Robin was halfway to the Tower when his communicator beeped. Pulling over on a quiet street, he lifted the visor on his helmet and flipped it open.

The sender was a generic Jump PD address. No one he recognised.

Problem, Jackson Avenue.

Only Robin's name sat at the top of the message. Why hadn't Jump PD sent it to the other Titans? Frowning, Robin stuffed the communicator back in his belt and lowered his visor with a snap. Jackson Avenue wasn't far. He could check it out and still be back at the Tower before the others woke up.

When he got to Jackson Avenue, it was already cordoned off with yellow tape. He parked his bike, set Slade's package under his helmet on the seat, and ducked under the tape, ignoring the stares from civilians hurrying to work, or heading home from the nightshift.

A cluster of blue uniforms waited in the doorway of Big Rico's Pizzeria. They looked up as Robin approached. One of them was the grey-haired police officer from the warehouse earlier that night.

He fidgeted with his cuffs as Robin approached. 'The other Titans … ?'

'It's just me.'

The officer grimaced. 'Maybe that's for the best. Usually we wouldn't call you for a homicide.'

'No supervillains?'

In Gotham, Batman took care of whatever criminals he could lay his hands on, working unofficially with Jim Gordon on every crime under the sun. In Jump, the Titans had a different arrangement: normal crime was solved by the normal police. Supervillains, metahumans, aliens—and what Jump's chief of police dubbed 'weird shit' in his official report—went to the Titans.

'Not as far as we can tell. It's just …' The officer coughed, tugging his collar. 'See for yourself.'

Robin slipped past him. The flock of uniforms parted for him, revealing a sheet of grey tarp laid on the pavement. Robin closed his hands into fists. You've seen bodies before. But his breath was short, sharp. He glanced up at one of the officers, who bent and peeled the sheet back.

Vomit rolled up Robin's throat, and he barely swallowed it down.

The kid was dressed in his uniform.

One of the cheap knock-offs you could buy in stores at Halloween, the R badge peeling at the edges, the mask barely held on with flimsy white elastic. His skin was bone-white, the corners of his lips blue.

There was no pool of blood, or broken neck, or knife sticking out of him. He looked like a ghost. Robin broke out in goose bumps, despite the mild morning sun, and turned away. The officer drew the tarp back up, laying it carefully, like he was tucking the kid into bed.

The grey-haired officer came up by Robin's shoulder. 'We thought it might be a threat. Thought you should know.'

Robin nodded stiffly.

'I can give you a ride to the station,' the officer said, 'or the Tower.'

'I'm fine.' Turning, Robin started away. 'Thanks for calling.'

The officer stumbled to keep pace with him. 'Sure Robin, you take care. And hey—I'm sorry about the other kid. The Robin in Gotham. We heard, you know? We're all sorry.'

'Thanks.' Robin realised he was glaring at the floor and looked up. 'I'm gonna get back to my team. Can you send me the reports on this case?'

'I'll see what I can do.'

Nodding his thanks, Robin strode away, slipping under the yellow tape and back to his motorcycle.

The kid was wearing his uniform. Dick Greyson's uniform.

But every time Robin closed his eyes, he saw Jason's face instead.

'Jason, this is Dick.'

Jason's eyes flicked down and back up, the movement exaggerated and deliberate. He arched one eyebrow, unimpressed. 'Is your name Dick or is that just what he calls you?'

Robin narrowed his eyes, casting the barest glance at Bruce, standing over Jason's shoulder. 'Pleasure to meet you, too.'

Sighing, Bruce sat on the antique sofa and slid a hand down his face. 'Would it kill you two to be civil?'

'What happened?' Jason said, ignoring Bruce utterly. 'Bruce kick you out for being too slow?'

For a moment, Robin's temper boiled, heat rising from his toes to the top of his head. Then he saw the tiny, wavering smirk on Jason's face. The way he stood with his feet apart, arms folded, trying too hard to look tough in Bruce's plush living room. So he was cocky, was he? Well, Bruce would soon beat that out of him. Until then …

'Nah.' Robin waved a hand, putting on a veneer of easy relaxation. 'I was running rings around him. It was embarrassing—I mean, Batman outstripped by Robin? No good.' He leaned on his favourite armchair, grinning at the slow-dawning horror on Bruce's face. 'Good for you, Dad. Glad you found someone slower.'

Jason spluttered. 'Screw you! I can outrun anyone, any day.'

'Good for you,' Robin said, in the high, patronising voice he might use on a proudly potty-trained toddler.

'Dick …' Bruce groaned, but Jason drowned him out.

