A/N: Warning—Language. Also, thanks for reading and reviewing!
A bird chirped unhappily from its cage.
It hopped from perch to perch, wings fluttering wildly, as it tried to escape through the warped metal bars. Its plumes burned vividly in the gloom—bright red and shimmering gray. White accents streaked through the charcoal feathers like bolts of lightning.
Shadows surrounded the birdcage, inching closer. Misty claws reached out, ready to strangle the helpless creature.
The shrill tweets of fright became shouts—a boy's.
"Someone help! Anyone! Please!" he cried through his beak. "Help me! Help me! HELP!"
Raven gasped and bolted upright.
Her indigo blanket catapulted off the bed and dropped to the floor, leaving her unprotected in the morning chill. Pulling her knees to her chest, she put her head in her hands. Her shoulders trembled as she tried to shake off the nightmare.
It had been so real.
She could still feel the bird's small, beating heart as it thrummed like thunder in her head. She could still sense the presence of nefarious shadows as they closed in all around.
She could still hear the screams—Robin's screams. They deafened her ears and turned her blood to ice. Robin never screamed like that. She didn't even think it was possible for him to make such an awful sound.
With a gnawing, burgeoning dread, she wondered if her dream was actually a dream at all. It was not unusual for the Empath to receive visions, prophetic or otherwise.
Of course, this was not her first reverie about her missing team leader. Ever since he disappeared a month ago, Robin had never strayed from her—or anyone else's—thoughts.
Tirelessly, the team had searched for him.
They checked the docks, abandoned warehouses, vacant lots, hidden bunkers, under rocks—the usual suspects. They found nothing except dead-ends. Cyborg tracked Robin's last known whereabouts to the sewers, but there the trail went cold. Water and rubble had destroyed any possible footprints and the heat signature was a corpse.
The team feared the worst.
What if he was trapped underneath piles and piles of rubble somewhere deep in the tunnel system? What if Slade had gotten to him and was doing goddess-knew-what to the Titans leader? What if something completely random and unforeseen had occurred and Robin was worlds away, in a parallel dimension? Stranger things had happened.
During the first few days of Robin's mysterious absence, Beast Boy had been convinced that alien abduction was afoot. Raven had let the green-skinned changeling know exactly what she thought of his theory and he hadn't brought up extra-terrestrials since.
Thankfully, the rest of the gang knew that Slade was the logical culprit. The Chronoton Detonator fake-out was undoubtedly his doing. It followed that the subsequent Robin kidnapping was his as well.
Unfortunately, there was no way of concretely proving this hypothesis. If Slade was behind Robin's disappearance, he had staged his criminal performance well. The sewer system was massive and hilariously complex. It weaved together with archaic subway lines, speak-easy getaways, mines, and a host of other unfinished building projects. To make matters worse, Robin's communicator remained as silent as the grave and his locator was just as lifeless.
It was if he had been swallowed whole—gone without a trace.
We may never find him, Raven thought sadly.
The hopeless feeling surprised her. How could she even contemplate such a thing? Robin needed her!
Shaking her head and stifling her idiotic emotions, she hopped out of bed with a huff and decided to get a start on the day. What good would it do anyone to sit here pining and biting her fingernails? Stomping to a redwood dresser, she yanked open the top drawer with a bit more force than necessary and ended up decapitating the handle.
Muttering dark curses, she tossed the brittle piece of metal to the floor and snatched a piece of clothing from the open drawer. Not bothering to shut it, she marched over to her closet and tore down another article from its perch on the hanger.
Still mumbling, she dressed in her trademark violet-blue cloak and black leotard.
Candles of incense burned softly in the gray light of dawn. The familiar smell of sage and sandalwood eased Raven's worn nerves and calmed the tempest wreaking havoc in her mind. She stopped her furious murmurs and went quiet. She steadied her breath. Her fingers slowed as they fastened her cowl around her shoulders.
