Robin wandered through the dark sewer tunnels, alone and on edge. The portable GPS clutched in his hand chimed quietly, muffled by his thick glove. The handy device guided him deeper into the bowels of the city as he made his way toward where Slade supposedly lurked. The closer he got, the more frenzied the beeps became.
It wouldn't be long now.
The sewage water that had been ankle-deep was beginning to thin as he walked, but the damp air still reeked of mold and mud and waste. The squeaks and pitter-patter of rats crossed his path occasionally, their bright eyes shining in the cavernous dark. Pings of leaking water echoed forever as he wound his way through the snaking passageway.
Robin had gotten separated from his team due to an untimely visit from Cinderblock at the start of the mission. Although not ideal, he was confident that it was probably for the best. His friends would disarm the Chronoton Detonator, and Robin would disarm Slade—win, win.
If everything went according to plan, the masked villain's plan would be foiled and the psychopath himself would be captured, tried, and sentenced to life in a cage far away from Jump City and, more importantly, Robin.
Freedom from Slade's shadow was so close he could taste it.
After tonight, Robin wouldn't have to stay awake for hours and hours, combing through case files. He wouldn't have to fear his bed and the nightmares that lurked there. He wouldn't have to relive his shame from the Red-X fiasco over and over again. Things would be normal again, he told himself optimistically.
His boots hit dry, cobbled ground. The GPS let out a final, shrill squeak and tolled no more.
Robin didn't have to glance at the screen to know he had arrived at his destination. An intimidating set of rusty iron doors cropped up before him, bolted into the rock. He could hear a soft buzz reverberating from behind them. Slits of weak light emanated from between the cracks.
Robin grinned viciously and reached for an explosive.
"Hurry young Titans," Slade mused to himself. "Your time is running out."
He stood watching four massive, column-sized audiovisual monitors. On each screen was a close up of the four remaining Titans as they scrambled after his minions in another part of the sewer system.
Slade absorbed each face, memorizing every idiosyncrasy and weakness: Starfire's hesitancy to unleash her power to its full potential; Raven's propensity to become overwhelmed; Beast Boy's carelessness and eagerness to prove himself; and Cyborg's dualistic self-doubt—man or machine?
He chuckled softly, cruelly. How easy it would be to exploit them.
His laughter bounced back at him, a reverberating chorus.
Slade's lair matched his cold-hearted malice.
The walls and floor were made of gray concrete and appeared positively black in the aggressively dim atmosphere. Churning cogs could be heard somewhere, spinning for an unknown purpose. A railed catwalk rose up from the first level and ringed it. Black steel rafters spiraled and disappeared into the hidden ceiling, climbing infinitely.
Undetectable at first glance, three sets of tunnels spread out from the atrium where Slade stood. A handful of intense spotlights were the only sources of light in the area and the thick shadows hid the cavern's sizeable expanse. Any intruder would find himself lost and groping as he tried—and failed—to find his way around.
Slade cocked his head to the side, brooding. He lifted a hand to his makeshift chin, running his thumb against the slits.
His arena was set. All it needed was a second player.
Impatience bit at his mind. His prize should have been here by now.
Suddenly, an earth-shaking boom sounded from behind. Rubble from his destroyed entrance cascaded noisily to the floor. A smirk grew on his face beneath the metallic mask. Smoking pebbles bounced against the back of his legs, but he didn't so much as flinch. He had expected a theatrical arrival.
Heroes were so predictable.
The villain kept his back turned as Robin jumped down from the catwalk, a twenty-foot drop. He landed with ease, summersaulting over the wreckage. Slade's colorless eye swiveled to the side coolly.
"Robin," he acknowledged evenly, inclining his disguised head. "Welcome. I've been expecting you for some time. I was beginning to wonder if Cinderblock was too much of challenge."
Robin's blood boiled instantly; his hatred came swiftly. He was crouched low, his fingertips pressed into the dusty ground. As Slade spoke, they curled.
"Looking for this?"
Turning slowly around, Slade held up a rectangular, metal box and shook it tauntingly. Robin recognized the trigger for the Chronoton Detonator and his eyes narrowed. He shifted his legs, putting more pressure on his toes as he prepared to spring.
Taking that as his cue, Slade walked forward and placed the device on a patch of illuminated floor. He took a step back, his horrible black-blue eye fixed and unblinking. His posture was straight as an arrow as he anticipated the boy's first move.
"Well, here it is," he goaded. "If you want it, come and take it."
Not wasting another second, Robin snarled and shot forward, immediately going for the trigger. As he jumped, he tossed a birdarang at Slade's head which was smoothly deflected. It clattered, ineffective, to the floor—metal against stone.
