Chapter 11

The Grudge

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or anything related to Teen Titans. Unfortunately.

When her soul-self saw them both safely returned to her room and Jinx had excused herself to freshen up in the restroom, Raven stood in motionless examination of the objects set conspicuously upon her nightstand: a pair of iron manacles.

She examined them not as much out of surprise that they were there as out of curiosity, the curiosity of what they had once represented to her versus what they represented to her now. Once security, now insecurity. Self-preservation, now self-flagellation. The willingness to introduce her own magic bullet into the world: the ultimate respect for her potential, the ultimate disrespect for herself.

No, maybe not so much that last one. It still was practical, after all. As uncomfortable as it may have made her, no one should've been above reproach. Checks and balances.

It did make her uncomfortable, though; even just the short trip from her nightstand into a fabric pouch—done by hand when her powers would not affect them—caused a warm, tingling sensation on her fingertips, one she imagined would have eventually progressed to burning. She supposed she could have just asked Jinx to move them, but the sensation faded quickly enough.

Her communicator sounded. Flipping it open, she saw Cyborg with a look of concern.

"We've got a problem," he said. "I just got through processing the ore we needed. I was about to get it and your sample all packed up, but—"

"It's all right," Raven interrupted, assuming he was about to tell her he hadn't been able to find her sample.

His concern turned to confusion. "Okay…"

"It's…been taken care of," she said. "Thanks for your help."

"Uh…no problem, I guess. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Still obviously unclear, Cyborg seemed to take the new development in stride at her assurance. Then, his face shrank off to one side when Robin's cut in.

"Team meeting. Living room. Five minutes." Robin cut out again.

"See ya in five," Cyborg said after a moment, then signed off as well.

Raven closed her communicator.

"Ya know, kinda hard to believe I'm the first one to think these things could use a, 'Do not disturb,' mode or somethin'," Jinx complained as she entered the room, pocketing her communicator. Seeing the pouch in Raven's hand, she confirmed its contents with a wordless look. "That was quick," she said.

Raven sat on the edge of her bed. "I…wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Jinx joined her.

"You asked me to take you somewhere fun," Raven said.

"I asked ya to take me somewhere ya liked," Jinx corrected her.

"You asked me to date you," Raven went on with an air of finality. "Instead, I took you to the place where I ended the world and then hijacked your date and sent it careening into my baggage. That wasn't my intention. I mean, I wanted you to understand, to help you understand me and why, no matter what happens, fun in the typical sense probably won't ever really be on the table, but I—"

"Hey, I get it," Jinx stopped her, putting on the breaks when she sensed Raven unable to find her own. "And I appreciate it, all of…that." She giggled a little. "Helpin' each other out, even if it's just bein' somebody around to talk to, bounce thoughts off of, vent to, whatever—I mean, I know you're new to this, but—that's part of what it means to, y'know, be with somebody. It's, like, in my job description or whatever. Not that it's some kinda obligation!" She caught herself after the fact, then scratched her head with a groan. "Ah, jeez… I'm not the best at explainin' things like this…"

Raven, however, allowed the information to pass from her ears, into her mind and through the mechanisms therein, processing it: cutting, picking it apart and sorting it into something orderly and digestible. "If being with someone means caring deeply about them, then supporting them is both a responsibility and a privilege, something not only expected of you—not merely an obligation—but something that you genuinely want, maybe even feel honored, to be able to do."

Jinx relaxed, relieved. "Y— Uh…yeah."

Raven smiled.

"So…what happens? When we go out there," Jinx asked. "I mean, Bird Boy has his meeting. Presumably the League is involved. But, like…what about me? What do I do? Besides stand there and look pretty."

Raven deflated some. "I don't know."

And that was the truth of it, the part that really terrified her. Maybe it always had been: not knowing. For all her promises to herself, it was…difficult…to do something, anything entirely on faith and with no real way to plan ahead, predict, or prepare. For as willing as she was now to take the plunge and do it, the prospect of closing her eyes and falling backward, even—maybe especially—into her own arms, evoked a very particular kind of fear: one that she had spent most of her life conditioning herself to associate with the unforgivable danger.

"Well…whaddaya want me to do?" Jinx asked.

Raven thought about it, then managed a tiny smile again. "Stand there."