She had to remain calm. If the team saw her like this...
Before she could finish that macabre thought, Raven paused, took a great gulp of air, and exhaled.
They wouldn't see her like this. Ever.
Molding her face into its usual monotone, she continued getting ready.
Mason jars filled with odd—and sometimes frightening—ingredients cluttered her shelves. The glass sparkled as the sun crept over the horizon.
Eccentric, demonic figurines stood sentry about the room. Their glittering, black eyes held a hellish warning for any would-be intruder.
The distinct aura of witchcraft hung in the air like an invisible, magical weight, waiting on her command, crackling on her fingertips. It begged for release. Sighing, she instead bent over and retrieved her discarded bed covers from the floor. A heavy leather-bound book toppled from the tangle of blankets and crashed into the soft, burgundy carpet with a resounding thump.
She sighed again and decided that it was time for a very large, very strong, mug of herbal tea. The morning was, indeed, very late.
As the sun began to peek brightly in through the dusty window, Raven waved her hand in disdain. At her magical behest, the velvet curtains snapped shut and the room was shrouded in gloom once more.
With a long frown, Raven strapped on her bejeweled belt and ran a comb through her chin-length, lavender hair. Shoving on her worn boots, she threw a hood over her pallid face and floated out the door.
A chilly breeze splashed her face and woke up her senses as her bedroom panels shut softly behind her.
The Tower was unusually silent and still. Raven could smell no bacon—vegetarian or otherwise—and could hear no annoying banter emanating from down the hall.
And for once, the peace and quiet only deepened her melancholy. She wrapped her arms around her chest and let her cloak conceal her form from view. Then, with steps as noiseless as cat paws, she drifted toward the lounge with large, sad eyes.
It seemed the others had not woken yet or had never managed to fall asleep. Worry-ridden insomnia was common these days—especially for Starfire. The alien warrior with the scarlet hair was far less vibrant than her typical perky self.
Her inner fire had dimmed to a flickering ember. Guilt and fear circled above her head like eager vultures, ready to pick her spirit clean. She never said more than a few somber words each day and she was usually seen clutching her communicator close to her chest like a talisman, refusing to believe that it was useless.
Even now, Raven could sense her down the hall. Starfire was still awake, lying miserably in the dark.
The entrance to the main operations room came into view and Raven paused before the gray-trimmed frames. She raised her chin to the ceiling and sent a flicker of longing into the sky beyond.
"Hold on, Robin..." Raven whispered to the walls, hoping beyond hope that her friend would return to her safe and sound.
When Slade entered his bedroom, Robin remained seated and still.
He gazed at nothing, thought of nothing. Waves upon waves of bitter sorrow flooded his veins and seeped into every crack of his countenance. His eyes were perpetually filled with unshed, stinging tears, but he refused to release them. Crushed, he leaned the back of his head against the mattress as he sat on the floor. His limbs were limp and splayed like a lifeless doll. Neck bending backward, the collar dug into his skin, chaffing it.
His nails were bloody and torn, half of them broken off completely. Splotches of red streaked across the back of his hands. He had scratched and clawed until his fingers were swollen pieces of meat. It did no good. The new embellishments were practically nailed to his flesh.
When Slade finally turned to him, Robin's dead-eyed stare swerved upward but he stayed planted to the ground. He no longer cared about the consequences. Things were only going to get worse, he told himself. So why try? For once, he just wanted to be selfish and ignorant.
"Get up."
Robin glared.
"Or what?" he retorted apathetically. "You'll kill me? You'll kill my friends? You'll kill everyone I ever looked at? Fine. Go ahead. I won't stop you."
Slade rolled his eye.
Teenagers, he thought with a sigh.
"Come now, Robin," he said with an accent of amusement. "Acting like a spoiled, melodramatic brat is beneath you."
A small spark of furious red seeped into Robin's wane cheeks. His sore fingers jerked.
