The days began to blur, and so did Robin's memories.
How did Beast Boy tell that knock-knock joke again? He couldn't remember the punchline. It had something to do with policemen and parakeets. And what was the exact shade of green in Starfire's eyes when she charged into battle? He could see them sparkle in the back of his mind—tantalizing and just out of reach.
He used to be able to predict the pauses of Raven's breath when she chanted her infamous, magical phrase, but now he was struggling to find the rhythm. How far did Cyborg's grin stretch across his split face when he bellowed "Boo-yah!"?
They were all fading away, leaving him. His friends were turning into ghosts, hollow recollections.
Robin lay on his bed, his hands behind his head, sprawled. The lamp beside him gave off a faint, eerie light, making the surrounding shadows loom like towering, twisting trees. A half-hearted smile twitched on his lips.
Raven would have liked this room…
A pang of longing struck against his chest like a gong, reverberating through his bones. He swallowed thickly and continued to stare at the cobbled ceiling with a wide, blank stare. He sighed, trying to expel some of the heartache, but it remained unmoved.
The first few days were painful and long, but he had survived them. As expected, Slade was a merciless teacher.
Without windows it was nearly impossible to gauge the positioning of the sun; Robin didn't know how long Slade had forced him to run the gymnastic obstacle course, but it had to have been hours if not an entire day. The only reason he had even been allowed to stop was because he had fainted from overexertion.
He had been on the pommel horse when it happened. One moment, Slade was yapping at him to improve his sloppy, tired form, and the next, his arms were numb and his head was filled with a deafening buzz. He felt his control float away.
The last thing he remembered was the shiny surface of the black gym mat as he collapsed—headfirst—into it.
When he next woke, he was back in his bed and Slade was standing over him, snarling at him to get dressed. Bleary eyed, he complied even though his muscles screamed in agony and begged for rest.
The second day had gone much like the first. The masked villain pushed Robin too far and the boy blacked out. Again, he awoke in his bed. Again, Slade was there, dragging him to his battered feet. Again, he stumbled through training until he repeated step one.
Gaps began to form in his memory. His world was in a constant state of blurriness—bare-bone outlines and shifting shadows. Bruises cropped up, but he couldn't recall where he had gotten them. Each day he was greeted by a new cut in his arm or leg. They leaked red tears and left a crimson trail on his bedlinen, but there was no recollection of their conception. All was haze.
At first, he had tried to keep a tally of the times he was cognizant, but soon lost count around thirty. It was on the ninth conscious "day" when he had managed to complete Slade's savage exercise routine without passing out. Fourteen training sessions later, he had improved enough to move onto the next set which consisted of the bars: uneven, parallel, and high.
By then, his shoulder felt strong—or at least numb—enough to cause him little to no trouble. It wasn't like he had a choice.
He was fed two meals: one in the morning and another one after a few hours of training. His breakfast was routinely sparse, but the second mealtime was better stocked. It was heavy on protein, especially meat—the bloodier the better—and was usually accompanied by a bountiful side of vegetables, fruit, or nuts. Apparently, Slade was not a fan of carbohydrates.
Of course, on some days, Robin received no food at all because of what Slade termed "disobedience." Admittedly, his rebellious and justified anger sometimes did get the better of him. Sometimes he was just too tired or starved to watch what he said or did.
Perhaps he would let loose a jaw-dropping, hair-whitening string of expletives after being told not to, or maybe—when he was feeling on the brink of insanity—he would take a cheap shot at Slade when the man's back was turned.
Suffice it to say this did not end well for the boy wonder. Naturally, Slade was not above corporeal punishment. The consequences were swift and ruthless without causing major injury, but certainly got the point across nonetheless.
Robin took each one of Slade's backhands and sucker punches with poise. He wore the bruises like purple hearts.
He knew that none of his bone-headed quips or minor instances of revolt would change anything, but he couldn't just sit here, doing nothing, as he was sold into slavery. Slade had not yet threatened to arm the Nanoscopic Probes, but it wouldn't be long before he played his ace in the hole to ensure his apprentice's obedience. If Robin could hang onto his spirit and endure the beatings, he could figure out a plan on how to get the trigger out of enemy hands.
He bit his lip at the thought of another night spent here. A sob slithered up into his mouth, squeezing his throat in its coils.
You won't make it, a voice hissed at him. You'll never escape. You'll never see your friends again. Give up.
He flipped onto his side and curled his knees to his chest. He glared at the lamp and swallowed his sadness.
Slade's going to kill them anyway. You might as well just stop trying.
"Shut up," he whispered, shoving a pillow over his head. "Shut up."