'Get your ass down here any day of the week. I can score thirteen on the bleep test and still kick you in your smug damn face.'

Robin kept grinning. 'I'll do that.'

Snarling like a wildcat, Jason turned and stormed away. Robin heard stomping footsteps, then the slam of a door.

Bruce sighed. 'Did you have to piss him off on purpose?'

Flopping sideways in the armchair, Robin shrugged. 'He likes me.'

Robin slipped into the Tower, muscles aching and twitching, and waited for the guilt to catch up to him. He hadn't told the Titans about Slade. He couldn't tell them. It was last time, anyway …

Don't think about it.

He sank against the elevator wall as it rose up the side of the Tower, showing a glittering view of the morning sea. And he didn't think about it. And instead, his mind sharpened into a spear, and found a new target.

'I met the other Robin in Gotham last year…'

Anna Petrov's taunt came back like a punch. Robin hunched. A lump rose in his throat, like he'd swallowed a rock. Jason. Pressure built in his brow, like the first crackles of thunder before a storm. The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open.

Jason's dead.

Tears burned his eyes, but it was only a short way to his room. The others would still be asleep. He could run, and hide, and compose himself before they got up. He lurched into the living room—and froze.

Raven looked up from the sofa.

'Ra-Raven?' he croaked.

She stretched out her curled legs. 'Hey.'

Robin slipped his cape forward to hide his scuffed clothes, and Slade's package. He stank of gunpowder. Could she tell from over there? 'You're up early.' His gaze flicked to the large, black screen by the window. His heart stuttered. 'Did Starfire call?'

Regret flashed over Raven's face like a passing shadow. 'No. Sorry, Robin.'

A weight filled his chest, almost too heavy to hold. Robin swallowed. 'It's just—it's been a while.'

'Tamaran's a long way away,' Raven said softly. She started to say, 'And—', but seemed to think the better of it.

Robin bowed his head. And she has a war to fight. He couldn't blame Starfire for leaving. If brutal civil war broke out in Gotham, he'd fly home in an instant. But still, missing Starfire was a constant, empty pain.

She could've come back for Jason's funeral, he thought bitterly, and instantly regretted it. Starfire wanted to come. She couldn't help being trapped in some dugout billions of miles away. None of this was her fault.

But god, he wanted her back.

Raven stared at Robin, pitying and unblinking.

'So,' Robin said, 'why are you up so late?'

Smiling faintly, Raven held up a thick black novel. 'I found a good book. You?'

'I needed to get out. Get some air.' With Slade. Robin cringed, and tried to cover it with a cough.

It was the last night, he thought sternly. The last time. Sure, he'd struck out on his own once and he'd failed, and if not for Slade—

But that didn't matter. He didn't owe Slade anything. He didn't need him.

Raven's brow lowered in quiet sympathy. 'Jason?'

Robin winced.

'It's okay, Robin,' Raven said. 'Anything you need …'

Robin wasn't going to say anything, but the words burst out without any interruption from his brain. 'He was my little brother—'

His voice cracked and the pressure in his skull mounted to a stabbing pain, and he stopped—because it was that or burst into tears.

Raven got halfway to her feet, but he put up a hand to stop her.

'I'm not—I'm all right. I just need a shower. And sleep.'

For a long time, Raven simply stared. Then she let out a slow breath, as if Robin was a bomb and she was waiting for him to explode. 'Okay. Anything you need—from any of us—you only have to say.'

I need Starfire here. I need to stop screwing around with Slade. I need Jason to not be dead.

But Raven already looked uncomfortable enough, her words stiff, like she'd rehearsed them. She wasn't good at this, and Robin knew it. Raven didn't share feelings. That was Starfire's job. She was trying so hard to help, it hurt to watch.

Robin smiled, the effort agonising. 'Thanks, Raven.'

Robin showered, and hit his bed like a rock.

An hour and a half later, he gave himself credit for trying, and got back up. It wasn't that he wasn't tired. Hell, he was always tired. He just didn't sleep. It was as if his brain had forgotten how.

I guess Jason's doing all my sleeping for me now. The sawing pain in his chest was familiar, but didn't hurt any less.

It probably didn't help his room still stank of incense, even after he'd kept the window open for days to flush it out. Surely no one could sleep through that. A half-melted black candle poked out from the back of his bookshelf, where he must've accidentally kicked it away. Raven went ballistic when she realised he'd taken them. He thought he gave them all back.

No point keeping them. Robin snorted. As if a few black candles and some incense could drag Jason back from the dead.

He could hear voices from the living room, so he headed that way. While Cyborg and Beast Boy bickered in the kitchen, Raven floated cross-legged by the windows, eyes closed.

