Reflections
Hello, how are you doing? I have been reading stories for maybe a year and have observed the Teen Titans section evolve from a measly 5000 stories to a formidable 10,000. I have seen our pairing menu crop up, the C2 communities expand from 30 to 165. No, I'm not reminiscing or establishing my authority or credentials to write a story. I'm merely demonstrating my epic cowardice.
You see, I'm a biochemistry major, a perfectionist, and a voracious reader. Thus, when I write, I force myself to make it as good as the classics I read. Naturally, I really really really really suck at writing so I never live up to my expectations. I am also always so discouraged by the wonderful writing of other authors – see Lain the Fluff Master (witty and sarcastic and refreshing), Amber Myst (angsty (is it?)…just cool), Cerulean Angel (fluffy). I'm sure I've left many other authors out but these are the ones that came to my mind first.
If any of the aforementioned author(esses) review my story, I'll die from delight.
Sometimes my ego rears up and forces me to the computer to write something. Another reason is when I view my profile,it's all bare. I need at least one story authored. So, yeah. Here's the crap on a dull silver plate. It's probably Robin-centric. I say "it" because I'm kind of ashamed to say the story is "mine."
Reflections (C1) -----------------------------------
Harvey Dent's vicious baseball bat whistled through the air and cracked open the shin of the brightly clad boy who had just turned a teenager. The eye on the purplish, mutated side of his face dilated with pleasure as his opponent's taut skin stretched as sharp bone protruded out. He raised his heavyset arms and brought down the bludgeon on the boy's head.
A low crunch resounded through the whole basement. The deep red blood with the coppery, bitter taste of failure lingers in your mouth for weeks afterward, just as the pain does, just as the presence does.
Failure has a presence, the menacing shadow looming over your every move, taunting you, goading you. It continues to fear of failure, the point where it mocks you, standing over your bed at night, laughing at your weakness…
Slap. A green gloved fist met a open palm. Robin paused, pushing his fist deeper into his palm, observing how his middle knuckle digged deep into it. He observed how it ended the flawless line down the shaft of his forearm. How many thugs and lowlifes had he felled with that fist?
The quiet, subtle rage that Robin had suppressed for all his life threatened to well up, building pressure under the tight mental lid he had created. But at these times, Robin wondered what he was angry for, or what he was angry against. He just feels a complete, disgusting revulsion for everything around him.
Why? Why do all these criminals just insist on terrorizing simple, law abiding citizens? Why do they persist? Why do they continue even when he had hit them so many times, over and over and over? Why don't they just TAKE THE HINT? WHY? WHY? WHY?
His fist smashed into the console. The hard crystalline structure of the composite plastic gave way before his compressed fury. Torn wires protested as they twisted, flinging indignant sparks into the air. These angry sparks recklessly, relentlessly assaulted his unprotected torso but cowered as they made contact.
The sparks were just like him, Robin reflected. He would attack his foes, bo staff whirling in a silent dance, fearlessly hurl himself at his opponent. They would strike him down, viciously disable him and his half-conscious mind would barely register the treaded boot looming into his hazy vision.
The stunned monitors flickered, casting eerie shadows on our masked hero's face.
Memories threatened to overwhelm him, and Robin gave an involuntary shudder. "Weakness," he spat mentally. He collapsed heavily into the rigid chair and began to brood, head cradled in his arms.
His thoughts wandered to the early days of the Titans, when Robin was struggling to whip a team of ragtag wannabes into upright heroes.
He hated saying it at the time, but they sucked. He sucked too. Everyone knew they sucked. Even the city said they sucked. His paranoid mind wandered to some generic dinner table, a disgruntled father fuming about his wrecked Cadillac. "These Titans suck," he would say to his children. "Yeah, they really suck," they chimed in unison.
Batman would probably contact him, Robin thought. The dark, awe inspiring mask of his past would emerge in the small LCD of his portable communicator.
"You suck Robin. I taught you better. Maybe you should quit after all. You're not cut out for this job."
His parents would rise from their grave, their supple bodies and taut muscles atrophied into the bleached bones and decomposed flesh of his nightmares. He would see their cracked spine, splintered vertebrae. They would moan in quavering voices "You suck."
Maybe it was his training. Maybe he hadn't trained long enough. Maybe all those months in Batman's gloomy dojo reeking of bat droppings and the rancid methane fumes that arose as they decomposed had been wasted. Maybe the hardened edges of his hands slowly forged from smashing inexorable stone pillars were useless. Maybe the rock hard abdominal muscles that he had slowly shaped holding his body parallel to the ground, feet secured to the craggy wall by metal shackles were useless. Maybe the sleek thighs he had built kicking against the rushing current and merciless tides were useless. Maybe he had to set this superhero business on hiatus, shove his pride aside, and finish his training.
