Robin slept fitfully.
After being lost to the dark of his unconscious mind for a timeless span, his body suddenly switched back on.
For the fifth time in what felt like only a few minutes of sleep, his lids flew open and he bolted upright, kicking. Damp, tangled hair clung to his forehead. A breathless whimper escaped his lips as his lungs contracted, strained. The imprint of a fanged, gaping maw was burned into the backs of his eyeballs. He still felt its wretched teeth upon him, eating him alive.
The sheets stuck to his sweaty skin. He shoved them away and wiped his face, quivering.
One moment he was lost in the dark, chaotic dream and the next he was wrenched awake by discomfort pricking his arm—an echo of the trauma his shoulder had endured. The tireless struggle between waking and sleeping was made worse by the fact that the nightmares didn't end even after he stirred-out of the maw and into the cage.
Then, there was the pain.
As he flailed, his shoulder complained even more persuasively. Gasping, he winced and cradled his arm close to his bare chest. It had been set, but he wasn't sure if the bones were aware of that fact. It certainly didn't feel like it.
The room was dark but, then again, it was always dark here. He could just make out the ridges in the brick wall that faced him, but not much else. He scowled as his memories flooded back to him. This wasn't his bedroom, his home, it was a prison cell, and the warden who controlled every aspect of his life was Slade. The penalty for escape or disobedience? The quadruple homicide of his adopted family and a lifetime of misery underground.
However, there was no memory for how he got to be in his current state. That particular fact made Robin's stomach curdle and his lips numb.
At some point—while he unconscious—he had been stripped, cleaned, and bandaged. He had no idea how long he'd been passed out, but he refused to care. If he wasn't cognizant, then he wasn't working for Slade, he reasoned.
His left shoulder was bound with linen bandage that wound from his neck to his wrist. It itched and pinched, but he wasn't unfamiliar with its annoying touch. It wasn't his first injury, after all, and it certainly wouldn't be his last.
The open cuts and scratches that ran across his forehead, chin, and cheeks had been sterilized and dressed. In some cases, he felt the tender bump of a stitch. A tepid ice bag was buttressed to his side, kept in place by another set of compresses.
His boots were off; his pinkie toes rubbed against the bedlinen as he sat Indian-style. Shirtless, his destroyed uniform had been replaced with by a single pair of loose, cotton trousers.
A nagging thought wondered just how he came to be re-dressed and cleaned, but he wasn't ready to think about that just yet. He already had enough to repress.
Nevertheless, he suddenly realized that his mask was off. Hand flying to his face, he confirmed it.
Bold as day were the brilliant blues of his irises, the severity of his dark, arched eyebrows, and the small 'L'-shaped scar that marked the bridge of his refined nose.
He buried his exposed face in his palm. He didn't think he could stand much more humiliation and invasion of privacy.
"Of course…" he groaned and swore viciously under his breath.
"That's a filthy habit, young man."
Robin jumped out of his skin and let loose another profanity as Slade flicked on the lamp. He stood beside the bed, his split, copper mask glittering in the faint light.
Breathing hard, Robin curled a lip and yanked the sheets closer. How long had the villain been standing there, watching him? He knew he was a psycho, but did he have to be a pervert?
"Ah-ah-ah," Slade admonished as he ripped the covers back out of Robin's hands. "It's time to get up. Wouldn't want you to be late on your first day."
"What are you talking about?" Robin snapped as he shivered, rubbing his upper arms. "Late for what?"
"Training, dear boy," the villain explained as he walked across the room to round up a pile of clothes from the closet. "Meet me outside the door in five minutes."
"You can't be serious!" the boy wonder cried, forgetting himself. "I can't train! Look at me! You're crazy if you think—"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Robin," Slade snapped quietly, looking over his shoulder with a lethal glare. "But didn't you agree to obey my every request?"