"I'd rather be a spoiled, melodramatic brat than your slave!" he snapped with a sneer.
Unperturbed, Slade chuckled softly at the boy's petulance. He shook his knobbed head and clicked his tongue.
"You wound me, apprentice."
Robin's nostrils flared.
"Don't call me that."
"But that's exactly what you are, dear boy," Slade said, his deathly quiet voice raising the hairs on Robin's arms.
The villain took a step closer and crouched.
"You can fight it all you want, but no matter what you say, no matter where you go, no matter how much you struggle, there is nothing you can do to change it. What's done is done, Robin. Accept it."
"Fuck you, Slade," Robin spat.
"Now you're just being rude."
Fast as lightning, the masked man had the teen's chin in an iron grip. He wrenched it forward, forcing the boy face him.
"Don't make threats you can't follow through on," he hissed as Robin squirmed in his clasp. "You said you wouldn't 'stop me' if I slaughtered everyone you've ever known? Dear child, what makes you think you ever had a chance at stopping me? Have you learned nothing from our time together? The only reason you and your friends still breathe is because I've allowed it. But no longer, Robin."
Unable to move his jaw, the obstinate boy wonder kept his glower intact.
Slade merely tightened his vice and yanked Robin's head to the side to get a better look at his handiwork.
"This is more than just a fashion statement," he explained as he brushed away a bloodstain with his thumb. "I implanted several microchips into your nervous system while you were unconscious. They keep the collar and the bands fused to your body, making them impossible to remove...but that's only part of the fun."
A sickening wave of fear stampeded into Robin's veins and, before he could react, Slade leaned back and jabbed a finger into a hidden control beneath his right vambrace. Instantly, spikes of shocking pain crackled from the crown of Robin's head to the bottoms of his feet. His arms and legs bent grotesquely, inhumanly. His heart doubled its speed, galloping wildly in his chest. The familiar feeling of scorching electricity sizzled up and down his spine like a livewire.
He smelled burning hair—his.
As quickly as it came, it stopped, and Robin was left twitching and shaking. He could still taste sparks dancing on his tongue, through his teeth. He saw double—two Slades. He wrapped his arms around himself as he tried to keep his skin from splitting. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled into himself.
Slade was not done.
"Then, there's this," he bragged evilly, his inky eye flashing with cold arrogance.
Still recovering from the electrocution, Robin couldn't even pray for mercy as Slade revealed his next unwanted surprise.
Click!
His mind was suddenly engulfed by a thick, paralyzing fog. All feeling and sensation went numb. A murky haze of dizzying black veiled his thoughts. His lids flew back open and his eyes widened in a petrified, dumbfounded stare. His jaw went slack and his arms sunk to the ground, head lolling. It was if he was looking though a dark glass, a distorted kaleidoscope.
Click!
Immediately, Robin's back straightened and his head lifted as if pulled up by an invisible string. A stranger in his skin, he could only watch as his arms and legs took on a life of their own.
Click! He stood up. Click! He walked forward. Click! He turned. Click! He walked backward. Click! He turned again.
He knew he was moving but he couldn't feel his toes, his legs, his hips, anything! With each horrible press of the button, his stomach gave a stab of revulsion as it fought against Slade's parasitic control.
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" he tried to bellow, but no words came out.
Not even his lips twitched.
His pirated body made a few more turns about the room before Slade released him. One final click! pierced the air. Feeling and sense came back to him like a battering ram. He gave a great, shuttering gasp and collapsed to all fours. It was too much, too fast.
He retched.
Bitter, burning bile flooded the floor in front of him and splashed onto Slade's boots.
"Charming," the villain mused as he kicked off the sick with unnerving nonchalance.
He cocked his head and watched with disquieting calm as the teen regained his composure—or at least stopped gagging. After a few more rounds of burning coughs and pained gasps, Robin peered upward. His flesh was a sickly, pallid green, his wide eyes were bloodshot, and his trembling mouth was smeared with polluted drool.
