The Bird and his Cage
What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.
Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...
Please do not take or archive without permission.
Notes: This was a pretty lightening quick update. This is also the first chapter that has dropped in word count! I think... but yes, don't expect the next chapter as swiftly as this one... the only reason this was done so quickly was because a lot of it was simply taken from chapter nine.
Wow... 10 is a lot of chapters... I'm playing with the idea of stopping at about chapter 12-14 and making a sequel... but nothing's substantial yet... I hate sequels, so I don't think I'm going to put you guys through one.
Anyway, yesss... Well a whole lot of this chapter is pure Slade origin goodness. I think Slade's origin flashback is my best work in this story so far, despite the very shocking finale of it. But more on that in the ending notes.
I love you all so much, thank you to all of my long time readers who have been so patient with mycrazinessand also the newcomers who are just jumping on... all I can say is that there is still much goodness left to come, and I adore your compliments, critiques, and rants!
Starfire's POV
Sharing information to the police about Robin was the most difficult thing, I think, I have ever had to do in my life. It hurt so bad because I was no longerspeaking fondly about a fellow team member or our brave,charming leader, Robin- but a different person, a thief, a criminal, a traitor.
I can still remember the look of white hot rage on his face, twisting in his black and orange clothes, ready to attack us but also looking conflicted at the same time. He looked so different. His body looked much more streamlined and skinny than it had before, if that is even possible.
We had to give the police information about what weapons he used, how he fought, and what he looked like. We tried to be as vague as possible, because deep within everyone's hearts, we still loved him and did not want him to be captured. Or perhaps, we were so angry at his betrayal that we wanted to purposely deceive the police so that we could get our hands on him first.
I like to believe we all thought the first option above, but the second still nagged at us; he was a traitor. There was no mind controle. It wasn't a double nor a robot. It was Robin; fully aware of the treason he was commiting, not only against us, but the very city he loved. Not to mention he stole from Batman, someone I thought Robin idolized more than anyone in the world.
Foresaking everything he'd been, giving up his fight on crime, and becoming part of that very crime that he once obsessed over the dissolution of.
Becoming one with Slade.
I cringe at the thought of that and I feel angry at Robin, Slade, my team, myself; but I haven't had very many chances to cry lately. It is a strange thing, for a Tamaranian to hold in emotion; it doesn't come easily, and holding in our feelings only makes our powers weaker; but it hasn't truly set in yet, and I haven't had many opportunities to cry about it.
But the entire team feels stagnant, lonely, and depressed. The usual fights between Beast Boy and Raven break out, turning into screaming matches until all four of us retreat to our rooms in frustration and rage at our own discombobulation.
I want to believe, I want to hope, to pray that Robin is not truly evil; I know in my heart that he is not, I know it, I know it. Slade must be doing something... anything... to make Robin change this way.
It's all just a big misunderstanding, and in a few years, we'll all be together, the five of us, and we'll all be looking back and laughing at this whole mishap with happy carelessness. Robin and I will be married, forever together whilst Slade pays for his crimes in hell.
If only we could choose an ideal world.
Crime is now through the roof, some saying it's reaching Gotham-city level madness. I refuse to believe that, but still, I fight on. Without Robin, whom always seemed to win the battles and bring glory and prosperous victory to our team, we are weak, and villains know this and are choosing to strike us at our most vulnerable.
Our alert system starts to go off every day. Then eventually, every hour. Ultimately, every few minutes...
... until Cyborg disconnects it...
Third Person POV
The room was large, spacious, beautifully lit and had all the accommodations Wintergreen could ever ask for and more. It had a hot tub, first rate room service, a big screen television, chanddeleirs in every room, and an indoor and out door pool... However, Wintergreen was hardly feeling up to taking advantage of Bruce Wayne's staggering generosity.
He could not get Slade out of his head, and he could not rid himself of the guilt that loomed over his old heart; nor could he stop thinking about how enraged his former friend would be when he found out the treachery he was about to commit; the crazed villain would surely swear revenge.
Many a time he'd simply think and go back into long flash backs of when he and Slade were younger, and happy. He remembered training Slade as a young man. How close they'd become in that short time. And he remembered the day Slade left for the army, and the tears he'd shed alone. He remembered Slade and Adeline's wedding and the smiles on both of their faces.
Was that smile a lie, Slade? He wondered. But all of his wondering only led to more questions.
