Author's note: The author is not his characters or necessarily anything like them.

A figure waited inside a warehouse for the red and yellow van to arrive with its particular red and yellow cargo made up of mostly water, the only one like it on earth. The figure was cloaked in shadows. He could have turned on a light but darkness suited him. The cool grit of the warehouse seemed right. He'd never surrounded himself with sunshine or bright lights or shiny surfaces like some of them did. He'd been interested in the real animating forces of life not glitz and glamour like those fools. The spaces he'd created had always been completely utilitarian.

So, he crouched in darkness beside a series of chains operating the door and a winch because it was the right vantage point from which to see a van approach and enter. And it felt right to be amidst the mechanisms that actually made the complex function. At ease in his surroundings, he mused on recent events that led to the impending delivery of the cargo.

My bird. The return really was for my bird, wasn't it.

Sooooo impossibly difficult at first. Recollections were so jumbled. Understandable after a transition like that. No easter for me. Ha. No Lazarus. Nothing like that. A return to flesh and life. How? Hmmph. I couldn't explain. But divine intervention on my behalf was probably not the cause. Ha ha. As devastating as it is to the flesh, it seemed that death was even less kind to the mind. So many recollections were missing random pieces at first. Senses were so jumbled, like some nobs on the stereo turned all the way up, others all the way down. There were no smells at first. But every sound seemed magnified. The generator turning on at the warehouse hideout was like suddenly being in a battelefield during an artillery barrage. Taste was barely there as was touch. Sight was strangely improved, if not binocular.

Recollections were so jumbled. Seven secret bank accounts were out there. Information never written down so that the yield of years of villainy couldn't be taken by someone who got hold of my papers or if I was somehow arrested, not that that could ever happen. . But only two could be recalled.

The fury at this failing! Monumental.

Other puzzle pieces slowly came back. Those five would, too. He felt sure of that. The two were enough to rebuild. The recollection of the five would return. Some memories were just temporarily lost. But every moment with the bird had been retained. Every second fighting him, listening to him shout warnings or threats or pleas. Especially the pleas! Sigh. Ahhhh the pleas!

That button nose. The lustrous black hair. That glowing skin. Every moment was still there. The first tingle since resurrection was from recalling the time he was on the slab and . . .

He smiled. There it was again.

Tingle.

He let out a small deep throated chuckle that echoed in the empty warehouse. And, after helping them fight Trigon, he tells me nothing has changed. Ha ha ha! Goooooooood Bird! Good!

He laughed. Do you still obsess over me because of it, Bird?

The bird had been restrained. Nothing he could do to defend himself. He had to know what domination really meant. Those squeals and yelps and even pleas turning into full throated vows of revenge, all completely futile. That was domination. Being the traffic cop for toad and tin man and the two . . females, that wasn't domination. My bird was meant to dominate but he tried to control it. He tried so hard to be a girlish boy, to be nice, to play well with others. He tried to be friendly. As if he could be himself and dominate them in a friendly way. So ridiculous. Men like my bird and I were intended to dominate all they saw. My bird was always intended to follow in line after me.

Everyone denies it. Oh, they accept half of it. Survival of the fittest. And what does that mean? Hmmm? What does that entail? Hmmm? Domination. That's what! Domination. Do you stop after survival? Does anything in all of nature stop after achieving bare survival?

He chuckled to himself.

Ridiculous. Every organism from an amoeba up to beautiful Bird keeps going, keeps trying to succeed, to express itself, its own abilities, its dominance over others. Domination of the fittest. I sensed it from the start, med school and with the army. Ironic that that experiment in being able to resist truth serum was when I first saw the truth all the way. My own domain was just waiting. Try and catch me or stop me. Try and prevent my domination pathetic police and misguided heroes. Ha. The strong in service of the week. Exactly backwards! Exactly backwards! Take Bird, for instance.

From the very first time seeing him, it was so obvious. There he was at that robbery site while I pretended to be just another passerby coming upon the scene. There he was, all sharp features and shiny dark hair, even more slender and yet shockingly athletic as only a male, a dominant male, can be. 14 years old, likely only 14 years old and telling the policemen how to do their job from pure instinct from knowing a fight and having the pure cunning of a dominant, alpha male. And they listened. They listened to him! They did what he said those fat, doughnut bloated fools! The reed thin boy in his snug uniform was their master and they knew it! It was there in his body language, light on his feet, chest out, chin up and his face all calm command. They knew it. He didn't have to present credentials to them, beautiful Bird. He simply stood before them and they knew.