Robin chuckled. He found the idea absurd. Go back to train? Who would train him anyway? Who would care for the city when he was gone? His "team" had already proven they couldn't. He was the one that held them together, the hardened glue, the one upright pole in the whirling maelstrom that was his teammates.
He laughed. What would they be without him? Robin's pessimistic side took over; no, he was much more than pessimistic. So much more…
Cyborg would probably go to Star Labs and invent some technology. Time would pass and he would become obsolete, forced to become obsolete due to the amazing advances he had created himself. The only person who could update his own systems would be Cyborg himself, and that would be physically impossible. The irony would be bitter for the half-machine as he saw the world advance without him, leaving him to watch the humming blue circuitry expand around the world.
Beast Boy would fade away. He would be left without a purpose, a sliver of driftwood bobbing up and down in the sea. He would go into show business, slave away to build a glamorous personality for himself, swathe himself in glittering disco outfits, build his own personal glory until the capricious crowd had tired of him, after he had wasted his fifteen minutes of fame.
Starfire would probably become a model, reveal her body to the slathering, hormone charged men of the world. Their tobacco stained, dirty hands would clutch at her, each lusting for a taste of her flesh. Her charming innocence would be axed, her body would be violated countless times; she would become the worst of the worst, impregnate herself with countless children, whore herself on the unforgiving streets for a living.
And Raven? She would become consumed by the evil, her personal demons, her inherent darkness. The hellish ghouls of her soul would engulf her from within and she would destroy everything, her face twisted into an eternal mask of pain, suffering, agony, spite, hatred. She would merge with the shadows, doomed to wallow and burn in hell.
And he, he, Robin, had wrenched them from these horrible futures, taken the notched sword and burnished the edge smooth, sharp, and deadly. He then heated the blade in the fiery furnace until the edges glowed red, hammered it again and again, cooled it, and repeated the process until it reached a structure of such amazing tensile strength it almost defied explanation. Thus Robin created his team.
But there was something Robin hadn't counted on. In the forge, when he was creating the metaphorical sword, he had grown to love it. He had grown to treasure the weapon through adversity, the tears and the sweat. He had given his whole self to the team, straining himself to the utmost limits of his body, sacrificed everything he had, put his life on the line countless times.
There it was again, he approached the pulsing line separating Robin and Richard. The Robin created by Richard was an unstoppable creature of extreme pride and ability.
Richard, however, was the essential element that made Robin reality. Without Richard, Robin is like an empty shell without its motor. However, the motor also had its flaws. Richard was the reason why Robin got beaten down. Richard was the reason why Robin needed to eat and drink and sleep. Richard was the reason why Robin failed to fulfill its true potential. Richard was a flaw.
However, it was also a blessing. Richard was the one who hoped, who felt, who was human. Richard is the reason, the one unblinking reason why Robin is saving people, rather than killing as a mercenary. Richard is also why Robin exists.
Robin however, is linked with Richard. It is not like a separate being. It is an extension of Richard, a convenient outlet for Richard to put his ideals, his beliefs into.
Insistent knocking resounded on the monitor room door.
"Dude, Robin! You've been in there for hours!" called Beast Boy.
That tone, that suddenly hateful pitch and frequency and cadence and…and…
Robin's fingers worked furiously as he fished around for an apt adjective, le mot juste.
…that, that… tone just infuriated Robin. Hatred welled up inside him for the green-skinned teenager. His arm shuddered, twitching in longing for action, but Robin stilled it. He strode toward the door, furiously punched in the access code, and stepped out of the threshold.
Bright incandescent light streamed into his eye mask. The lenses automatically dimmed to protect his eyesight. Robin slowly marched out of the living room in a calculated pace.
"Dude, what's his friggin' problem?" protested Beast Boy, scratching his head.
"Dunno, but Robin seems real mad. I bet he's going to the training room. Let him cool down," said Cyborg.
A soundless cry emitted out of Robin's open mouth and he leaped into the air. His body formed into a routine, classical pose as it hurtled forward: one leg straight out, the other drawn back to form a triangle by resting the sole of its foot on the thigh of the other leg; Robin's jump kick. He crashed into the canvas punching bag and fell in a crouch on the floor as the bag lurched forward. As it arced back, he met it with a furious right cross. The vibrations crept up his arm before being absorbed into his shoulder.
Robin let the punching bag knock him into the air as the unforgiving pendulum returned predictably. He somersaulted twice in the air before landing as a birdarang cleft the punching bag in two. Packed sawdust spilled onto the metal floor as Robin, tucked into a tight ball, rolled down the chute leading outside the tower.
He landed hard on the sun-bleached sand as a launcher emerged from the ground. Two red beams erupted out and crisscrossed over his still moving body. The launcher locked on and clay disks poured forth in a merciless trajectory at our hero before he had even rose.