Soon enough he returned to his room after dinner with the Thompson Twins, garbed in a white robe and feeling far better than before. He sat on the very edge of the bed, turning the TV on. Immediately a news station burst to life, displaying a prim and proper plastic faced female reporter in a red women's blazer in the usual fashion.
"-You can say that again, Jhonen!" spouts the the sunny faced, overly enthusiastic woman news caster in mid sentence. She then turns her head to a different camera, signaling a change in subject.
"And in our top news report of the day: an unamed thief broke into the Jump City Wayne Tech building late last night, undetected. Wayne Tech, an offshoot of Gotham City's Wayne Industries, is one of the most heavily guarded weapons manufacturers in the country and possibly the world. More with our on-seen reporter, Geoff Dirge, at the scene of the crime."
The screen changes to show a fellow reporter scouting the scene, on the observation deck from earlier near a shattered pane of glass wall in which the 'mysterious thief' had kicked through last night.
Wintergreen was just about to change the channel to something more interesting, but the mentioning of the name 'Wayne' caught his ear. He stayed to listen.
"That's right, Kaori," shouts the pressman as he adjusts his ear piece, an excited looking man in his mid thirties, with coke bottle glasses dressed in a trench coat. He's standing near the shattered glass wall and the pile of shards beneath, with cops surrounding him. "Just last night, a rogue slipped passed Wayne Tech security systems; a rare feat indeed. Several guards were either knocked out or incapacitated, and two actually fired on the thief;"
"Our city's resident protectors, the Teen Titans, still reeling after the the mysterious disappearance of the team's former leader Robin the Boy Wonder, encountered the thief of the observation deck where I now stand; but they were not able to apprehend the thief, and would not provide further comments except a brief description of the thief's aesthetic qualities for the police which are as follows..." He reads from a piece of paper, "... reportedly approximately 5'0" feet tall, young, with flat black hair with black and orange attire."
"The culprit is still at large."
Wintergreen couldn't believe his eyes and ears and almost immediately knew only one man residing in Jump City who would have the audacity to strike at Batman through his own civilian name and would live to tell about it.
Hardly coincidental, the phone rang immediately after this segment ended. Sighing and hating to stretch his old muscles to get up, the British codger sat up and picked up the corded phone.
"William Wintergreen," He answered the phone in his inbred courteous voice.
"5'0" tall, young with black hair. Ring any bells?" Wintergreen's heart quickens, mistaking Bruce's calm, calculating voice for Slade's. He soon notices his mistake and is put to ease- a little bit. Bruce is still not the easiest person to talk to.
"What do you want from me?" Asked Wintergreen, slightly miffed at Bruce's impulsive call of accusations.
"Answers. What's Slade planning and why?"
"I don't know. I was always in the dark about his plans; although I suppose the constant pictures of Robin on the screens of his computers shoulder have been a clue..."
"He was that interested?" asked Bruce, plainly sounding disgusted.
"Yes. I suppose, from the bits of information I gathered before leaving his services, that he was looking for an heir in Robin."
"Wilson's not old enough to want an heir yet. He's barely forty and in more than good health. And when I took a sample of his blood after he was chemically tortured in Gotham, it showed no traces of any fatal diseases. There's no motive to his actions."
Wintergreen was silent. He knew. He knew very well what Slade's real hidden motive was. The boy's scream late at night was still in his memories. And then the hinting image of Slade sitting over Robin's panic-stricken body, legs spread out on the bed...
Wintergreen knew very well.
But would he tell Bruce? The information would definately light an even hotter fire under the man's already flaring temper.
"Perhaps he does not need a motive." I reason, losing his willpower. Losing whatever spine he may have had left.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Accuses Bruce, all too aware of the suspicious, cover-up nature of his voice.
"Nothing! I just meant..." Guilt settles in Wintergreen's stomach. He was caught. Defending Slade.
"Don't go soft, Wintergreen. He's a criminal. A killer. No matter what your feelings are for him, he needs to be stopped, and you know it. He needs to be caught by the Teen Titans. Jump City deserves justice for all he's put it through." His voice is passionate and angry.
Bruce's lecture strikes a chord but is still not enough to mend Wintergreen's divided loyalty.
"Fine," Wintergreen sighed into the phone receiver, "Just tell me what to do..."