A snarl of rage grumbled from the boy's chest. His darkening glower was far more impressive without the mask. The pupils of his eyes contracted as tightly as his knuckles. His jaw looked as if it would shatter if he applied any more pressure to it. A throbbing vein sprung up out of his hairline and his cheekbones popped as he ground his teeth.
"Yes," he managed to spit out, hating himself.
"And did I not make myself painfully clear about what would happen if you broke our deal?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then there is nothing left to discuss," Slade hissed cruelly.
Fire burned in the teenager's heart, spreading throughout his body. He was sure he was going to melt through the bed, through the floor.
"Let me put this in such a way so that even you can understand," the villain continued, gliding back to Robin's bedside. "If you are not outside that door in three minutes and twenty-two seconds, I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born. You think you're in pain now? Dear child, that will be nothing compared to what's in store for you should you even hesitate to carry out my simplest command. I will break you down piece by pathetic piece until you beg for death. And once I'm through with you, I'm going to make you kill your friends, Robin, and I'm going to make you watch."
Wanna bet? Robin thought hostilely even though his insides felt far less confident.
"And even after all that pain," Slade finished in a whisper, dropping a shirt and a pair of pants at Robin's curled feet. "You will still be my apprentice. There's no escaping it, Robin. You're mine."
With that, he whipped around and strode out of the room. The door closed behind him with a reverberating, nerve-wrenching clang. Robin slumped back heavily against his pillows. The numbness in his lips had spread to the tips of his toes. An infectious cold was winding its way up his spine, freezing him to the spot.
The clock ticked onward, however, and after that speech, he would be damned—literally—if he wasn't outside that door within the next minute.
"Shit…" Robin cursed as he snatched the clothes up and swung his feet to the carpet.
His hands shook as he stripped, shoved on the pants, and gingerly lowered the shirt over his head. His rib began vying for attention as he raised his arms.
The majority of the pain had dulled to a minor ache, but his neck, back, and sides were still stiff and tender. Dressed, he took a quick glance in the small piece of mirror to make sure the bandages were still in place.
His reflection caught him by surprise. Any bruising had all but disappeared and the handful of lacerations on his cheek were closing up nicely as they shrunk into pale, pink ridges. A sore spot still grumbled from his temple, but the swelling was hidden by his shaggy, unkempt hair. Two long, red slashes marked his forehead but were forming scabs around the stitching.
He must have been unconscious for longer than he imagined. This kind of healing should have taken around a week.
His face peered perplexingly back at him as he ran a finger over where his mask should have been. Being around Slade without it was like going out stark naked. Hell, just not having it on in general was weird, crazed psychopath or no.
Like a dog without a collar.
The anger that simmered eternally beneath his skin began to boil as he thought of Slade's bone-chilling threat. If Slade believed he could treat Robin like a beaten dog and get away with it, he would be sorely mistaken. Robin had been somebody's pet once, but never again. He had no use for muzzles or collars or leashes, no matter the handler.
Fingernails digging into palms, the face in the mirror glared murderously back at him, encouraging him to fight. The blues of his eyes darkened into stormy tempests.
"Never again," he repeated to himself in a whisper before jogging out the door, ten seconds to spare.
"Again."
Drenched in sweat, Robin's head hit the mat with a frustrated grunt. The wooden underside of a balance beam mocked him from above as he lay on his back, trying to regain his breath. Chalk covered his blistered hands and his aching, bare feet were enveloped in wilted athletic tape.
It turned out he was expected to do quite a lot even with his debilitating injuries.
Upon joining Slade, a single piece of fruit and a barf-colored, blended concoction of raw eggs, whey formula, and multi-vitamins were shoved into his hands. Hesitant to eat from the palm of his enemy, his roaring stomach soon got the better of him. Who knew when he would be able to eat again?
Ravenous, he wolfed down every last morsel and drop as he shadowed Slade down the tunnel.
The homemade protein shake was as revolting as it looked and felt like a chainsaw as it worked its way through his intestines.