They're going to die and it's all your fault! They warned you about Slade. They told you not to go after him alone. And did you listen? No. You wanted to prove yourself. You wanted to prove them wrong. You wanted to prove him wrong. Typical Robin. Always has to play the hero.
"Stop it."
And look what happened! You failed and now they're all going to die. You'll be all alone again. No one can save you now.
"You're wrong."
Oh really? What would happen if your friends actually found you? They would be dead and gone before they could say "Titans, go!" and you'll still be stuck here. Do you see now? There's no hope for them or for you. You're screwed, kid, and you're in way over your head.
"Leave me alone!" Robin cried and he threw the pillow across the room.
It smacked unsatisfyingly against the opposite wall and slid to the ground. Robin sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the mattress side, panting. He hung his head, unable to bear its horrible burden. His chest felt like it was caving in—an avalanche of sorrow.
The creak of door hinges broke the sad silence. His head snapped up and he quickly wiped his cheeks of any fugitive tears. He jumped to his feet and straightened his shoulders. His hands were stitched to his side, nails digging into his thigh. He kept his eyes down and his expression placid.
Slade's metal head grazed the top of the door frame as he entered into the room. Dressed in his usual dark attire with silver-plated vambraces, shin-guards, and shoulder pads, the villain strode in like a stalking panther. An unspoken threat permeated through the air, stealing courage and planting fear.
Robin could feel his stare upon him like a sudden weight. It kept him pinned in place. Pristine, polished black leather boots shook the ground as they approached. They halted within striking distance away from him. Their steel tips glimmered in Robin's peripheral.
He was familiar with their cold, merciless touch. He still had their imprint on his ribs.
"Good morning, Robin," Slade greeted coolly. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."
Robin nodded at the gray rug, lips stitched.
Slade gave a knowing chuckle and peered over his shoulder at where the pillow still lay, sprawled against the wall.
"Maybe not so pleasant after all…"
Robin flinched and Slade's inky eye flicked back to the black-feathered boy and skewered him.
"Before we get started, I have a gift for you."
Mildly intrigued, but mostly terrified, Robin lifted his chin an inch and gazed up through a curtain of hair. The man held something in his gloved hands. It was thick and made of shining, pristine steel. Squinting, Robin realized it was a collar—a miniature version of the one Slade wore around his tree-trunk neck.
Epiphany plowed into him like a bullet to the temple.
His revealed cobalt eyes widened and his blood began to rush. His muscles twitched. His instincts whispered "Fly!" in his ear.
He kept his head down, but he shifted backward—preparing to run. The edge of the mattress caressed his calf.
"You're skill has improved just as I hoped…" Slade announced softly, his tone accented with lethal arrogance.
He took a menacing step forward, not missing a beat. His unblinking iris remained fixed on Robin's form. The midnight pupil expanded and conquered the murky blue that surrounded it, eclipse.
A crackle of electricity sparked in the atmosphere. The shadows swayed like bloodthirsty savages waiting for a sacrifice. Robin's hand leaned against the brick wall, bracing. The lamp sat unassumingly on its perch next to him.
"…but your attitude leaves something to be desired."
Slade took another step. He was less than a foot away.
Robin's gut lurched. His already pale complexion turned positively ashen. His eyes flicked from the collar in Slade's hand to the door. The pulse in his neck fluttered like a cornered bird.
Don't let him touch you. Don't let him touch you. Don't let him touch you. His mind screamed.
Slade picked up his foot.
Robin grabbed the lamp and threw it. He heard a grunt and everything went dark. The tinkle of shattered glass and plastic was drowned out by Slade's howl of fury. Sidestepping to the right, Robin blindly bolted for the door. Hands out in front of him, he smacked into something coarse and cold. He felt the iron beneath his clawing, searching fingers, but he struggled to find the handle.
"You're going to regret that, Robin."
Slade had stopped swearing and snarling. His breathing had gone still and undetectable. Robin's fumbling, panicking hands finally found the knob. He twisted it and gave a great yank, his heart in his throat.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, but met the same result. The door bolt screeched, laughing at his failure.
"No…no…no!" he cried, throwing his body against the unmoving iron.
In the miserable pitch-black, a bodiless claw snaked out of the deep shadows and wrapped around Robin's neck. He gave a breathless gasp as he was yanked backward and up, feet kicking.
Then, he was flying. He soared for a second and made painful impact with something wooden. Air left his lungs. Whatever he hit groaned and splintered beneath him, pricking his skin.
"See, this is what I'm talking about."