It had only been a few seconds and Robin already knew he was going to pay dearly for that mistake.
A foot from the device, a bone-rattling force pounded into his stomach, sending him flying. His hip skidded against the concrete as he bounced along the ground. After what seemed like an eternity, he rolled to a humiliating stop. A debilitating fear wound itself around his core, threatening to paralyze.
Fortunately, it was soon drowned out by a remorseless pain which sprouted from his side. Slade had scored a broken rib on his first hit.
With starry sight, Robin could see the detonator sitting perfectly untouched in its personal spotlight a dozen yards away, practically scoffing at him. Slade, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.
Struggling to his feet, Robin swayed and tried to ignore the ache of his lungs. The right side of his face was already streaked with angry, red abrasions. A trickle of blood seeped down his cheek, a rough beginning.
"This is going to be easier than I thought…" came Slade's jeer.
It rang off the shadowed walls, echoing evilly.
Robin emitted a guttural growl, grinding his molars into dust. Stubborn pride and a rush of adrenaline began to deafen the hurt. He would not be cowed so easily.
Eyes sharp and ears pricked, he waited for the inevitable.
Footsteps came from the right.
Robin just managed to leap backward as Slade's fist came crashing out of the dark. Twirling away, he landed expertly on the pads of his feet and catapulted off the ground.
He struck air as Slade slithered out of the way, his divided facade going in and out of shadow. Off balance, Robin barely managed to evade the incoming kidney shot. Knuckles grazed his shirt.
Shuffling backward, Robin set the chess board anew. He was determined to keep his enemy in his sights.
Playing along, Slade mirrored him and the dueling pair squared off and circled one another. The trigger remained a passive spectator in the corner of Robin's eye, a subtle reminder in the back of his head.
Slade struck first, throwing a freight-train kick Robin's way. The teen blocked it, but bruised his forearm and weakened his stance in the process. His feet skidded back an inch, and Slade capitalized on it ruthlessly. His strikes were a blur as he set upon Robin—a hailstorm of fists.
With each successful hit, Robin's form crumbled. Slade left no window of opportunity open for him to wiggle through. Nonetheless, he had to do something soon or he would find himself soundly defeated.
Holding on for dear life, he kept his toes glued to the floor and refused to relinquish another inch.
"Come now, Robin. Sooner or later, you'll have to fight back."
Slade's voice was frighteningly composed. Robin couldn't even hear breath exit through the slits in the man's metal mask.
Strategy quickly failing, Robin lost a little more endurance with each feint, dodge, and block. Each of Slade's punches landed closer and closer to their intended targets.
Slade was a shark in the water and Robin was a bucket full of chum.
Panic rising, the boy wonder ducked around another one of Slade's perfectly timed punches and bolted, deciding to try his luck in the dark. He needed time to think of a different, less direct plan of action.
Unfortunately for him, Slade had been waiting for him to do just that. As Robin danced away into the gloom, he felt something curl and lock around his collar. Dragged backward, he instinctively drove an elbow into Slade's mask, desperate to escape.
The villain swerved out of the way last second, but Robin had managed to nick the chin. The clink of his bone against the metal reverberated into the heavy silence.
Slade's eye narrowed darkly and his grip on the boy tightened, gloves crackling.
Soon, Robin was being tossed left and right, from one side of the room to the other. When he collided with one stone wall, he found himself being thrown to another one after a brief, hopeless scuffle.
Fight or flight, he acted on pure instinct whenever Slade hunted him down. Yet, every punch, every kick, every dirty trick, was easily checked. Bruises covered his limbs from where his bones met Slade's stony knuckles and boots.
It was agonizing…and humiliating.
God, what would Bruce say if he saw you like this? his brain screamed at him in disgust. Get up! Get up! Go! Fight!
Veins filled with a thumping rage, he reinvigorated his attacks, putting every ounce of hatred he felt into the waning battle. Unbaffled, Slade continued to systematically tear down Robin's efforts.
To make matters worse, each time the teen failed or miscalculated, he was there with a taunt and an unwanted critique.
"Come now, Robin. You'll have to do better than that."
"I haven't even broken a sweat."
"Good technique…but not perfect."
"You can't even touch me."
"How can you save a city if you can't save yourself?"
The fight unraveled into a cat and mouse chase. Robin turned his attention to the trigger. If he could just get to it, Slade's plan could be at least stopped. Robin might lose this battle, but he would ultimately win the war.