The story could have been written to the finish right then. It was so clear. He was so . . . exciting. Yesssssssssss. Exciting. He would be my apprentice and then more. He resisted, even my . . . personal domination of him, haha. But he wasn't successful in that and he won't change his destiny to be mine in the long run, either. It'll just take some time. It's not as easy as simply birthing an heir.

If only creating a chain of domination were so easy. Unfortunately, the will to express what a man truly is, to dominate all around you doesn't seem to go naturally to progeny. It's the . . female who ruins it . . as they ruin most everything. It's the . . female who corrupts the blueprint for an offspring who should be astride the whole world and produces a willowy boy worth nothing. Or worse . . .

But the selection, the sifting out of unsuitables has been done for me. Eugenics done for me by the whole world. If the Teen Titans didn't exist I might create it myself. My bird is offered to me on a platter. Perhaps he would be less resistant if I hadn't . . . He remembered it again, Bird bucking and resisting and even shouting curses well after resistance was too late. But the taking of him was irresistable. My bird had such an energetic masculine shape. Such soft skin. Ahh, the taste of the back of his neck.

And toad and tin man and the . . females wonder why he's so obsessed with beating me. Hahahahahahahaha.

He never told them, did he? He was humiliated to be dominated like that, made to feel pleasure despite his pain, despite himself. Nothing could humiliate him more than domination because that's his true nature. His life revolves around it. It's the core of him. To have someone else turn it around and dominate him? Ha ha ha! And it fueled a raging fire in him to avenge my using him. But, he was falling right into my trap. The greater trap of what I was making him become. Obsessed. Unrelenting. Dominant. He had to be dominant. If no one challenged him, he could soften and become weak and go away from his true nature. But I didn't let that happen. I enraged him. I made him obsess. Hmmmph. He's even more appealing totally engraged. So odd that he didn't see what I was doing. I was making him into me from a distance, molding my bird, forming him as surely as if I was squeezing his body again, until I would take him again. The irrelevant aspects of him were burning off like a thin coat of paint on a piece of metal thrust into a blast furnace. He was becoming me in the process of trying to fight me. How did he not realize?

But, no. He didn't. Then . . .

Teeth ground together furiously at the recollection of a failure.

Strange that I find my death as unbelievable as my coming back. It shouldn't have gone that way. My plans were sound. They should all have worked. Damn them. Damn that stupid girl. I should never have relied upon a . . female. Damn them

And then, subsequently, another rage. Damn him most of all, I thought for a time. Damn him.

Cheetah.

It's the only name for him. What a preposterous boy. What a truly ridiculous boy! Red and yellow like a second skin with garish, almost fluorescent orange hair on top. Probably fake. Ridiculous! He wasn't there before. There was a balance to my Titans like a fine swiss watch, all the pieces spinning and whirring away in perfect measured movements, each doing their part, even the . . females. And at the center of it was my bird. Nothing was changing my bird. They all had their roles and his was the dominant one. They weren't about to change my bird. But Cheetah changed things. He changed the balance of the team, upset the established roles. He even changed my bird. Damn him!

So much time had to be spent researching what Cheetah could do, just as dossiers on all the others had been prepared. At least recovery could be diverted into this research, not just the risibly simple theft of the police file on him, but collecting every newspaper mention or picture. Every magazine article. Watching tape of every news story, every interview, till I could have smashed that pretty boy face of his.

Fastest land animal? Yes, with the exception of cheetah senior in Keystone City, it would be the ridiculous boy. What a temptation to literally take him apart and see how he ticks! How can muscles work like that? How does a digestive system extract enough sustenance for such amazing feats? What's going on inside him? Could I dissect Cheetah and take his secrets and use them myself?

