A/N: Hope you guys are enjoying this as much as I am! :)

A strand of dirt-encrusted, jet-black hair crept over Robin's crumpled brow, his chin on his chest. Sweat stung his eyes and he convinced himself that that was the reason behind the sudden rush of threatening tears. He wanted badly to cover his face and turn away from the last person he wanted to weep in front of, but he remained on Slade's hook—a fish out of water.

An irrational, furious blush reddened his pale cheeks. He crushed his jaw together and shoved his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He had to swallow several times to stifle the sob that wanted to burst from his gullet.

Slade watched Robin's forlorn progression with an entertained smirk. The boy had thought himself so indestructible, so untouchable, before today. It was an honor to be the one to shatter his arrogance.

Prying open Robin's frozen hand, Slade snatched back the device and stashed it in a compartment in his steely vambrace.

He slowly lowered the boy to the floor, but held onto his injured arm. Petulant and humiliated, Robin gave a fruitless tug and immediately regretted it as his shoulder squealed in complaint. He winced and cringed, baring his teeth.

"Hold still," Slade ordered, carefully twisting the wrist and assessing the damage.

A clever, cheeky retort clamored up into Robin's mouth, begging for release. Looking as if he had swallowed a batch of Beast Boy's soybean scrambled "eggs," he clamped his swollen lips shut and bit his tongue. He was in no condition to go another round, even if he desperately wanted to.

After a few moments, Slade nodded to himself and his eye flicked up.

"It's dislocated," he explained calmly, softly. "I'll have to set it."

Robin bristled. There was no way his worst enemy was popping his shoulder back into place.

"I'll do it mysel—hey!"

As he whined, Slade seized him by the scruff of the neck. He dragged him forward as if he were a cub in a lioness's mouth and shepherded him to the right side of the room. Their forms silhouetted against the still-blaring screens, two battling, black blobs.

"Let go!" Robin snarled, unable to thrash like he wanted as he favored his left arm.

"You're only going to make it worse," Slade lectured dryly, not missing a step.

Resentful, Robin gave a few more shoves before calling it quits. Trying to worm out of Slade's control was like trying to escape a choke-collar and, to make matters worse, he could barely see five feet in front of him as his captor led him further into the pitch black lair. As the light completely evaporated, Robin leaned against Slade's clutch to keep from falling.

It was mortifying, and he cursed bitterly under his breath because of it.

"Language, Robin," came the coy remark, a hint of amusement coloring it. "I wouldn't want to have to wash your mouth out with soap."

His expletives became disgruntled murmurs, echoing softly.

A slight breeze fanned his tender face as they walked, growing stronger with each step. He could hear a fan pumping in the distance and the distinct whir of electricity. The space was smaller; his fingers grazed cobbled stone from time to time. It was humid and a faint smell of salt and rust was in the air. Robin guessed that he had to be near the ocean by now. The GPS that he had followed earlier had taken him due West for several miles.

As he tried to keep the map straight in his head, Slade stopped suddenly and steered him forcefully to the left. Boots scuffing, he was practically carried as he stumbled and bumbled, trying to get his bearings.

He felt like a fool and blushed feverishly again, grateful that the dark had at least granted him some cover. Red-faced, he hoped Slade didn't notice the heat emanating from his neck.

Far in the distance, there was a faint glow. As Robin regained his footing, he squinted at its blurry form. Although his sight had already grown accustomed to the dark, he could see the faint outlines of his surroundings.

The tunnel's dimensions were indeed small. The width stretched about as far as Cyborg's wingspan and the height was just tall enough to where Slade did not have to hunch.

As the pair approached the dim light—which turned out to be a small, fluorescent bulb—Robin realized that another set of iron doors stood guard at the end of the cavern. The sight of them made his heart drop into his stomach. Slade batted the lightbulb out of his way as they passed, making the shadows dance like mad. Stopping at the threshold, he kept his claw around Robin's neck as he twisted the door-handle.

The bolt clicked open and the sound of it sent another wave of echoes back down the tunnel. Slade gave a push and the hinges swung with a nails-on-chalkboard screech. Cringing, Robin was then shoved unceremoniously forward.