Skirting Slade's reach, he shimmied up the beams and swung from the catwalk rails and twisting rafters. He barrel-rolled until his shoulders screamed and sprinted until his heels went numb. He bent over backwards—literally—in his pursuit of the trigger, but each acrobatic attempt was met with frustration and another welt to add to his already substantial collection.
Dusting off, he gave one last, desperate try.
Luring Slade as far from the trigger as he could, he pushed off a wall and leapt. He propelled into the air and grabbed hold of a low-hanging rafter that ran parallel to the ground ten feet up. Before he could be yanked back down, he swung up onto it like a high bar and took a moment to gain his footing.
Then, as if on a balance beam, he cartwheeled toward the trigger. As easy as breathing, his battered body cavorted with the mastery of an Olympian. His legs were straight and strong and supple. Each bend of his back was agony, but his muscle memory did not fail him. The beam groaned beneath his weight, but he knew just how to adjust his grip to keep it from snapping.
"Good…good…" Slade hissed from down below, his split façade lost in the obscurity. "Excellent form."
As Robin approached, he vaulted off the rafter in a tight backflip. Landing with grace, he dashed forward, his eyes fixed on little rectangular box. Hands outstretched, his fingertips grazed the device just before Slade body-slammed him.
Something cracked inside. The sound made his gut twist. His left shoulder went numb and limp.
Flying, his head clipped a column and he smashed into the familiar concrete. The edges of his sight blackened and blurred. An overwhelming wave of exhaustion washed over him.
He shook his head, trying to keep it lucid.
"No…" he coughed out bitterly. "No!"
Blood dribbled down his chin, overflow from his mouth. He spat and rolled onto his knees. The world spun discordantly. He swallowed a rush of bile and tried to stand, but his body was done. His legs gave out.
He collapsed to all fours. When his left arm locked, he had to choke down a scream as the shoulder bone ground grotesquely in the socket. He shifted his weight completely to his right side. It wasn't much of an improvement, but it kept him from blacking out.
Cold sweat and sticky blood dripped down his temple and onto the floor. Everything hurt, everything throbbed. His breath came out in short, panting gasps. His lip was swollen and quickly blackening. His palms and knees were ripped open and his uniform was mangled and stained with splotches of dark red. There was a sizeable tear in his mask. Dust covered him from head to toe.
The trigger watched him with a jaded, mocking eye from a dozen feet away.
He smacked the ground with a sore fist as he sat back on his toes, incensed. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He cradled his left arm, gingerly clutching it to his chest, and hung his head.
"I understand your frustration, Robin. You hate losing as much as I do," Slade drawled callously as he stepped out of the shadows. "One of the many qualities we have in common."
Robin spat out another glob of bloody saliva.
"I'm nothing like you," he growled, wiping his jaw on his sleeve, refusing to look up.
"No, Robin," Slade retorted, his cruel eye flashing. "You are me."
Something else snapped inside Robin, then, but it had nothing to do with bones. One minute he was bloody and broken on the ground, practically groveling at Slade's feet, and then suddenly his mind was blank with a flat, blind fury that consumed every sense and thought.
With a savage, bestial cry, he rocketed upward.
His fist connected with Slade's steel jaw.
Taken off-guard, Slade staggered backward. Robin pressed his advantage without hesitation. With his bad arm hanging at his side, he closed the distance between them and threw his whole weight into a brutal punch. It smashed into Slade's copper cheek with a satisfying clank. Spittle flying from his broken mouth, Robin ignored the subsequent throb now radiating down his other arm and butterfly-kicked Slade across the room.
The movement caused another wave of mind-numbing anguish to ripple through his body, but he was far too enraged to care.
Slade sailed backward. Robin rushed forward and snatched the trigger.
Device in hand, he spun around, waiting for another attack that did not come. His heart was flying in his chest as stared into the dark. Lungs burning and shoulders heaving, his face collapsed into a wolf-like grin.
I won, he thought in concussed wonderment, swaying. I did it.
Although some fading part of him realized that Slade could probably saunter up and pluck the detonator right out of his hand without so much as a flail, his muddled mind refused to see logic.
"It's over, Slade!" he yelled hoarsely at the encroaching shadows.
Casual footsteps plodded toward him. An electric chill went up his spine.
"On the contrary, Robin…"
The trigger began to fizzle and spark. It burned Robin's palm as it disintegrated. With widened, dazed eyes he watched as the burning pieces floated to the floor and turned to hopeless ash.
Foreboding fear and sheer confusion fluttered through his chest. His lips went numb, his fingers trembled, and his bloodied mouth parted in disbelief.
Slade emerged from the shadows, utterly unfazed and unscratched, his hands behind his back.
"…this is only the beginning."