A smile curled his lips at how he'd wanted to pull his innards out with the ridiculous boy still conscious, strapped down and still conscious to see me pulling his stomache out of him, to see the look on his face. Like the look on the face of that med student who'd walked in on me that time. Kline? Yes. Kline with his womanly propriety and morality. Can you look down your nose at me now, from that landfill where I left you, Kline?

Hahahahahahahaha.

But the ludicrous Cheetah was awfully hard to keep hold of, wasn't he? There were the stories of him moving through walls and burning anyone who tried to hold him. There were stories of him creating mini-tornadoes from his sprinting and perhaps just from moving his arms, too. There were the various, wild tales of just how fast red and yellow Cheetah could actually go. Some just said, the speed of sound. Others said much faster. There was that tabloid story that he could approach the speed of light. At a certain point, it didn't much matter? Did it? At a certain point he would be too fast to defend against. He was probably that fast. He'd apparently overwhelmed the HIVE Five. They were just children but Cheetah had nothing but his speed and he overwhelmed six foes of many abilities.

Oh yes, Cheetah was very impressive. But, at first, it was certain that he had to die. And the death would have to be exceptionally grisly and slow. Ha. The irony of a slow death for a boy like that! He had changed the bird. Before . . it happened . . before my . . transitions, the bird had a certain air about him. He wanted to dominate. He was programmed to dominate. The Bat had done his work well. I would like to have seen those training sessions! Bird's nature was to dominate all those around him. He had to work so hard not to force the others to do things, to ask them, to relax his expectations of them. How it must have killed him to deal with the two . . females, happy and harpy and stupid, childish toad! But he powered that team himself, gave it direction and momentum. They were just his appendages. He was the Teen Titans.

Then!

There was a time of veins almost popping in rage at the reports. The newspapers were full of stories of the two of them being best friends, Cheetah and my bird? They were at a certain pizza shop all the time. They spoke at schools. They simply -ugh- . . . hung . . around together. And garish Cheetah, with his orange hair, had infected my black haired bird with his orange cheerfulness. My black haired bird had had a wonderfully dark aspect about him at all times before the advent of Cheetah. An air of dominance. His sharp, masculine features were always burning with intensity in photos. He'd never been smiling in pictures before. Oh, there had been a few staged pictures but the grins were like hostage photos.

Mmmm hostages. Ahhhhh.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Otherwise he was always grim, as befitted a man. Then!

Past fury was recalled.

Newspapers were shredded in anger. Nothing could be done while recovering, while having to hide to regain strength and abilities. Nothing. And there it was, in seemingly every day's papers. He was seen laughing here, grinning at his . . . pal . . . there. One article in the Jump City Tabloid had talked about the "new Robin" in glowing terms. Oh, the anger toward Cheetah that welled up within. What contempt for the happy go lucky speedster.

Seeing him in person had been almost too much to bear in the first few moments. Even in a weakened condition, even with it being a totally wrong move, the desire to kill him had nearly been overwhelming upon sighting him. But every hunter knows there is a right and a wrong time to bag your game. Standing there in the wings at City Hall while the mayor presented the Titans with an award was not the right time. Too weak still and they were too strong.

But there he was, just five feet away. His back was just five feet away. And anger melted away. Anger became . . . anger became . . like the feeling for my bird, that sweet tingle for the bird. Cheetah was . . . astounding.

Oh, the tingle!

Such slender waisted muscularity, the lithe, wiry muscularity! Perhaps just over five foot ten. Not 150 pounds, not quite, he guessed, not with that tiny waist. But, at a glance he was the fastest boy on earth. At a glance! It was apparent to anyone at a glance, not just those who'd been to medical school and taken apart dozens of bodies.

Excellent square shoulders, all the deltoids proudly in view and wonderful trapezius muscles above and latissimus dorsi below. Fine pectorals and articulated ribs, eight abdominal muscle squares, not just six, but eight and all tapering to a tiny waist with hips no wider. Yet, back of him! The most masculine possible musculature. The ultimate masculine shape. He shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, as a speaker droned on, slightly flexing one crimson arc of muscle then the other beneath that tight uniform. Every woman in sight was watching him. Him and not toad or tinman or even bird. Him. Ha! They should, those . . females! This is the shape a male can attain! This is a body in the shape of energy, this is a human being who IS velocity, not some pathetic hodgepodge of an anatomical compromise between child bearing and suckling and a modicum of athleticism. He IS energy. They all saw it and they all reacted to him.