"W-w-what did you do to me?" he stammered in a hoarse whisper.
"Only what you deserved," Slade responded shortly. "As I said, your attitude left something to be desired. So, I fixed it."
Horror danced in Robin's brilliant blue irises. They began to sparkle like a river ready to flood. He hadn't realized that he had been holding onto hope until he felt it slip from between his fingers. It left a void, a bottomless hole, in the pit of his heart.
"No...no...you didn't...you can't!" he croaked.
Slade gave him a withering stare.
"I did."
At that moment, the Titan leader lost all pretense of bravery. He didn't want to be a hero anymore; he didn't want to be Robin. For the first time in many years, he felt small and horribly young. After all, he was just a kid—barely sixteen. This world was too big—too hideously big—for him to take on alone.
It had taken weeks, but his pride had finally died. And so, he begged.
Putting his clammy forehead to the stained, wet rug, he pleaded for the impossible.
"I'll do anything you want," he said in a hollow monotone.
"I already have everything I want," Slade replied, unimpressed.
"I'll do whatever you say."
"How endearingly pointless."
"I'll never try to escape."
"Again, pointless."
"I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Such as?"
Robin's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes.
"My name?" he offered. "My real one?"
Slade chuckled.
"Please," he scoffed. "I've known your 'secret' identity for years now, Richard. Or should I call you Dick?"
Robin shot off from the putrid ground. In mad desperation, he yanked on the anchored collar.
"Tell me what you want and I'll do it!" he exclaimed. "Just get this thing off me!"
"You have nothing left to offer me, boy," Slade hissed as he leaned forward and tapped on the choker with a cruel nail. "This ensures that."
Underscoring that point, Slade turned on a heel and sauntered dismissively toward the door. Hand on the handle, he peered back at the despairing teen over his broad shoulder.
"Strike three, Dick," the villain said and Robin flinched at the sound of his name. "Disobey me again and Titans Tower becomes a tombstone and you become a murderer. Good night."
The door snapped closed. The bolt clicked. Slade's footsteps faded away.
Robin lowered his hands to his sides and bowed his head.
There had always been a last minute rescue, a buzzer-beater, a Hail Mary, a way out. As both a sidekick and a team leader, he couldn't remember the last time when he hadn't been able to escape a deathtrap or thwart a criminal's best-laid plans.
Slowly, painfully, a mounting turmoil shimmied up his windpipe.
He was going to die down here. He was going to be in Slade's cage for the rest of his life.
Something in his soul cracked, splintered, and broke.
He opened his mouth as far as it would go and screamed. His lungs emptied. He screamed again and crumpled to the ground, rocking on his toes.
"Someone help me! Anyone! Please!" he howled at the hidden sky. "Help me! Help me! HELP!"
But no one came. No one answered. Nothing happened.
Anguished, he beat his fists on the vomit-tainted floor. The shackles on his wrists indented his skin and bruised his bones. More than ever, he wanted them gone. He threw all his strength into ripping them off. Nothing happened.
He tried to tear the damned collar from his neck once more. His bloodied, battered fingers throbbed. Each torn nail and bruised knuckle only fueled his senseless rage. It did no good. It wouldn't come off. Nothing happened.
He writhed. He flailed. He thrashed. Nothing happened.
The restraints remained—immovable objects, permanent stains.
He panted and spat. His eye caught the desk. He surged across the room and began to dismantle it—punching, kicking, stomping. Pieces of wood splattered the floor, tore up his hands and arms. His mangled palms were covered in splinters, stripes of angry red.
More tear-jerking, chest-crushing shrieks escaped him as he worked. He was too weak to swallow them anymore. His wolfish cries reverberated down the hall, echoing throughout the underground lair like mournful poltergeists.
Amidst the chorus of wails, Slade smirked beneath his metallic mask.
He whistled as he strode down the haunted passageway.