The click of a lamp being switched on pricked his ears and the space became illuminated. The sudden brightness made his retinas ache, even with his mask.

The doors slammed behind him. His heart jumped from his stomach and into his throat.

Blind, he was made to sit down on something cold and hard and round. His lids fluttered violently, blinking madly as his vision cleared. Slade wrested Robin's left arm from his side and re-examined it, prodding it with cold, distant fingers.

Sight returning, Robin realized he was sitting on a stainless steel stool in the middle of a furnished chamber that smelled and looked new. Disinfectant and laundry detergent tickled his nose.

A gray, quilted rug covered most of the floor, stopping a few feet from the perimeter. It was thick, durable-looking, and spotless.

A blanket-laden bed with an iron headboard leaned on the left side of the room, running parallel with the entire wall. A two foot high, square-shaped slab of stone sat next to the bed. A small, wireless lamp rested on it and a chunk of reflecting glass was nailed in the brick above it. Across the room on the right side, a hollow was carved into the rock. With a stab of surprise, Robin realized it was a makeshift closet. A few sets of dark clothes hung over a neat row of black leather boots and a pile of socks.

A granite desk was pushed up against the back wall, facing the doors. It already hosted a batch of untouched notebooks and pencils. Robin had his back to a stonework podium with a shiny, copper toolbox perched upon it.

The minor shock he felt spiraled into a burgeoning dread.

He knew this room. It was his.

The posters, electronics, and personality were missing but the skeleton was certainly there. What was Slade playing at?

"This…this is my room," he announced in disbelief.

Slade didn't look up.

"Of course it is," he replied nonchalantly as he tested the arm's range of motion. "Did you think you would be staying in a cage, little bird?"

Robin ignored the jab and pressed the issue.

"No," he countered, grinding his teeth. "I mean this is exactly like my bedroom back at hom—Titans Tower."

Slade's eye swiveled and stared into Robin's face. It flashed a warning.

"As I said, I've been looking for an apprentice for some time," he explained dismissively, skirting Robin's implication.

"But—"

"Silence!" Slade growled threateningly, making the hairs on Robin's arm stand at attention.

The boy wonder bit down on his cheek to keep from exploding.

Reality was crashing down around him; he watched helpless as the life he had built for himself crumbled piece by piece. It was replaced by a perverted nightmare now, a twisted fantasy. The fierce determination he had started the mission with this morning seemed a lifetime away. How foolish he was to think he could take on Slade alone! Had he learned anything from the Red-X disaster? Or from every previous encounter with Slade? The villain was always, always, ten steps ahead of him. He should have known better.

If he had stuck to the plan, if he had ignored that stupid GPS and went after the Detonator instead...

Regret stung him straight through the chest, hurting worse than any shoulder ever could.

He had gambled and lost it all: his freedom, his friends, his life...

Why me? Robin wondered miserably. Why did Slade choose me?

Guilt turned to anger and he berated himself for asking such a selfish, unhelpful thing. It didn't matter why. This wasn't about him, no matter what Slade said. The justification of a psychopath was worthless. His only concern should be finding a way to save his friends and, with any luck, himself. Until then, he had to come to terms with the fact that he was a prisoner in everything but name.

"Take this," Slade's barked, interrupting Robin's bleak thoughts. "Put it between your teeth."

He held up a chunk of thick leather.

Robin raised his brow.

"Why?" he asked skeptically.

Slade's eye rolled, a swirl of obsidian.

"Such distrust, Robin!" he reproved with feigned hurt. "You're starting to hurt my feelings...and try my patience."

An angry crease formed between Robin's brows as he waited for Slade's self-righteous rant to end. Every stupid word and stupid breath that exited the man's stupid, masked mouth made Robin want to start throwing punches, no matter the consequences.

"It's for the pain, boy," the villain finally clarified. "I know you Titans think you're above such things, but setting a shoulder isn't as fun as it looks. It's going to hurt. Quite a bit, actually. And your screams will make it difficult for me to concentrate."