The training area, as he discovered, was simply a redesign of the atrium where he and Slade had fought previously. Replacing the inky atmosphere was a series of intense columns of light that completely lit up the space. Tilting his chin, he saw a row of fluorescent tubes bolted to the seven-story-high ceiling. He also noticed the entrance was completely repaired, as if he had never tossed a bomb at it. The sight of it gave him an odd twinge of sadness.
The main floor was bigger than he originally thought. Two Titans Tower lounges could fit comfortably within it. Realizing this, it was unnerving to see just how far he had been thrown around on that first, dreadful day at the haunt.
Four stout, iron support beams were nestled in each corner of the room. Together, they buttressed an extensive system of colossal cogwheels and gear-works which appeared to be some sort of power source.
Robin put a hand to his temple absentmindedly as he remembered how his head had smashed into one of those beams. He wondered if it had left a mark on the metal...
The hiss of steam kissed his ears from time to time and he noticed that there were groups of long tables pushed off to the far side. He squinted and saw that many of them had disassembled machinery spilled across them.
The center of the space was occupied with a black, pool-sized mat which Robin recognized from his gymnastic days. A horizontal beam, parallel bars, high bars, still rings, uneven bars, and a pommel horse were positioned upon it with enough space between them in which to comfortably stick a landing.
A mix of panic and relief wrestled inside him, for although he was intensely familiar with the equipment, he was completely unfamiliar with Slade.
"You will take ten minutes to stretch. No more, no less," Slade barked beside him, arms crossed. "Then, you will rotate from event to event in this order: balance beam, still ring, pommel horse. When I have deemed your work satisfactory, we will move onto the next set."
Robin clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, nostrils flared. He felt like an eight year old again. It was a cruel twist of fate that he had left Gotham in search of independence and still managed to wind up as someone's sidekick slave.
"While I'm still young, Robin."
Snorting like a bull, he stomped forward and plopped onto the mat.
The first few rotations were exasperating. With only one arm in good condition, his balance was completely thrown off. He fell dozens of times in the first hour alone and his tailbone was beginning to bruise because of it.
It was insanity! It was ludicrous! It was…infuriating!
Each exercise required equal shares of upper and lower body strength and a rigid core to boot. At the moment, he lacked two out of the three. If it wasn't his rib cutting off his windpipe, it was his shoulder deadlocking on him.
The whole ordeal was made worse by the fact that Robin had been taught how to walk on a balance beam but appeared to be a complete amateur as he wobbled and flailed and tumbled. What should have been a stroll in the park turned out to be an up-hill battle.
As opposed to the other events—which depended heavily on deltoid strength—he hoped the balance beam would be his saving grace. If he kept it simple and just paced back and forth, he wouldn't aggravate anything; however, that strategy was quickly nixed by Slade. The man demanded the whole nine yards of backflips, split leaps, and walking handstands.
Unsurprisingly, Robin once again found himself becoming very familiar with the black mat.
"I said…" a hiss slithered into Robin's eardrums. "Again!"
The tip of Slade's steel-toed boot nudged him in the thigh. Dragging a hand over his sweaty face, Robin stifled an offensive four-letter word and groaned to a sitting position. He grabbed onto the beam and leveraged himself to his sore feet.
His back to Slade's armored chest, Robin heaved himself onto the beam. He swung his leg over it, straddling it like a horse as he readied himself.
"With some effort this time, Robin," Slade suggested haughtily as he stood beside him. "Your performance thus far makes me think that you're actually trying to fail."
"I'm doing the best I can," Robin snapped resignedly, scowling.
"What a horrible liar you are," Slade sneered, shaking his knobbed head. "Just for that, you aren't leaving this room until you get it right. Even if it takes days, weeks. I will not tolerate failure, boy."
Eye twitching, Robin forced a series of deep breaths into his mouth and out through his nose. He was so close to Slade…tantalizingly close. He could already see himself throwing the first hit into the villain's copper cheek, could already feel his knuckles bruising with a throbbing satisfaction.