Cheetah was . . beautiful. Somehow it had never come across completely in the television clips, the full powerful, almost stylized perfection of him, speed turned into a boy, energy turned into a boy, on television. Of course they usually showed him from the waist up and never from behind, not in focus, anyway. The mere sight of Cheetah down there was too provocative to show the general public.

To top it off, he carried himself with a perfect masculine indifference to their reactions. And then there was his expression speaking to that reporter, that . . female reporter. Intensity. Cheetah was garishly colored and smiled altogether too much. But there it was in his face. Intensity! He was three steps ahead of her questions. You could see it. And he didn't like her questions. There was intensity. Cheetah dialed it down to deal with her. What a feeling of unexpected joy as she looked up into his face, his naturally perfect face with her layers of fraudulence, her makeup, her . . female war paint, her snivelling question like a clod of dirt he should just kick off his boots. But he stood there and answered. And his expression was so serious. He was, what, 20 years younger than her and he was the real adult. He parried her stupid question with ease. An article had hinted at this, hadn't it? "Most bookish of the Teen Titans – Kid Flash". Toad had snickered and called him the "most nerdy" of them in an interview. But, there was a gravitas there that toad would never have, nor even slightly withdrawn tin man. He had the wrong flavor to his intensity but he faced questions from the reporters with the air of a man, with true masculine focus.

He had to sigh at the recollection. So serious, my Cheetah. Yet, he was not meant to dominate everyone. The little clues were everywhere in his interaction with my bird, he let my bird decide things. If you say so, Robin. Whatever you want, Robin. He accepted that my bird was his boss. Just further proof of how great my bird is, that incredible Cheetah would immediately accept his dominance. He would be an excellent right hand man for me or my bird. Cheetah could be part of bird's flock, of his family. The inspiration struck so quickly. It was so obvious.

Two apprentices!

All the physical rehabilitation, all the grueling work became easier, almost happy. Extra injections of the special amphetamines. Less sleep. Train train train. Prepare prepare prepare, because that was the prospect ahead, Cheetah as Slade Flash and Bird as my successor.

It was so disappointing to learn that Cheetah had a mate, that Cheetah was giving his energies to a . . female, even a powerful one like the pink witch. Why, Cheetah? Why? She's not worthy of you. Only my bird is. And you and my bird are best friends! Why can't they see what's so obvious? And the mate is so completely . . female. Ugh. Everything about her. Pink? Ugh. Don't surrender to weakness, Cheetah!

The excruciating gossip columns! Ugh. Him kissing her here. Her looking dreamily at him there. The two of them spotted together at Club X, at Club Y. No, here! No, there! So insipid! Even a less discerning reader could not help but infer that the extraordinary boy was besotted with her and courting her non-stop. Hope of deliverance from this horror, of the most perfect slender masculine boy giving his unparalleled self to a . . female was hard to maintain.

And he did. Ugh. The only consolation was that this magnificent boy surrendering to that . . female might give the way to capture Cheetah and to hold him till he could be reprogrammed, till he saw the true nature of things. He had taken down even very wily foes when he was ready and could react at his otherworldly speed. The key was to get him before he knew there was a fight.

The work was contracted out to only the best, a man the mob hired to kill other top mob figures. He was observed over a period of weeks. His movements throughout Jump City were logged, not where he went on missions or patrolling or chasing crooks but where was he seen on his own time. The shooter determined that there were only two realistic possibilities. One was the pizza shop that he was frequently seen at with Bird. But the sight lines there were poor and Bird was often around. There probably could not be a second shot. No. That wouldn't do. But, the shooter told the man who hired him, the man he couldn't see behind the high powered lights on the other side of that hotel room, that there was another possibility.

"He's nuts for the pink haired girl and he buys her flowers all the time at the same shop on the edge of the high class shopping district. Been there so many times they don't give it a second thought when he comes running in. Great sight lines there. I can hide three different places and shoot him the way you want with that crazy glorified bb."

"Just see that you do," a scrambled voice had told him. "And, now, when will you do it?"

