A/N: So this was kind of an impulse one-shot that I've been thinking about for awhile. I incorporated a lot of themes that I wanted to portray in seperate stories into one and I'm pretty happy with the way it came out. Please tell me what you think of it. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans.

I Am Core

"You coming Robin?" Beast Boy asked the teenage legend as the other three remaining Teen Titans dashed for shotgun in the T-car. Mad Mod was on another rampage and Robin had full confidence in his teammates to handle him quickly and efficiently.

He didn't feel right.

He hadn't for the past week.

"Um . . . no . . ." he said, surprised he was relaying himself to the green changeling in front of him. "I'm not really feeling well . . . would you tell Cyborg he's calling the shots? I think I'm gonna sit this one out." He felt bewildered. Confused.

"Sure," Beast Boy shrugged, "you gonna be okay?" His friend lay a hand on his shoulder, concerned.

"Yeah," Robin replied quickly. "Yeah I'll be fine. I just need some . . . time alone I guess. Catch you guys later. Gimme details on our pwnage."

Beast Boy grinned. "Will do," he saluted, and ran out the exit to join the other three crime-fighting teenagers.

XxXxXx

Robin sat on the flat green couch of the Titan Tower living room and thought. His surroundings were silent—well, except for the inconsistent and irritating beep of a security alarm that needed new batteries. He could replace it, Robin mused, but he really didn't feel like deciphering whatever code Cyborg had slapped on it.

He boredly switched on the TV after reaching for the remote next to him. He noted with little interest that there were actually a few shows on he'd normally be interested in. But today the idea of staring at mind-numbing reflected specks of color on glass repulsed him.

So he switched off the television.

He sat in the middle of the Titan's Tower, the irregular beeping driving him out of his skin.

He ran a hand through spiky black hair.

What was wrong with him?

Unable to bear sitting still any longer, he jumped off the couch—feeling desperately obligated to himself to be doing something. The first thing that came to mind was to force his lazy butt into action and get some exercise. He dismissed the idea easily. Yeah. Right.

The second was to organize the few straggling crime reports in the Evidence Room that he'd never quite gotten around to. Robin shrugged in the emptiness. Why the hell not? It'd take little mental energy, less physical energy, and besides. He'd be doing something productive with his time. Win-win-win situation.

XxXxXx

Upon entering the Evidence Room however, one good sweeping look over the newspapers and clues to unsolved cases of his, resulted in a wave of weariness rippling through him and Robin hung his head. He was so tired of it all. Every thief, murderer, and rapist; every psycho-villain that left his Jump City—his responsibility—infested, was tucked hastily into this big, black room. The core, the sin, the saints, of this place were scrawled in a notebook and forgotten until next time. There were so many problems in the world. Robin envied God's ability for omniscience. The masked child tried hard to remember the last night he'd gotten more than four hours of sleep at a time without being injected with something. He couldn't. Core and villains kept him awake. And he was very tired.

In the mumbling blear of his current state-of-mind, Robin asked himself a question: what is core? The next thoughts were hazy and unreliable. Is it the majority? Is it definition? The center? Is a city evil if villains over take the majority? Is it good if the 'heroes' pen them up?

What makes a hero, anyway?

His eyes skittered across headlines tacked up on the walls. 'Teen Titans Triumph over Dr. Light . . . Again!' 'Teen Heroes travel to Tokyo!' 'Young Vigilantes crush Slade once and for all'.

Robin had to spare himself a selfish chortle at the last. The journalist of the article hadn't yet known that a demon would rise their arch nemesis to life. He slowly dragged himself over that newspaper. There was a grainy picture of Terra's mount. He touched it. And thought maybe he'd go back and replace the flowers they'd left at her base those long four months ago.

He suspected that Beast Boy still occasionally traveled down into that cave. Starfire too. Hell, for all he knew, everyone but him danced their way back down memory lane and left petrified-Terra a few daisies.

He never had though. Not once. He told himself it was because he was too busy. That it could even be dangerous. That she was a traitor so why should he go visit her? But the last excuse was a downright lie and even he knew it. They say self-deception is the worst kind . . . now as he looked at her fading picture on a flimsy newspaper, considering going back, he shuddered. With fear.

What if he went back and she wasn't even there anymore?

What if he went back and she was?

An overwhelming sense of hopeless desire overtook Robin and the boy felt he'd give anything to have her back, if only for a minute.

The thing was, Robin had loved that girl. No, he wasn't exactly sure how, but he did. He'd first realized it when he fought his last battle with her after she had overthrown Starfire. He'd seen ugliness and abuse and confusion in her eyes that night that wasn't natural. He'd never hated the one who put them there, Slade, more.

But even more than he'd hated Slade, he had hated Beast Boy. He was supposed to protect her. To love her. How could he let her end up like that? There. Were. No. Excuses. As Robin looked back, he almost wished that Terra had fallen for him at first—rather than Beast Boy. He wouldn't have let Slade come within traces of doing all that to her.

But she hadn't fallen for Robin.

Core.

Robin glanced at a replication of Slade's mask and remembered many things. Once, a long time ago on a day when he was all alone, he'd tried on that mask. It had fit perfectly. Robin was not ashamed of this.

He knew in himself that it wouldn't take much self control to not be Slade. He had the potential. The rage. At times, he even had the desire. He remembered the Hall of Heroes. It had been proven that Robin was the best. It meant he could destroy Cyborg, Beast Boy, Raven, and even Star if he wanted to. And he had those moments.

He even embraced those times when rage darkened him. Made him grind his teeth together in a desperate attempt not to scream in anger. Made him clench his fist so hard he thought his knuckles would break off. Made him see blood splattered on walls and ceilings. Slade's blood. His own blood—if it'd make him feel better. His friends' blood.

The newspapers called him a hero.

The Teen Titans called him a leader.

But Robin was very aware of who--of what--he truly was.

He tried so hard to be good. To redeem himself for Jump by stopping the bad guys and saving the people. It seemed to work, too. For the world. Robin knew that no matter how he affected the final score for that proverbial game of good versus evil that he would never redeem himself. In a way though, he was just another shadow in his city of devils. He wasn't so special in the cosmic vast of the universe, he wasn't anyone.

Even in the billions of people that lived on Earth for the last ten thousand years, he was one person. And he tried so hard to be good. He tried to make a difference in the world. Just like every last person alive. Just like everyone . . . Just like the Teen Titans and their villains. Just like all of Jump City. He was just like all of them.

Comprehension dawned on Robin and it left his head spinning. A wetness that couldn't possibly be tears, dampened his eyes. He was condemned.

"Oh God," he murmured, as he lowered his head in acceptance.

"I am core . . ."

XxXxXx