Jinx smiled back, fully aware that, while the empath may've said stand, she had meant be. Be there, like she had been earlier at the church, with Fate and with their mediation. Just be there. Her smile turned shrewd. "And look pretty?"

Raven shrugged.

Jinx stood up into her most formal posture. "Madam, a privilege."

Not long after, the two made their way to the living area where they found most of the others already waiting. Beast Boy was last to arrive. They stood, rather than sit, in the main area between the television and the couch, all eyes on Robin, who stood with jaw locked and arms crossed.

He, in turn, made a clear point of eyeing the pouch in Raven's hand.

She tossed it to him.

He opened it, confirmed the contents, and then looked up at her, waiting or perhaps, to the initiated, already engaged with her in a conversation of sorts that no one could hear. It was clear he had immediately parsed the meaning of her handing them over rather than keeping them: while she recognized their necessity, at least in the eyes of him and others like him, she did not intend to use them the way they had planned.

The rest of the group seemed to hold its breath while Robin weighed the situation.

"Can I trust you?" he asked.

Raven gave a single, deliberate nod without ever breaking her eye contact.

He narrowed his eyes. "How can I be sure?" His tone, firm but not malicious, made it clear to anyone listening that he didn't ask because he wanted to ask, but because he had to ask it.

"Because I trust me," Raven told him.

He raised his chin slightly at the response, and then, after a moment, leveled it again with a simple, "Okay."

As the others allowed themselves to resume breathing, Robin adjusted his body language to address them all, returning to business as usual as though the tension of seconds earlier had never existed.

"As some of you may know, earlier today, I reached out to the League at Raven's request," Robin explained, then grew more serious. "As it turns out, they were expecting my call. However it happened, they're aware of our situation, and have taken an interest."

The warmth of blood grew in Raven's cheeks; the muscles in her stomach gnarled into tight, twisted knots. Taken an interest? They had taken an interest?

Her heart pounded out a war-drum's rhythm as anger and sharp, biting cynicism surged into her. True to her commitments, or at least trying to be, she did not resist it or hold it back, but did her best to work it, that molten metal, to temper it.

"They're sending an envoy," Robin continued.

Brows went up in surprise.

"Whoa… The Justice League is coming here?" Beast Boy asked, incredulous. "Like, Superman? For real?"

Cyborg folded his arms. "When?"

Robin's lips tightened in annoyance. "About fifteen minutes ago."

A side-door to the living area swished open. Through it, four figures entered the room: Batman, Fate and Zatanna, led in front by the Man of Steel himself.

Her empathic awareness of him left little question whether Fate was really there this time. She could feel him now, could feel all of them, although their proximity, her distance, and the amorphous nature of their feelings made it difficult to identify which came from whom: wariness, uncertainty, doubt, that…stalwart mix of resolve and companionship that, taken alongside the others, usually indicated one placing one's faith in the judgement of a close friend.

Fate stood out, at least: a placid pool of calm.

Zatanna made her own impression, too: a vintage certainty Raven typically associated with the reaffirmation of an old decision. She hadn't changed.

Raven's head jerked reflexively to look when something touched her shoulder; she found Robin's hand. Behind him—behind her—were the others. Jinx hadn't moved either, but she appeared distinctly struck by the sudden appearance of the brand-name heroes. Even Beast Boy seemed to recognize the mood enough to withhold the prodigious desire she could feel to freak out and start asking for autographs.

The newcomers drew to a halt before the Titans.

"Ladies," Fate greeted with the slightest bow.

Raven returned the gesture.

"My apologies for what amounts to inviting ourselves," he went on. "Bad form, I know, but there are certain conversations I believe ought to be had. And, unfortunately, given the nature of the problem and a demonstrated proclivity for overthinking, I hope you can at least understand why I thought the surprise necessary."

Like everyone else, Raven remained silent, for her own part trying to unravel Fate's game.

While the rest of them stood where they were, Fate strode to the couch, hovering cross-legged a foot or so above it in the air. He gestured, and a tea set materialized on the coffee table; a cup poured itself before floating, along with a small plate, up to his hands. He appeared to drink, though no one moved to ask how through his helmet. "Now," he said, "please understand. I am here only as a mediator. To ensure we all remain civil. My only requirement is honesty—with each other, and with ourselves."

