmarks, and those that existed were so small that they were easy to miss. Even objects as big as planets or mighty as stars could not serve you. Experienced pilots were always in demand as a result.

Lastly, there were areas of space that had...reputations. Some were ones that were avoided due to reputation, some gained through dangerous and hostile means, or simply the treacherousness of the sector. Others held a preferable reputation because there was much more traffic in them. If you were in danger, such as your ship was compromised, help would not be too far away. Piracy in such places was minimal, unless you were in Space claimed by a species that overlooked such practices.

It was by the first reason that the Gordanian cruiser traveled in this particular sector. There were rumors about it, hushed whispers of some sort of force that resided in it. What it was, no one under the rule of the Citadel knew, not even their esteemed rulers knew. What they did know was they were...cautious, not fearful. To admit fear was to admit weakness.

For this particular cruiser, the reputation of this sector was a tool for them. Their cargo was very sensitive, and there was a condition that they not be caught with it. To avoid piracy, or the eyes of certain law enforcing parties, they entered this particular sector of Space. It would deter anyone following them, ensuring their continued safety...so long as the force alleged to reside in it remained dormant.

Many a time this particular crew used this route, they knew what to expect. Superstition kept them quiet and on edge, as if a single sound would disrupt the tentative balance and doom them all.

This tenseness was felt by their cargo. Confusion was felt by it, but not to the point that it began to panic. Far from it. Instead, it felt...anticipatory. For so long, its transporters had been nothing but arrogant. Boastful. Abusive. That they were now meek was peculiar. Very peculiar.

To the cargo, it was opportunity.

Other than being warlike, there was one thing that the Gordanians were known for. That is, they were slavers and slave traders. Thus their cargo was a living organism. They gained their slaves through various means, whether through force, through treaties, or through other various dealings. This particular cargo was in the third group.

The cargo was not happy about it. Unfortunately, the Gordanians had their means to control even the most unruly of slaves, it—her included. She was a her, not an it, as these vile beings had been forcing into her brain. Sometimes it was hard to hold on to that bit of self, especially in such harsh circumstances.

As was mentioned earlier, the Gordanians were arrogant. Usually, they had reason to be. However, that did not mean the occasion always called for it. In her holdings, they had bound her in restraints that could hold even the strongest of warriors. Pure physical might would not free you. And even if you could free yourself, the Gordanians knew of hand-to-hand combat. Strength alone would not set you free.

It was a good thing that she had one last ability that could even the odds.

It was new, somewhat untested for her, but right now the option to fully explore it was not an option. If she was to take this opportunity, she needed to do it right now no matter the risk to herself.

It took a moment, but she could begin to feel her energy, her very life essence, as it flowed throughout her battered body. With willpower, she began to manipulate that energy, directing it into her hands. She could the warmth collect there, and with more concentration, she began to concentrate it.

The minutes ticked by, building on her anxiety. How much time she had left, she did not know. She needed to hurry, before she lost her chance—!

She tensed the muscles in her arms, accessing her physical strength. As her energy continued to collect in her hands, the Gordanian-made metal began to give in, becoming more and more malleable from the intense heat. Green light began to leak out of the restraints before she finally, finally, was able to pull one hand then the other out of captivity.

Her hands were covered with a green light, and even though she was begging to breathe deeply, she continued to act, pressing her glowing limbs down on the bondage devices that held her feet. She continued to pump more and more energy into her hands, her desperate need for freedom growing by the second.

Then her concentration broke. It was but for a second, and in that second, she almost despaired at losing that precious, precious energy. Much to her surprise, that energy she had summoned detonated, damaging her leg restraints enough that she was able to pull free of them.

That was unexpected. She had not known about that, but that was something to explore. Later. When she had more freedom than was offered by this compact space.

She eyed the door that served as her next obstacle. Again, she began channeling her energy was once more, prepared to direct it at the lock securing the metal barrier. She hesitated for a moment as footsteps approached. That sound had ever warranted fear in her, as whoever approached this door never had benevolent intentions.

But that was before. That was when she was helpless. And as the door opened, she was not helpless anymore.

She released the energy she held, the green colored bolt racing through air and space and striking the Gordanian on the other side, piercing through his armor as if it did not provide any protection. Yellow eyes widened, almost bulging out of their sockets as a green-skinned hands lifted up to probe the hole. Pitching forward, the slaver collapsed in front of her, lying still as smoke fumed from his back.