"He's there most Thursday mornings. Gets her roses or something exotic. But he's there most Thursdays, around 9:30. I'll be there long before that."

"See that you are. I'll contact the second step people."

Kid Flash zipped into the flower shop in the expensive Jump Village district. He smiled at Natalie behind the register. She'd met him many times now. They'd spoken a few times. She made suggestions or pointed out unusual selections. Today, she pointed out an extremely rare chrysanthemum that had splashes of both red and yellow color. He smiled and nodded. Of course. He saw Tony, the young guy who worked at the shop, staring at him. He waved to Tony as Natalie bundled up a half dozen of the special mums. He grinned at her at the register. She'd once tried to give him flowers for free. His patronage had actually gotten them a fair amount of business, women and gay men wanting to be there when the hyper-athletic teen showed up. But Kid Flash wouldn't hear of it. He wasn't going to be like one of those cops who took an apple from every fruit vendor on his beat. He paid and said thank you and stepped outside as usual and took a deep breath of the almost perfumed scent of the special mums. He paused on the sidewalk for a moment, thinking of how he would rub the soft flower across her breasts, picturing naked Jinx. Mmmm. And then down . .

"Unnh."

He barely felt a sort of pinprick at the right side of his butt. But the special thorazine based drug cocktail, with ingredients synthesized by Slade just for use against Kid Flash, rendered him unconscious before he even hit the ground. No one passing by on the larger street paid any attention to the red and yellow DHL van rushing up to the curb just a little ways from the florist. They made pickups there for deliveries all the time. The van pulled away, leaving only a few chrysanthemum petals on the sidewalk as a sign that he'd been there.

The fake DHL van was then parked beside a warehouse a mile away. When another driver got in a minute later, he glanced in the back, contrary to the instructions he'd been given, and saw only a vague shape wrapped in a carpet. He drove the van to another warehouse, honked the horn twice at the prescribed door and drove in when it opened. He was killed before he got out of the van and his body eventually disposed of in a furnace.

"Follow instructions, drone! Do you think were not being watched!"

The body that counted was wrapped in a thick carpet that was carried into the huge, but apparently abandoned warehouse by Slade. Then a button was pushed and a piece of sheet metal slid aside and an elevator was revealed. A sleek, silvery door opened and Slade carried his burden inside. He pressed for the main level, two floors down and while they descended, pulled aside the carpet enough to see a thick tangle of bright orange hair but nothing more. It was enough. Slade sighed with satisfaction but his pulse also raced. With some effort he pulled the carpet back farther to look at the unconscious face. The boy looked like he was only asleep. Pale perfect skin under his cowl with outrageous orange hair spilling out the top of his uniform.

The elevator door was open but Slade remained inside, staring at the boy's so handsome face. Soooo masculinely handsome. He touched a lock of orange hair. He stared some more and slowly ran one finger across a very prominent cheekbone.

"My Cheetah," he whispered in a hushed tone that was mostly his normal monotone, but part adoration.

Then, he carried the unconscious teen into the medical room at the complex. He threw aside the carpet and lay the limp teen hero down on the metal topped examining table in the center of a room ringed with the most advanced lab equipment.

He tugged at the red and yellow uniform. Hmmph. He could barely pull it apart from the teen's skin. He looked for a zipper or some kind of separation between top and bottom. But, to his surprise, found none. It was a body suit. There were openings at his wrists and at his face, his cowl, but that was it. Slade realized he had no other choice and laboriously pulled the uniform off him from head to toe. It took surprising effort. He had to push hard against his back to pull it past his hips. It was amazingly soft, smooth material on the inside, this spandex looking stuff. What was it made of, he wondered. He yanked off his sole undergarment, a dance belt the same blood red color as his uniform's lower half then caught his breath at the sight of the teen underneath. His skin was pale but uniform and perfect, not so much as a freckle anywhere on him. No moles, no rashes, no discolorations anywhere. Perfection. He was nearly hairless, too, only some almost invisible hair on forearms and calves other than . . that hair. Hmmph. His hair really was orange.