Raven caught his meaning easily enough, and took it to heart whether she meant to or not. The sudden appearance of the envoy, the memories and emotions it evoked, surged hard. Had she resorted to her old methods of trying to stand in their way, she had little doubt she would have been bowled over and sent hurtling under the current. Instead, she allowed them their due and focused merely on riding them out.

She found it…captivating, somehow, like putting one's hand to aquarium glass with a shark just beyond. Never had she allowed herself so close to that…rage. It occurred to her then that, while she knew very well what it meant to be consumed by it, she had never really felt it before.

"There will be no sparing of feelings," Fate told them all, nicely but definitively. "No pulling of punches or half-hearted hedging. I would also ask that, eager as we all may be to defend our compatriots, those of us not involved in a conversation yield the floor to those of us who are. Save myself, perhaps, should it seem necessary given my role. Now, who would like to speak first?"

No one moved. No mouths opened. No eyes blinked.

"I think she's earned that privilege," Batman offered, arms folded, when no one else did.

Raven's heart skipped at the prospect. If she opened her mouth now, what would she say?

"I agree," Fate said. "Raven?"

Resolved to see it through, Raven set her eyes on Zatanna, whose grimace sagged into a scowl. Confidence, pride in herself, took hold of that rage and brought the hammer down as it writhed on the forge. "You lost any right to judge me when you refused to help me, so you can wipe that look off your face, or you can turn around and walk away. Because this is my home, you were not invited, and those are your options. Choose one. Or I will choose one of mine."

In response, Zatanna exchanged for a look of concern and sighed. "There is so much evil in you."

"In me," Raven emphasized; the hammer came down. "Evil is my heritage, not my identity. I reached out to you!"

"I stand by my reading," Zatanna said. "Although, I do admit I may have…made a mistake…in how I handled it. I regret that, and I'm sorry."

She pumped the billows. "Regret what, exactly? That you turned away a scared child? Or that you let your arrogance put the entire universe at risk because you wouldn't listen?"

"Does it matter?" Zatanna asked.

"It matters to me!" The hammer fell again; sparks flew.

The tower briefly lost power.

"I believe what Raven is implying," Fate interjected as the lights came back on, "is that one suggests sympathy toward her personally, while the other suggests regret for what amounts to a workplace error."

Zatanna's expression softened to something distinctly more genuine, looking away. "Both, I guess… I don't know, okay?" She turned her eyes on Raven again. "What do you want me to say? That I was distracted by some mission I can barely remember? That the evil I sensed spiked the needle so hard I didn't even notice the power? That, as far as I was concerned, you weren't even human? That—"

"I'm not human!" Raven declared in a voice far from that. "Neither is he!" she said of the kryptonian. "Neither is half the League! Why—"

"I made a mistake!" Zatanna cut in. "I thought you were just some half-baked trap! I was dealing with demons at the time! It wasn't so far-fetched! What else do you want me to say?"

"I want you to apologize!" Raven roared.

"I did!"

"I want you to mean it!" Several lights in the room flashed and popped—clang, the hammer fell.

"I—" Starting strong, Zatanna quickly lost fervor, "…do…"

"Liar…" Raven seethed.

Zatanna winced at the accusation. "I'm not…"

"You are…!" Raven's fists, curled at her sides beneath her cloak, splayed into clawed hands; her teeth ground together, and an unnatural darkness expanded from her spot to steadily creep over the room and its occupants. "I don't know whether to be more furious or insulted! That you would lie to my face, or that you would think I wouldn't notice!"

The billows blew, stoking the flame. Compelled—driven—she threw her feelings down upon the anvil and brought the tempering hammer of her pride down again and again, relentless, single-minded in her need to complete the task now while the metal was hot: all that she had suffered, all that she had done, every memory of every heartache and hardship, she had overcome them all—she had—kept going, persevered through all of it.

She could do this, too.

"I was so scared…so alone…" Her voice quavered.

Clang.

"Every time I saw you on the news, I had hope," she went on. "If I could just find you, one of you, anyone… I looked up to you!"

Clang.

"When I finally found someone, it took me almost two hours before I could even get up the confidence to reveal myself. And when I did, what did you do?"

Clang.

"What did you do?!"

Clang.

"You turned me away! Brushed me off like I was nothing!"

An explosion of black swallowed them all, isolating them and blotting out all sight.