She...she had done this. She had…

Her fists clenched. She had found her way out of here. She would ponder the consequences later.

Now was the time to escape.

Out of the small room she ran, feet pounding on the metal floor. Any time she came across one of her capturers, she would fire another blast of her life energy, clearing the way as she continued searching for a means to further her escape. She began to duck as plasma blasts were fired after her, a group of Gordanians filling the corridor behind her.

Quickly, she turned down another, her eyes continuing to desperately find her way out of here. She could not be taken captive again. She would not. The fate that awaited her would be so much crueler than death itself.

As the blasts began to fire from behind her again, she raised a hand behind her and fired another shot of her life energy, temporarily stopping the shooting. She shot blast after blast, hoping to buy herself time as she turned down another corridor.

Abruptly skidding to a stop, she threw herself at a nearby door. Raising a fist, she threw it with all her strength and punched through it. Ripping open a hole large enough for her to pass through, she found herself in another, much larger room. Unlike the one that she had escaped previously, this one was much more welcome.

This cruiser had escape vessels, and she had found their loading bay.

She entered the nearest one, shutting it behind her. Whether it was locked did not matter right now; she would need to reach the controls to ensure her successful flight out of her. She gave a sigh when she found it, quickly activating it and finding that she was able to understand the language that appeared on the monitor.

Then again, she had had no choice in learning the foul language in the first place.

She engaged the launch sequence, strapping herself into the pilot's seat as the vessel began to move. Through the viewing glass ahead, the darkness of the ship was replaced by the much preferred sight of the stars themselves. She almost gazed at them with wonder before her gaze fell onto a nearby planet. Her brow furrowed in determination as she fired up the engines, guiding her spacecraft to the potential haven before her.

Her eyes widened as a blast of energy almost hit her. The Gordanians were not keen with her leaving, most likely trying to destroy this ark of hope for her. She would not let them stop her. Not now. Not when she was so close.

The ship rocked as it was struck, but she kept it as steady as she could, the planet growing closer and closer. Another hit had alarms blaring at her that the ship was critically hit, warning her that another would end this escape once and for all. Then a text box appeared on the monitor in front of her, another warning but of a different variety. There was a good chance that due to the damage sustained so far, the ship would break apart when entering the atmosphere in front of her. Aborting entry was advisable.

Not a chance. Anything that was certain survival meant recapture. Never again. She would have to risk it.

Koriand'r would never be enslaved again.

She accelerated as the view of the planet began to turn red and fire engulfed her craft.

The days where he had patrolled the city of Gotham, perched on rooftops and generally kicking ass wherever he went, for the most part, seemed like another lifetime. The times where he had his back watched by his two older teammates, doing what little they could against the forces that threatened the city periodically were fond memories.

Tim Drake gave a sigh as he walked down the sidewalk, hands gripping the straps of his backpack. Yep, this was his new reality, life as an average teenager once again. Not that he had a choice to go back to it. That didn't stop him from yearning for it.

Once, though, he had been part of a team, one that called itself the Batclan. For various reasons. He had been the youngest of the three, and he would claim the handsomest no matter what Dick had to say about it. He also considered himself to be the most investigative, more like a detective whereas his older partners were either the muscle or the computer expert. He also tried his hand at computers too, but Barbara outshined him too much for him to make it his "thing."

So while he may not have had the fighting or acrobatic skills of Nightwing or the quick-witted and logistically-minded as Oracle, as she called herself nowadays, he still felt as Robin that he had brought something to the group. Ambition was something he solely bet on, but he'd like to think that investigations were where his strengths shined the most.

For years he had used the name of Robin to try to fight crime and make his home city a better place. It wasn't as easy as it looked, and they had a lot of competition out there as well. Not to mention the legendary Batman himself guarded the city so zealously.

In the last year, though, everything went to shit.

That was the easiest way to describe it. Even now, Tim didn't have the full picture. What he did know was that the former district attorney, Harvey Dent, went crazy and plunged the city into a mob war. Calling himself Two-face, he had always been unpredictable. It brought Gotham to its knees, and only kept getting worse and worse. Because of all that, his parents decided to make a clean start here in Jump City, his new home of sorts.

At first, Tim had wanted to stay and fight for Gotham until the bitter end. Perhaps if he or any of the other city's vigilantes were able to stop Two-face, then maybe his parents would change their minds. That was before the big pivotal moment happened that changed Tim's role in that war.