The garish second skin off him, black and gold would be so much better, Slade decided, he inspected amazing Cheetah. Even in that position, lying limply on his side with his torso twisted so that his shoulders faced down, he was amazing. How is a boy like this produced? What a fantastic design! Was that how he got like this? Was he designed to be this or was he shaped by the activity, by the super speed running. Either way, Cheetah was a stupendous product. He was perfect efficiency. No fat, none at all and a physique that minimized mass while relative motive power, sleek sinew was maximized wherever possible.

Slade ran a hand over an outrageously developed calf muscle. No cost in extra mass beyond this muscle itself, so very large calves. Thighs were well muscled but not thick, not wide. That required pelvis width and that added lower torso weight. His pelvis was a narrow as possible. And, yet, behind it. Slade sniffed, almost a laugh. Of course. The greatest sprinter on the planet. He patted him and continued his inspection. Minimal waist widening out to excellent shoulders. But the arms are nothing special. He took in all of him lying there. He considered his medical training and all he learned and researched since then. Was there any way to improve on Cheetah's design? His lips curled at one end as he shook his head.

With a sigh, he pulled his shoulder toward him so that Cheetah lay on his back.

Hmmmph. He regarded, at some length, the almost improbable organ below the confirming orange hair. Hmmph. So much for perfect efficiency. Even Bird's not like that! He remembered his envy of Bird. But Cheetah . . . !

Hmmmph.

She must have done this to him. Jinx. Damned pink witch. She must have cast a spell on him, swelled and stretched him. Not an extra molecule on him anywhere else but . . . that! Ridiculous! She did this to scratch some . . female itch inside. Even Bird's not . . .

With a sigh, Slade said to himself that Cheetah was not like Bird in many ways. He ran one hand from just above the orange short curlies to his waist then up his side to his shoulder and back, almost wanting to confirm the teen hero's fantastic shape by touch, not trusting that a boy could really be this. Were his shoulders really that much wider than that tiny waist? They were and Slade drew a long slow breath of satisfaction at the sight of his new minion.

But . . . he could not resist. Cheetah's most outstanding feature was not showing. With his syringe containing another dose of his special thorazine based knockout cocktail at the ready in its extension from his glove, Slade lifted the naked teen speedster's left foot and crossed it over his right. Then he tugged at the teen's hip pulling him closer before pushing at the muscular buttock next to him and rolling the boy half over onto his right side. Slade stared with a smile. He remembered his art classes during medical school. He thought of the time he'd spent studying art history to correctly value the stolen pieces he was aquiring. That Red X could be so tricky, selling hamburger that looked like filet mignon instead of the real thing. But no figure he'd ever seen was like Cheetah. No painting, no sculpture. None of the other do gooder heroes. Not even big Cheetah. He rubbed one hand across the perfect skin with a chuckle. So powerful. A masculine shape completely impossible for . . females. It makes him dominant.

Tingle.

He smirked to himself. Oh yes. Yes. He knew from the start he would. Just like with my bird! Ha! What pure joy in domination of beautiful Bird. The purest most personal domination! Now, Cheetah would have to know the same feeling of anger as Bird at being dominated in the most basic way, the same obsessive need to fight back, the same obsessive focus on dominating, on expressing his will. Cheetah would be reoriented from that mate and whatever else took up his time to an obsessive focus on domination and vengeance, just as my bird had been.

He quickly tied the leather straps tight about his wrists and ankles and waited. Cheetah was starting to stir. He had to experience every humiliating moment as clearly as possible. Ha ha ha. Slade smiled in anticipation beneath his mask. He climbed atop the examining table, freed himself from his constricting uniform as necessary, and checked the syringe in the glove extension, just in case. With the palms of his gloves he spread Cheetah apart. It was just moments away when Cheetah stirred some more and then tugged against one strap holding his wrist.

Just as Slade lerched forward, he saw an amazing flurry of movement. First Cheetah grunted something then shook his right forearm, it became blurry for a fraction of a second, and the leather strap dropped away from it. Slade tried to grab his arm to hold him down but before he could, the super fast teen was rolling onto his side and the strap holding his left wrist had also dropped away from an arm gone blurry. Slade could feel him bucking and realized his ankles were also free. The teen had rolled onto his back before he knew it and Slade felt punch after furious punch, both lefts and rights, to his jaw, a dozen in just a second. Only his composure under pressure saved him as he tried to defend with one hand and, more importantly, plunged the syringe with tranquilizing cocktail into the super speed teen's muscular hip. Instantly, the blur of punches slowed. There was one last one, barely a tap to his now aching jaw and then bright blue eyes rolled back into his head and he fell back onto the examining table.