Grumbling, Robin snatched the leather out of Slade's hand just to shut him up. He screwed up his face as he put it in his mouth, pinching it between his molars. It tasted like mildew and old sweat. Revolted, his nose crinkled in disgust.

"Good boy," Slade praised sarcastically before he jerked his chin. "Now go lie down on the bed."

Wary again, Robin hesitated.

"You can go of your own free will or you can be unconscious," Slade offered brightly. "Your choice."

Leather bit in his teeth, Robin rumbled sullenly and slid off the stool. He sauntered to his evilly cloned bed and sat on the edge. He lowered slowly backward, careful to avoid any pressure on his shoulders. Torso laid flat, he then swung his legs up onto the comforter. The mattress springs bounced unhelpfully.

Slade approached and loomed over him, his copper head haloed and his facade masked in shadow. It reminded Robin of a scene out of a old, slasher flick he saw a few weeks ago with Beast Boy and Cyborg.

It had been about a demented surgeon who carried out grotesque experiments on his patients who were paralyzed, but aware, when the good doctor carved into them. The film was horrendously cheesy, with buckets of fake blood, melodramatic acting, and cringe-worthy one-liners. The Titan boys had laughed more than they screamed.

Nonetheless, Robin was beginning to feel a bit more sympathetic for the cliched, teenage heroine whose eyes had bugged out of her skull in a wordless scream when she was strapped to the blood-soaked operating table and prepped for surgery.

Slade cocked his head.

"Put your feet against the wall."

Robin scooted down, inch by inch, cradling his left elbow as he did. When he was close enough, he pressed the heels of his boots into the brick.

"Arm."

Robin released his hold and Slade picked his limp wrist up off his stomach. With one hand, Slade extended the arm and stretched it as far as it would go, palm facing the ground. His other hand rested on Robin's shoulder, as hard and heavy as a rock. The fingers gently curled into the shoulder blade which gave a warning growl at the touch.

"When I count to three, bite down," he ordered as he tightened his grip on the forearm. "And keep still."

"Yeah, I'll try and do that while my shoulder is being jammed into place!" Robin tried to bitterly reply but all that came out of his mouth was a garble of incoherency.

"That's the spirit," Slade muttered under his breath and then asked: "Ready?"

Robin didn't appreciate obvious keenness in Slade's tone, but he took a deep, shaking breath anyway. A tremble of fear warbled up his spine as he readied himself. His grimy forehead prickled with incoming sweat. He clenched a fist at his side, squeezed his eyes shut beneath his torn mask, and nodded once.

"1…2…"

Robin bit down on the leather strip with all his might just as Slade hissed '3' and pulled.

It was fortunate that Slade had a hand on Robin because the boy did not stay still.

The second he felt his arm being yanked, a nauseating, blinding pain shot out from his shoulder. It spread like wildfire to his fingertips, down his back, and up into his scalp. His canines imprinted the leather as spittle flew from his gagged mouth, his eyelids snapped open and wide, and his hips bucked upward, back arching. A mangled, muffled shriek ripped through his throat.

He thrashed and thrashed and thrashed but Slade had him pinned, dead to rights. The darkness that had been camped out on the edges of his vision began to encroach further into his sight. His mind went fuzzy again.

After a few seconds, which felt like several eternities, Slade loosed his hold on the forearm and shifted his grasp to the elbow. He bent it upward and rotated it like a door hinge, playing with the shoulder muscles and socket.

Toes curled, Robin pounded the back of his head into the mattress. He could hear the bones grating.

Don't pass out...don't pass out...don't pass out...

"Once more," Slade announced matter-of-factly and Robin couldn't so much as protest before his arm was straightened and wrenched again.

Slade repeated the process a handful of times until a pop! finally cracked.

By the end, the comforter was stained, smelling of salty tears and perspiration. The pain's roar had quieted to a disquieting throb and Robin faded with it. Physically exhausted and mentally broken, his body slumped, his senses blurred and subdued, and his mind gave into the tantalizing black.

He fell unconscious in the presence of his nemesis.