"A ferry will be waiting for you at the East side docks every other day from 5 to 7 starting tomorrow evening. Take it over to Titan's Tower, but only when you truly feel no attachment to Wilson. There, you will explain yourself; earn their trust... even lie if you have to. Tell them you're there in my name, and tell them where Wilson is hiding Robin, and any other information about Wilson that may help in their fight."
Wintergreen felt a great burden shift upon his shoulders, his hands shaking, perhaps from nervousness, perhaps from old age.
"What will you be doing through out all of this?" He questioned, indignant, and quite out of character.
The dialogue of the conversation paused for a long moment, as if the brooding man on the other line was gathering his thoughts. The voice soon returned, cold and distant sounding, even for Bruce.
"I'll be paying Wilson a personal visit."
Slade's POV
I can't sleep. I won't. I shan't. My body screams for rest, aching and dying, pleading with me desperately. I haven't slept in weeks. That dream... I know I'll have that dream again if I dare drift to sleep for even a moment. Even a second. Because I've dreamt it so many times before, I know exactly how it begins, and always how it ends. It's always the same, down to every minor detail. Always an exact replica of when it had really happened...
When my beloved son had been cut down in front of my eyes... because of a calculated risk... a mistake.
I don't know if I'd be able to bare witnessing that tragedy again. It's as if something's haunting me, forcing me to relive that moment every time I look for the peace and quiet that normal humans deserve...
I roll over, my white hair falling to the pillow, instantly camouflaged. My blue eyes flicker and watch the boy, Robin, lying next to me. Usually, he is thrashing about in a nightmare... but for some reason, he is oddly at peace tonight. I envy his simple act of sleep...
I shift towards him and brush my hands through his silky black hair, taking note of his exposed, long, black eye lashes... he doesn't wear his mask to sleep anymore, which surprises me. Even so, I don't think I've ever glimpsed his eye's true color, always obscured by his dark hair.
I cradle the back of his his head for a moment, briefly inhaling his honey-like scent, my heart getting that diabetes-inducing feeling once again, and for a moment, I truly love him. But only for a moment.
Resentfully, I place his head back against the pillow with all of the gentleness I can provide. I take a long, brooding half-hour or so to stare keenly at his beautiful, resting body... and the many things that I could do to it. That I yearn madly to do.
So many things to be said... so many feelings to be confessed...so many secrets that you are foolishly unaware of... that you will always be unaware of, it is up to me. Things you'll never know. Things I'll never tell. Things that are burried deep within the shattered coldness of my makeshift deadened state of reality.
Rolling over, my back to the bird beside me, I clutch the stiff pillow and try to distract myself from my body's cries for rest, and I find myself delving back into time long passed...
Memories of the love of a boy, not with an inquisitive mind nor raven-black hair, but with an angel's voice and forced love.
(Flash back...)
It's a perfectly sunny day out in the African savanna; the Kenyan Wilson family estate looks positively out of place shrouded in the deep grasses and scattered, wild trees and exotic plains. Two stories tall with rustic British influences courtesy of its master, it is very out of place indeed. But the house is but a tiny little square on the horizon, for no sport would dare venture near it.
Dressed in dirty, bedraggled sun-bleached garments, I only slightly shift the gun propped up on my shoulder, to enhance my aim; so absolutely gently that none of my prey would ever think me anything less of a simple shadow perching among the grasslands.
Graceful looking gazel, brown and shining in the parching sun, now feast on the very grass that now shrouds their imminent executioner. Gentle faces glance at me with little interest nor care. I've been lying here for so long, hours upon hours, that they must very well think me a part of the scenery.
Cocking the gun and making some swift, precise adjustments, I have the largest, strongest, most beautiful stag of the herd in my sights. My finger lingers on the trigger as it does every time. It's never easy to take the shot. I pause for what seems like hours, and I soon find the mesmerizing sounds of the herd's grass chewing and the swaying of the trees and grasses start to lull me, for I am drowsy, and very well dehydrated.
Jarring myself, my two eyes narrow until I have the perfect killing shot once again. My own sweat slips down my face as I bite my lip, my finger shaking. What kind of hunter am I? The stag raises it's head to look around; perfect.
Now!
BAM!
The thunderous shot pours over the gentle hills and stabs at any creatures that are unfortunate enough to hear of it. Birds scream and fly away from nearby trees in a twittering panic, and the prized buck is shot dead between the eyes. His mates scatter away from his body in the other direction in a jumble, fearing a similar fate.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I stand up, stretching my bones, pleased with myself. Flexing a muscle or two in preparation, I lift up the dead body of the gazel and brace it up on my shoulders with incredible strength; until I can reach my jeep, hidden behind a cluster of swaying trees.