Slade's now sore jaw dropped open in wonder behind his mask.

A-amazing, Cheetah. Amazing.

He stepped down from the examining table and zipped his uniform, staring in admiration at the teen he'd almost violated. How many times did he hit me? Ten? Twelve? Was it twelve? Twelve times in just a second just after being unconscious. Amazing! He's almost unstoppable. He stared at him some more feeling a contorted version of pride.

Hmmmph. Only undone by his super fast uptake of the drug shot into him just as much as he'd been helped by his system's super fast recovery from the first dose.

He might still have violated the teen speedster. But, somehow, the flurry of resistance had changed the psychodynamics. The act had to be domination that was experienced by the apprentice. He had to feel it and know what was going on and, most of all, fight but not be able to stop it. It wasn't certain that there was any such condition for Cheetah. If he was conscious, he was almost unstoppable. He'd vibrated himself right out of the bonds. Only the cage will ever stop that. I can't make everything out of that! The modifications to his uniform should make him . . . pliable. Slade chuckled at what he was going to do to control Cheetah. But that was still only with his uniform on. He would have to devise a restraint. He would have to. Cheetah would have to experience that feeling and reorient his life around domination, just as Bird would be made to again.

"Your time will come, Cheetah," he growled quietly, patting Kid Flash's rear and then rolling the slender teen speedster onto his back. He was stepping away from the slab to go work on the filament lining of his uniform when he accidentally brushed his glove against the naked teen's arm.

Hmmph. One of the glove's razor edge extensions that protruded with the push of a button had gotten stuck in the extended position. Damn these things! Should be more reliable! He pressed at it. There! It popped back into place at the edge of the glove.

"Wait," he muttered to himself. He stared at the teen's arm. There was no cut, no mark. One eyebrow arched. I nicked him. I know I did. I felt the tug of skin against the blade. Could Cheetah really have . . . !

Slade filled with excitement. He leaned over the naked teen. He pressed the button to extend razor edges on his gloves. He swiped enthusiastically at helpless Kid Flash's bicep opening a two inch long cut. In just a few seconds, the skin closed itself and even the pink mark of a scar disappeared leaving no evidence that the teen had ever been cut.

Slade's eye went wide and there was the tingle again. His pulse raced and he felt a frenzy of excitement as he slashed at his bicep, shoulder and forearm, crisscrossing the teen's arm with the lines of razor slashes, making a crimson lattice work of sadism. And then, just a few seconds later, they healed. All of them healed. Not a single mark of sadistic joy remained. Slade's mouth watered.

"Hahaha! Hahahahahahahaha! Ah Hahahahahahahahaha!" He gave a full throated laugh. Then he flayed the teen's chest and stomach, cutting and slashing till he was out of breath, leaving the teen a bloody, butchered mess.

The helpless teen started to stir and Slade jammed the syringe into the side of his buttock again, almost missing because he was watching the many cuts and gashes heal with such fascination. He bent over and stared closely at his perfect pale skin from just a few inches above. It was impossible to detect any sign that the boy's skin had ever been anything but the perfection it seemed again to be.

Slade chuckled happily to himself. Oh Cheetah, my Cheetah. He grabbed a handful of orange hair lifting the teen's head off the slab and then,

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM,

punched him one, two, three, four, five times with nearly all his might. He let the handsome teen's bloody, swollen head drop back to the slab as he laughed delightedly. And then he roared with delight as split, fattening lips stopped swelling and showed no split, a blackening eye became perfect pale skin again. A chiseled cheekbone, bruised purple, became flawless again. A bloodied nose repaired as well.

Slade let out another laugh. "Oh, Cheetah. I had no idea how much fun you could be. I will have to study you, little Cheetah and learn all your secrets. Then I'll transfer them to me and my bird, too."

He finished with a sniff and a shake of his head and grazed a hand softly against Kid Flash's handsome face before walking away.