A pause, a moment to consider her work. And then, from the depths of herself, a series of finer taps.

"I wasn't just…not worth saving," Raven's voice, quiet and broken, trailed from somewhere in the dark. "I wasn't worth anything… Do you know what that does to a person? What it almost drove me to do?"

Hiss. She plunged the cooling metal into the waters of a newfound calm, quenching it.

"Rachel."

Fate's tone, while gentle and understanding, was imbued with a parental authority she had not felt since childhood at the use of her name. The dark retreated in a blink, leaving them all as they had been.

"If I may," Fate interjected again. "I believe what Zatanna is suggesting is that, while she is sincere in her apology and genuine in her remorse for what she admits was a poor decision, she has difficulty allowing herself to feel, much less express, those things toward an individual of demonic parentage. She struggles in a similar way with Etrigan, and it is a personal journey for her to overcome those interpersonal shortcomings, although she is continuing to try. I imagine you can sympathize with some part of that?"

And as she stood there, her eyes returning to their usual number and color, Raven realized that she could. While she had not forgiven Zatanna, necessarily, or perhaps ever would, she could at least understand. More than that, the simple act of having said what she'd said felt…good. Without her father's influence to fuel it, she had allowed her anger its due, said her peace, and felt better for it.

She nodded once.

"Good," Fate said kindly. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, Superman has arranged for his part to be broadcast throughout the city, assuming no one here objects."

No one did.

"Excellent," Fate approved.

At a glance from Fate, Batman hurled a small device that landed on a wall nearby and began blinking, then gave a silent go-ahead.

Superman stepped forward.

"Citizens of Jump City, in the interest of doing the right thing, your mayor has generously agreed to assist us in airing this message. You know who I am. I represent the Justice League, a group of individuals who, among other things, are often idolized as role models for the values we strive to represent. Several years ago, someone came to us for help, and we fell far short of those values. You know her…as Raven. And since then, she has gone on not only to dedicate herself to protecting you and your city, but to step in when we couldn't and save a world that, at one time—in part because of our failure—she was convinced would be better off without her. I'm here today, on behalf of the Justice League, to apologize to all of you, and to her."

Raven flinched when, in less than a blink, Superman towered before her.

He looked down, then knelt and met her eye-to-eye. "I am so very sorry, for everything you've gone through." He reached out and hugged her.

Raven's arms dangled loosely at her sides in a kind of shock.

Suddenly, Raven felt a spell being cast and found herself drawn into memory. She saw a meeting room with a long table and heroes seated on either side. A projection played in the center: herself and Jinx on the cathedral, from Fate's perspective.

They had seen it all.

The meeting, the deliberations Fate had talked about, she and Jinx had been a part of it in real time without ever realizing.

Then, she snapped back into the moment.

"I try to imagine myself," Superman went on, more quietly now, "if I had landed here alone, never met my mother, my father, never had a family, who I might have been, how it might have been different. To have come through it the way you have, you are an incredible, amazing person, and anyone—myself included—would be inspired to know you."

Superman's words struck home. And from outside, she sensed something else: a feeling, a single, unified outpouring of support that bombarded her empathic sense and lodged in her throat. Her eyes burned, and she blinked.

Tears.

Warm and wet, a tiny droplet trickled down her face to her chin.

At the tiniest of glances from Fate, Batman cut the broadcast there.

Raven's breathing grew panicked as her heart raced at the new, powerful sensation, an emotion she hadn't anticipated at all; it squashed her pride like an insect, and she wrenched herself free.

"You're wrong," she hitched, staggering back and wiping her eyes. "I-I'm not… I-I don't deserve—" Her knees gave out, and she dropped, blinking away tears she could not control as she struggled to decide if she was in the midst of a heart attack, a panic attack, or something else entirely. "I'm…wrong…" she decided.

"Raven…" Robin approached, followed closely by Jinx and the other Titans, as Superman took a step back to give them room.

"I'm wrong!" Raven cried; with a fearsome shriek, her soul-self emerged, swallowing her and the area around her—including the Titans—and they were gone.

All eyes left in the room fell on Fate, refilling his cup.

Batman surveyed the scene, then asked of Fate, "Go about as well as you'd hoped?"

"Ah, youth," he observed, more wistful than concerned.