A bo staff extended as it twirled, deflecting some disks and crushing others. However, hard, sun-baked fragments still struck Robin's skin, setting the foundation for inevitable welts.
A exploding disk wheeled through the air and struck the base of the launcher which erupted into flames. Black smoke wheeled toward the sky, mixing with the white smoke from the tower's kitchen's chimney.
Hot steam blasted out of insulated pipes, each of which Robin dodged with surprising agility. Sweat beaded from his forehead, more out of the stress of concentration than physical exertion.
Targets emerged from the ground as Robin pounded his way toward them, sure-footed even on the shifting, untrustworthy sand. Robin kicked at the wooden target, which shattered. He took three exploding disks between his fingers and tossed them. They each flew on their individual trajectories, shattering distant targets into pieces.
Steel tentacles uncoiled themselves and thrusted themselves at Robin, laser guidance and motion processing working overtime to modify the trajectory to compensate for his motions.
Robin flipped at the last moment, leaped onto the tentacle, and somersaulted away through criss-crossing motion detectors.
5:32 flashed on a large LCD readout. New course record, Robin noted mentally. Not good enough. His goal was under 5:30.
Robin strode to the outdoor control panel and restarted the system. An internal algorithm randomized assigned variables before a green light flashed. Robin pressed the start button.
5:29. Robin nodded in acknowledgement of his time. He had reached his goal, but just barely. He would have to do better next time. Robin abruptly about faced and entered the Titans Tower.
The doors closed with a sharp hissing sound as the huge pneumatic lock clanged into place. He stepped onto a conveyor belt as hidden systems performed tests on him. A green light winked on as he passed Level 2 security.
It was, after all, almost dusk.
He stepped into the elevator, ignoring the familiar lurch of his stomach as the oiled cable yanked the lift upward. The elevator doors opened and Robin stepped into the Titan's common room where Beast Boy and Cyborg were still duking it out on their GameStation.
Starfire had retired to bed as Robin was training and no-one else would pay attention to her. Raven was reading "The Count of Monte Cristo." Robin smirked and stored the information away for later use.
"Hey Rob," called Cyborg. "Why are you training at 11 in the nighttime? And outside? How can you see?"
"I'm used to training in the dark" was the curt response before Robin stepped around the corner.
Robin pushed open the shower, stripped out of his costume, and stepped inside. The harsh water pelted his skin, leaving angry streaks. They crisscrossed over the welts from the shattered clay disks. Robin slumped in the shower and threw out his arm to stop himself from collapsing. He was proud of his team. He really was. They were like a family! Why did he keep thinking such dark thoughts about them when brooding?
Robin stripped the cloth off his face and let it flutter to the tiled shower floor. Abruptly, he fell onto the floor, wincing as he sat on the hard rubber drain plug. Piqued, he snatched it up and threw it out.
Richard allowed his legs to melt into the Siddartha position as he crossed his legs and straightened his back. Meditation was a skill he had learned from the True Master when he trained with her in the Tibetan mountaintops. Bruce had tried to teach him as well, but Robin was too young, too hot blooded, and too fueled by visions of revenge to meditate.
Breathe.
He breathed. Slowly, like sweaty cloth being peeled away from his skin, emotions and cares slowly dropped away and floundered.
Peace. It is fleeting. The shower water slowly cooled as it drained the Tower's hot water tanks. Evidently the dishwasher was on, spewing highly abrasive soap onto the stained plates encrusted with the dregs of last week's meal.
Annoyed, Dick flipped the shower off and toweled his reddened body dry. He took a small tube of ointment cream and smeared it over the inflamed, puckered spots all over his body before pulling on a fresh costume.
He took up a clean mask and took a deep breath. He pasted it on over his eyes. He was Robin again. Almost automatically, his back straightened and shoulders stiffened. The relaxed stance of the former circus acrobat morphed into the cockily confidence pose of Robin.
The irregular, bouncy step of Richard changed into the calculated pace of an over analytical Robin.
The titanium bathroom door opened and Robin stepped out.
He went over to his room and punched in the code before collapsing onto his twin sized bed. Robin took off his mask and switched off the light.
Hate It? -----------------------------------------------------
OMG. This chapter was really bad. Oh, and please please please leave a review.
On the other hand, if you could answer me these TT episode questions, I would be really grateful (more grateful than if you left a review):
On the Forbidden Love board, I saw this member with an avatar showing Raven and Starfire with heart eyes. I keep reading in stories that Raven and Starfire have a crush on Aqualad. What episode was that?
In Birthmark, Robin says that he and Raven have a bond. When did they form the bond (when did Raven go into his head) and how did this develop? Aaargh. I know in Haunted Raven went inside Robin's head, but they made no mention about a bond in that episode.
Oh, and did you see The End? I loved it! Raven and Robin hugged!