Stomping the grass with endurance in my heavy army boots, I finally reach the expensive jeap loaded up with equipment and dump the gazel inside.
The reporters will soon be at the house. Mustn't keep them waiting.
Later...
Entering the house through the front door, I go from the hot, sweat-licked feeling of the African plains to stepping into my fully airconditioned, overly furnished abode, causing the sweat to feel cold and bitter against my skin and the rough fabric of my hunting clothes. Caught in the middle of unbuttoning my shirt, something catches my ear.
I hear a sweet, beautiful voice singing along with classical piano music. It's coming from the den. Not bothering to remove my dirt-covered combat boots, I walk through the freshly scented hallway, trying to find the source of the beautiful music that I have not heard to date in my own summer home.
Reaching the room, I duck my head in; my beautiful son, Joseph, is sitting perched upon a velvet red piano seat, infront of a grand black master piano. His mother, my wife, Adeline, guides him through the motions, but it is very evident that the boy knows what he's doing and doesn't need her forced assistance.
The boy's mouth sings a song in a language that I can't understand but I recognize as just as enchanting as any in my own tongue. His fingers nimbly, hypnotizingly poke and stab at the keys of the piano, making a melody to mingle with the song coming from his lips.
Awed and not wanting to distract the boy nor for him to stop, I step into the brightly lit room and stand beside Adeline, who in turn tries to wrap her arms around me. I reject her touch and draw her hands away from me.
"I'm filthy." I warn her coldly, referring to laying outside sweating in the dirt all day. However she stubbornly takes my hand in hers, and we both fall into a trance as we watch my child play and sing the song. I'm transfixed and amazed at how talented the boy is, and I didn't even notice before now.
My hand slowly separates from my wife's at its own accord, and she makes no move to remedy that.
"What language is this? I don't recall..." I inquire in a hushed voice.
"It's a classic Welsh song." Adeline answers.
Soon the song reaches its zenith, and with stabbing fingers, my son belts out two undistinguishable last words and then slides his fingers across the white and black board dramatically. I'm thoroughly impressed.
Joe whirls around on the bench, his face excited and flushed from singing. Suddenly the proud, handsome voice that was just belting out the foreign song is now referring to me in the usual tone an adoring son should and would use.
"Papa! I did not know you were listening. Did you enjoy it?"
I detach myself from my wife and I reach down to pat his blond, curly haired head in fatherly recognition, his green eyes always looking up at me with gleaming adoration.
"I'm very proud of you, Joseph. That was excellent."
A sad understatement. More like breathtaking. The boy's voice had been as sweet as an angel's in heaven: But a father would never say that to his young son, now would he?
Joseph and I have never been close. Being a business man, hunter, and secret assassin, it is not easy to have any sort of platonic relationship with my son. It's not surprising that I've just now discovered his nearly enchanting talents.
My wife pats my chest briefly before pointing down at my shoes. "My goodness, Slade. Take off your boots in the house. Your interviewers will be here any minute. Wouldn't want to make a bad impression with a floor covered in mud."
Easy for you to say when you have maids and butlers working around the clock on this place to keep it at your comfortable level of insane cleanliness and orderly perfection. I'd like to see you have that attitude if you actually had to do some housework yourself, wench.
Sadly, she was correct about how little time I had to get ready for the interview and photo shoot I had schedualed. I briefly let my hand rest on my young son's shoulder and give it a slight squeeze, before tramping back into the hallway and to the master bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the usual.
Later...
"Fantastic, Mr. Wilson!"
The enthusiastic young man takes pictures of me with a large, mounted camera; spot lights and reflectors have been set up on my mantles and furniture, whilst Joe, Wintergreen, Adeline, several of Adeline's female friends, and several other maids and butlers stand at attention at the side of the room, carefully out of the shots.
Standing at a proud six feet and four inches, one of my legs is bent and propped against a wooden bench with one of my hands resting on my slim hip while the other holds an impressive rifle, resting on my shoulder. The shirt I wear is open, exposing more than a little of my tan chest and singes of golden hair. Flaunting my straight blond hair and beard, a battle-hardened physique, and bright blue eyes, just the sight would be enough to make Adolf Hitler moist in his pants.