He drifted over and nudged her arm. 'You meditating or just taking a nap?'

Raven opened one eye to give him a filthy look. 'With those two in the room? Neither.'

Some of the weight lifted from Robin's chest and he chuckled, side-stepping just in time to avoid the pancake that flew from the kitchen. It splatted on the window and slid down, leaving a trail of grease.

Robin grabbed it before it hit the ground and tossed it back at Cyborg and Beast Boy, not minding which of them it hit. He put on his best I Am Team Leader And You Will Do As I Say voice. 'Guys, don't waste food.'

Cyborg caught the pancake and scarfed it down in a single, stomach-turning gulp.

For a moment, Robin didn't feel like he'd spent all night with Slade; didn't feel his body screaming for rest and his mind full of fog, and his whole world just missing a fundamental piece. He was home.

Then Cyborg's human eye roved over him critically. 'You eaten yet today? Or this week?'

Robin winced. He'd made a mistake. The last few days, he got up early enough to say he'd already eaten. That excuse wouldn't fly now. 'Later,' he mumbled.

Cyborg's expression didn't change. 'I'm making pancakes now.'

The room fell still, the only sound the soft sizzling of pancake batter on hot oil. Beast Boy's eyes were on Robin, huge and nervous, and he could feel Raven's stare from behind him.

They'd noticed. Robin hadn't meant to let it show—hadn't meant to worry them—when his appetite shrivelled. His friends were sharper than he'd given them credit for. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Dude, you're a rake.' Cyborg's tone was gentle, but his stare was stern.

If he refused, he'd only worry them more. Robin sighed. 'OK, yeah, pancakes sound good. Thanks.'

Snorting, Cyborg turned back to his frying pan. 'I'm making you a double helping.'

Beast Boy leaned over the counter. 'And I am making you tofu pancakes. And they will be better.'

Groaning, Robin turned to Raven for support.

'I'll eat them if you will.' Raven's tone was light—as close to playful as she ever got—but her eyes were hard, and said, I will pin you down and force-feed you if I have to.

Robin sighed. 'Yeah, fine.'

In the kitchen, Cyborg and Beast Boy went back to their friendly bickering, and Raven went back to her meditating, which left Robin to stand there alone, or do some work, or lie down and die.

'Ugh, BB, you got tofu in my pancakes.'

'So now they'll be good pancakes.'

Robin considered the benefits of that last option for a moment. Lie down and die. It sounded more peaceful than death by pancake.

'No one likes your dumb tofu pancakes!'

'I'll have you know everyone at karaoke loves my tofu pancakes. Also my tofu burgers, my tofu waffles, and my singing.'

But Bruce would miss him. And then the Teen Titans would be two members down. And there'd be no one to beat their heads together when the word 'tofu' was spoken ten times in less than forty seconds. Sighing, Robin drifted over to the console and typed his password. Work, then.

'Your karaoke groupies are crazy.' Cyborg sniffed, expertly flipping his pancake. 'I can't believe you found a club in Jump after we got back from Japan.'

Robin watched the loading bar on the screen with disinterest, then jumped when Cyborg slammed a full plate down next to him.

'They are not groupies!' Beast Boy attempted to flip his own pancake. It stuck to the ceiling. He stared at it mournfully, then turned back to Cyborg. 'Well, okay, maybe Daisy … and Clarissa. So, like, two groupies.' He frowned. 'And I think Britney only hangs around because she wants Robin to show up.' He looked at Robin, waggling his eyebrows.

Robin turned from his emails—the report on that homicide had come through already—to stare back, deadpan. Cyborg nudged him with a fork.

'Eat your pancakes. Or I'll make you eat whatever BB scrapes off the ceiling.'

Rolling his eyes, Robin took the fork and shovelled down a few mouthfuls. He had to admit, they were good. Tofu and all. He gave Cyborg a smile, and Cyborg grinned back.

Scooping in another mouthful of pancakes, Robin turned and opened the report. It was brief—no time for an autopsy yet—but included photographs from the scene. Robin steeled himself as he scrolled past them, but somehow the black-and-white snapshots didn't have the impact of the real body.

Except the last one.

The fork slipped from Robin's fingers, syrup turning sour on his tongue. They'd taken the kid's shirt off to inspect his body. He was so pale it looked unreal, like a ghost in a horror movie. But on the left of chest, where Robin's badge usually rested, a mark was stamped into him. The skin around it was puckered and bruised. Branded.

Branded with a sharp, twisting S.

Robin's heart stilled, cold and heavy as stone.

Slade.