Even now, he could still feel Two-face's fingers pressing against his nose and removing his mask. That's right, he had fallen captive to the half-ugly bastard and had been unmasked. Worse yet, Two-face had recognized him and his vigilante career in Gotham was all over. Batman himself had stated it best for him to move out of the city as fast as possible.

And so here he was, in a new city, at a new school, surrounded by people he didn't really know but had to get along with anyway if he wanted to build some kind of life here. It was so freaking stereotypical Hollywood that Tim was waiting for some kind of teen drama to invade his life and make things that much more miserable.

Oh get over yourself Tim. You had to do this, if only so the folks wouldn't be too worried about you. That's the last thing he needed.

Yeah, he loved his mom and dad as much as the next teen. Hell, he probably cared about them too much if he didn't say so himself. For them, the city they had left had become a place of bad memories and broken promises. They were lucky, able to pack up their lives and go some place else to start anew. Few people really understood what that meant.

Jump City was supposed to be a new start. A brighter place, one so far removed from Gotham both in image and in distance, that the Drake family could start working on some new memories. Better memories. Memories that were worth having.

Which is what leads Tim up to this moment in time. He may have been reflecting on what he considered the good old days, but those good old days had taught him to look at his surroundings differently than other people. In the beginning, he had begun to buy in to this new start, that this new city would be better. But of the skills developed from being a vigilante, the teen was a keen observer and able to pick up on those most people overlooked.

About the second week after their move, he had spotted a mugging in an alley while walking the streets of Jump, trying to fit in with some kids from school. It had unnerved him, and against his own nature he had tried to overlook it. Just because this place wasn't Gotham didn't mean it was completely devoid of crime, right? Naturally there would be some, no problem.

And then he kept finding it. Someone was being robbed here. Another was mugged there. Hell, there was a girl at his school that got sexually assaulted one weekend. The more he listened, the more he paid attention, the more he found out that this new place was not some grand utopia fit to start your life all over again.

It was just another city with the same problems as other cities.

It pissed him off that he was deliberately ignoring all this, all in the effort to what, try to make his parents happy? Picking up on this shit had made him moody and his parents had picked up on that moodiness already. They knew he was upset and assumed he was having some adjustment problems. He would "get over it" in time.

No he wasn't. He couldn't. Because damn it, once he would have done something about this. Once, he would have along with someone watching his back. He couldn't do that anymore. He didn't have the equipment that he had to leave behind during the move. He didn't have another person to back him up in case things went south too quickly.

Effectively, Tim was not prepared to go solo in a city he did not know well.

That said, that didn't stop him from making a call to Barbara. He had kept one of the earpieces that his paralyzed friend had developed while she donned the digital mask of Oracle. It was a direct line to a life the teen was not ready to fully give up. At the time, he had thought it would be a way to ease out of it. Now, it was the key he needed to perhaps set up shop here and return to old habits.

Barbara naturally gave him a piece of her mind about it, demanding to know what he thought he was doing. Just because Two-face was locked away in Arkham Asylum didn't mean that he was any less a threat. If the man ever thought about coming after his family or heard about a city out west having vigilante problems and chose to check it out, Tim would in effect be re-writing a death sentence for his family.

There had been some hints that Barbara herself and a certain someone else had taken great pains to hide the Drakes without them knowing. It was a nice feeling to know someone was watching out for them.

But to ignore his surroundings was not in Tim's nature anymore. He had to...no, he needed to do something. Even if that meant bugging Barbara for days on end until she finally, finally, caved in. Sure, there was a warning that because he was on the other side of the country that she wouldn't be able to provide the same kind of support back east, but that was in one ear and out the other because, you know, victory.

Tim might have gotten a little greedy when he hinted that this might also be a good time to do a few changes and upgrades to the costume…

All he would say was that he deserved the tongue-lashing he got for that.

That had been a couple months ago and he was really getting antsy. How long was this going to take anyway? He wanted to be out there kicking butt already. He swore, Barbara was dragging her heels on this. That could be the only explanation.

The sun glared directly in front of him as he arrived at the new home that his parents had purchased. Like the last one, it was located in the suburbs, though closer to the big city this time around. At least it was close enough to the school that he could reasonably walk to it instead of having to take the bus. One week of doing that was more than enough for the sullen teen.

Before walking up the private sidewalk to the building's front door, Tim took a brief stop at the mailbox, a new ritual these days, and checked for anything left behind by the mailman. Pulling out several envelops, he began sifting through them as he closed the mailbox.