Gesturing to all of the decapitated critters hanging on my walls while supplying them knowledgeable captions to put under the pictures that will undoubtedly be covering all over the pages of their respected magazine or inquirer, I'm secretly bored to death of this monotony. Every session is the same, every other week. Hunting has lost some of its pleasure because of my fame.
Soon enough though, I'm able to dismiss them back to where ever they came from; as usual, they grovel and thank me profusely for 'the opportunity to meet me' and leave in an unprofessional, stumbling hurry. Many ask for autographs but few do I ever indulge.
Almost immediately Adeline's female guests start to shuffle and swarm around me, poking and prodding with hurried, nervous questions while they all chatter and giggle to eachother in delight at my sheer existence. Many of their eyes wander, making me nervous, and subconsciously, I button my shirt back up...
It makes me sick, but I endure about another hour or so of listening to my wife and her snobby friends prattle on about me, asking questions about my job and the battles I've been in, about the trophies and animal corpses all over the walls. Adeline must love having a husband that all of her social ladder climbing twittish friends adore. She jumps at the chance to show me off like some kind trophy she's won. It's not everyday these women get to meet a war legend and now a world famous hunter.
But, secretly, very few know... that I am more than just Slade Wilson. That I've assumed the guise of a world-class renowned assassin that never misses. Such is the price I pay for my thrill and excitement. Where hunting and killing animals has lost its flavour, hunting and killing humans has become my favorite pass-time. If putting up the facade of famous hunter Slade Wilson keeps my dirty secrets caged and locked up... then I can endure anything that my wife or my 'career' throws at me. Anything for those dirty, filthy secrets...
And even fewer... none... know another secret that I hold... one that I will never admit... a secret only one other person will ever know...
Later...
Tip toe to your room...
A star light in the gloom...
I only dream of you...
And you never knew...
There's no where left to hide...
And no one to confide...
The truth burns deep inside...
And will never die.
Sing for absolution.
"Ssshh... make sure not to let mother hear us."
I emphasize the 'sshhh' by putting my finger to my lips as my other hand ruffles his pajamas. I can barely see in the unholy room as I'm supposed to be putting my son to bed. To sleep. To send him to a land where he is free to dream to his heart's content, like little boys all over the world should be doing right now.
Supposed to. Should be.
Instead, I feel myself start to idly play with the plastic buttons on his pajamas, part of me stalling what was inklingly intended in the first place.
His voice sounds meek and nervous. I don't blame him. We've rarely been so close, and he must be confused as hell having his, until now, emotionally distant father sitting practically ontop of him. Only some unmerciful god knows for what reasons.
"Papa?"
"Joseph. Give me a goodnight kiss."
It's highly unorthodox of me to ask him of such a thing, since until now, I have rarely shown him that sort of physical affection, or affection in any form, ever.
Until now.
I brace myself on his pillow and then lean down. His eyes are closed, probably mimicking what he's seen in movies, or probably shut tight with fear. Either or works.
Bent over him, face to face and after a long, frightening delay, I finally place my all-consuming lips against his smaller ones, never daring to go further than gently massaging his lips with my own. I get carried away, and begin to fiddle with the buttons of his pajamas once again. He sighs drowsily against my mouth, shocking me for a moment out of my self-induced haze.
My eyes widen, my pupils narrow, and I pull away from him sharply, gasping and cupping the mouth that had just kissed my own son. Shock and fear cause a droplet of sweat to frantically slip down the side of my face, my blue eyes now dull and quivering in the darkness with fear at my own disgustingly vile intent.
The choir boy leans up on his elbows, staring at me pleadingly, so confused as to why his father tore away and stopped making him feel good. So misled, so misguided, so doomed.
My son means a lot to me.
And I think he knows it.
But not more than he's going to know before the night is through.
-FIN-(to be continued)
Yes... I can't believe I wrote that. I was shocked all the way through typing like, "Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap!" Don't know whether I went too far or not far enough, but I like taking risks with this story. I have a feeling that if I held back, this story wouldn't be nearly as popular as it is.Whether you liked it or hated it, compliment and flame as you please, and I'll listen whole heartedly. And no, what Slade did is definately not a good thing. (although it's hard not to feel a little bit sorry for the guy, his home life sucks!)
Hints of a Slade and Batman encounter. Score!