Slade's disembodied voice came from right behind him. He flipped, trying to avoid the incoming slaughter. Too late, something latched onto his hair and threw him to the ground. His bones groaned. He tried to crawl.
"I give you food, I give you shelter, I train you, and yet you refuse to show me an ounce of gratitude."
Slade frostbitten nails dug into Robin's scalp and pulled. He dragged the writhing boy across the floor, flung open the door, and tossed him into the hall. Robin's head skidded against the cobbled, weathered stones. His lip opened up and bled, leaving burgundy breadcrumbs.
Dazed, spots danced in his sight. He scrambled to his feet and promptly tripped. His knees and palms split. When he tried to stand again, Slade was already upon him.
He slammed Robin into the curved, tunnel wall, an elbow pressed into his trachea. He stomped on the boy's bare foot, snapping toes. Robin screamed.
"I even spared your worthless friends' lives," Slade continued, his tone utterly and uncannily calm. "And what do I get?"
He applied more pressure, cutting off the windpipe. Robin's cries turned to croaks.
"Insolence!"
Releasing his chokehold, he then threw a punch. Robin collapsed to all fours, gasping and clutching his swollen cheek. The world tilted and spun.
"I'm not a fool, Robin," Slade said as he crouched to the ground. "I knew your obedience wouldn't come easy. Wild things like you are difficult to catch but are even harder to break. Your freedom is your most treasured possession…or was, at least."
The villain's words spoke truth and a bestial, primal need to defend the last vestiges of what little autonomy he had erupted through him like a stampede of stallions. Roaring, Robin lashed out, wanting to tear and rip and maim. His surging fist was caught a foot from Slade's metal chin. Before he could try anything with his other hand, Slade had his wrists pinned to the ground above his thrashing head.
"Fortunately, I have a solution for both our problems."
With one, last mangled shriek, Robin raged against Slade's grasp.
Slade gave a wicked chortle before he smashed his copper forehead into Robin's skull. The boy wonder went limp instantly and a crumpled, defeated sigh escaped his bloodied mouth. His mind faded into the familiar black. The roar of his spirit drowned in its inky waters.
Robin opened his eyes to a low-hanging brick ceiling. He was accustomed to the sight, but not the light that illuminated its façade, revealing all the hues of dark red, brown, and black.
Intrigued, he was positive that he was back in his bed. His head was smooshed against a pillow and his heels dug into a mattress. His hands were curled in sleepy fists on his stomach. His usual navy blue comforter bid him good morning.
As he made a move to sit up, a jabbing throb split across his cranium. He groaned and lay back down, rubbing his brow with a thumb.
His brain pulsed unpleasantly, as if it wanted to break free from its bone prison.
He knew how it felt.
A bundle of other pains made themselves known as he stirred. His toes ached and his lip stung. A string of bruises looped around his Adam's apple like a bowtie. His rib voiced its usual grievance and then some.
He felt beat-up and groggy but altogether whole. He was used to the ache of concussions and contusions by now. Memories came slow, but he remembered being frightened out of his wits as something chased him in the dark. He dismissed it as the last lingers of a nightmare.
However, there was something new about today that nagged at him.
In addition to the pain and amnesia, there was an odd sensation coming from his collarbone. Something cold and heavy sat on his neck, pinching it in a frigid noose. Confused, he lifted a hand to remove it. His probing fingers hit smooth, solid steel.
It wrapped all the way around his throat and spread from shoulder to shoulder in a wide arc.
"What the hell…?" he pondered aloud.
Ignoring his pounding skull, he slid off the bed and shambled to the small mirror. A new lamp sat on his bedside table. It was larger, and it was bolted into the rock. Another light source blared from behind him, but he found himself caring less and less about his new furnishings the moment he saw his reflection.
Like an Egyptian pharaoh's collar, Robin's entire neckline and part of his upper torso was covered by silver-steel choker. Slade's trademark 'S' was carved down the front of it—a dog tag, a master's brand.
The glittering, gaudy adornment sparkled boldly against his bare chest, reminding him in every way, shape, and form of his involuntary servitude.
Immediately he tugged at it, tried to pull it off, but it was cinched too tightly and the material was far too dense. His nails broke against the stubborn metal.
That was when he saw the bracelets.
Made of the same substance and welded just as securely to his skin, the newfound additions had the appearance of shackles without chains. Two more 'S's were chiseled on the insides of the wrists.
Stunned, there was now no question of who he was, who he belonged to.
No escape.
A tear sped from the corner of his eye. His brave front cracked.
You lose! the same cruel voice cackled in his head. Sing, pretty bird! Sing!