Bank statement, junk mail, bill, junk mail, advertisement, a letter with his name on it, another bill, a letter with his parent's name on it…

Stopping, he went back through the small stack and pulled out the letter with his own name on it. Yep, it was addressed to him but had no return address. He eyed the long, white envelope critically, examining it from front to back. Nothing too unusual. There was something in it that held a little weight to it but he couldn't feel out exactly what it was. Didn't recognize the handwriting, either.

Strolling up to the front door, he pulled out his house keys and unlocked it, entering the building with all the grace of a teenager, meaning none at all. Announcing he was home and quickly determining he was alone, he closed the door behind him and made his way to the kitchen where he dumped the other mail and ads. Casually waving the letter addressed to him, he gave in and opened it, pulling out the sheet of white paper.

The first words on it stated that he was to burn both the paper and the envelope when he was done with it.

Raising an eyebrow, Tim continued reading. Slowly, his lips began to curve into an excited smile the more he read. Though the wording held a tone of being put out, it was easy to tell who wrote it. Barbara; he recognized the style of wordage and he could practically hear her voice with each word he read.

Quick summary, Barbara had come through, she had found a place to store his, ahem, "crap," and here was the address and key to get to it all. Key? Oh wait. Quickly checking the envelope, he found the mentioned key still wedged inside it. Quickly, pocketing it, he read through the contents of the letter again to make sure he wasn't missing anything.

Whatever you end up doing, don't use your last name. It would be a dead giveaway, don't you think?

A reference to Robin, no doubt. Had to agree with that there. And if the part about the "changes we had discussed" meant anything, it might not be right to continue using that name.

Still, he couldn't help but feel excited about this.

He was back in the game.

If you were to really pay attention, the desert could be a very beautiful place to look at. Especially with the setting sun and the reds that lit up the sky. If you had a camera, it was a sight to capture and put in a scrapbook to show off to other people when you were in the mood to bore them to death.

For the individual wearing a pair of sweats and a hoodie, the hood pulled over his head, the sight was ignored. He kept his head ducked down as he trekked down the two lane road, ignoring the rare car or truck that happened to pass by him. Not that they stopped or anything.

Then again, he wasn't hitchhiking either.

Preferably, he would like to keep to himself. Getting too close, physically speaking, to anybody would bring up questions. Right now, questions weren't what he was wanting to answer right now. There was a reason he wore the hood of his hoodie up and it wasn't to protect him from the sun.

With the get up he was wearing, anybody else would have either hitched a ride or passed out from heatstroke a long time ago. He wasn't affected by the heat, at least not in the way he used to be. He had seen a lot of changes with himself over the past few years. Such changes were...noticeable, and would have people asking him questions that he did not want to answer anyway.

If there was one question he would answer, however begrudgingly, it would be what his name was. He'd only give one: Victor. Anything else was off the table. Because a last name didn't really mean much for him. Not anymore.

Other people would think that that was either a: he was hiding something or b: he was really depressed. Hmmph. As if he could be depressed anymore. It would be much more preferred and he'd take that if it would undo many of these changes. But it wasn't going to be happening any time soon so he was stuck wandering the western half of the United States aimlessly.

Well, maybe not aimlessly. As long as it was far away from Detroit, he could careless where he was. If you thought people back there were looking for him, you had no idea. He was sure they were looking for him, tearing half the Midwest apart looking for him. He didn't want any part of it, though. Even if these people were looking for him, it wasn't Victor they were looking for. It was the parts of him that weren't Victor that they were interested in.

Fuck all the stuff about science and breakthroughs and crap. What did any of that mean for him other than he was a freak now? And not even a freak of nature.

With his shadow following behind him, the hoodie-wearing individual glanced at a structure down the road. Looked to be a truck stop of sorts. Yep, definitely a truck stop. There was too much pavement around the building itself, gas and diesel pumps, and several eighteen-wheelers parked around it.

As much as he didn't like to, Victor figured that he could at least take a moment to get his bearings and figure out where he was. That way, he'd know where not to go, maybe see some sights around here. Not that he was on a sightseeing trip, but at least he would be able to say he had seen them.

The worst that could happen? Someone got a good look at him. What could they possibly do that hadn't already been done to him? Even if they said anything about him, the words would be more harmful than any physical abuse.

With long strides, he pressed on to his destination. Where he would end up, he had no clue.

He didn't really care anymore.