His fingers twitched and Slade's eye narrowed into a slit.
All it would take was a second of senselessness, a momentary loss of control...
"I'm going to make you kill your friends, Robin, and I'm going to make you watch."
The threat rippled to the forefront of his headstrong brain. It took the bite out of his blood and the wind from his sails. Even though the firebrand voice in his head said otherwise, taking on Slade would have to wait. It wasn't just his life on chopping block; his foolhardy recklessness could spell disaster, massacre.
He wouldn't have won, anyway, he told himself dejectedly. Slade was too powerful and he was too weak.
He refocused on the task at hand.
Rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles, he rose to his feet on the balance beam and stood heel to toe. Arms tight at his sides, he released as much tension as he could from his muscles. He inhaled and exhaled, imagined himself as light as a feather, and glared down the barrel of the beam.
Two backflips, one walking handstand, and three back-to-back split leaps—that was the goal. It loomed above him like an impassable mountain.
Was it possible? Maybe. Did he think he could do it? No. Would he have to try anyway? Definitely.
He shifted his weight to his back heel and began.
Letting go of his whirling mind, he pushed off and began with a flip. Head on straight and core collapsed just right, he flew through the air and landed perfectly. Although his rib was grumpy and his shoulder griped, the flips weren't the hard parts. He always had a knack for flying.
The same could be said for the leaps. His legs kicked out like scissors—straight and deadly. He never once stumbled or failed to find his footing after gravity took back control. Aches and pains receding, he cherished the feeling of freedom as he cavorted through the air.
Standing, panting, on the opposite side of the beam, he came to the climactic ending.
He closed his eyes, took another round of breaths, and lurched forward. His chalky fingers snagged the wood and dug in fiercely. Legs rising up behind him, his spine uncurled and straightened, retaining a slight, pliable curve as it flipped direction. A mounting hurt began to electrify his side, creeping into his neck. He ignored it, but it took a good deal of effort.
Toes pointed, he transferred all of his weight into his right arm. He picked up his left hand and replanted it, palm to fingers, ahead of its brother. He blew a dangling, stray hair out of his face. The monkey wrench was next.
He swayed to the left, repeating the process.
Immediately, his shoulder began to lock, to throw his balance. His heart quickened its drumbeat and his wrist quivered as its hold weakened. His legs wavered, threatening to topple him.
"Hold it…" Slade threatened in a murmur. "Keep your arm loose. Focus on your core."
Not caring where the advice came from, Robin followed it and bent his elbow a centimeter. He sucked in a breath. His abdomen tautened and bolstered him, resetting his stance. With a cathartic grunt, he jammed his hand into place in front of the other.
It hadn't been as graceful as he liked, and his day was far from over, but he hadn't fallen. A splutter of relief escaped his lips.
"What did I just say, boy?" Slade barked, unimpressed.
He marched up to Robin and pressed his palm into his stomach. Although he wore his traditional black leather gloves, his touch was still ice-cold. Robin suppressed a shiver.
"Keep your center tight," the guised man directed, hand clamped on Robin's gut. "Don't let it collapse. Even when you breathe."
Robin nodded. His neck strained and his brow furrowed. He could do this.
With Slade's hand still on him—a physical reminder—he managed to climb all the way to the end of the beam. He left a trail of sweat behind him and his shoulders were beginning to feel like jelly, but he had finally done it. Blisters stung the pockets of his thumbs as he dismounted. His knees bent low as he struggled to remain upright on the mat.
It felt like an earthquake was ripping through him, scrambling his skin. A chilling wave of fatigue cooled the fire of his heart. Nevertheless, a satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
"What are you waiting for? A medal?" Slade quipped, deflating Robin's brief second of contentment.
Spinning away, the villain took his post at the other end of the beam. His black-sleeved, silver plated arms crossed expectantly.
"Again," came the pitiless command.