"Hey little monster, I got my eye on you."
Slade peered mutely at the boy wonder. His roaming eye took in every inch of Robin's bruise-spotted skin, every swollen batch of scrapes, every protruding bone—the knobbed joints stretched the flesh.
Behind his metal mask, a rare, self-satisfied smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth.
His apprentice refused to meet his penetrating stare.
It was typical; the teenager rarely lifted his chin up from his chest these days. With hunched shoulders and sullen, crossed arms, Slade pondered if he would ever see the old, deliciously rebellious spark coursing through those glacial-blue eyes. A twinge of odd regret wormed its way into his brain.
Luckily, the feeling passed as suddenly as it came.
The pair stood face-to-face in the atrium, their shadows blending into the gloom. A small wisp of chilled fog escaped from between Robin's tightly-wound mouth. He fought the eager shivers that quaked beneath his goose-bumped skin.
It was cold—as cold as the inside of a wintry mausoleum, a refrigerated morgue. He was regretting his choice of attire. The thin layer of athletic wrap that wound around his abdomen was worthless against the biting air. The sweatpants were better, but he could feel the chill seeping through them.
The steely collar and the shackles were by far the worst. Unable to take them off, it felt as if he had blocks of ice nailed into his wrists and neck. The skin around the adornments was beginning to burn.
The distantly churning cogs emitted a subtle breeze, but—to Robin—it was a veritable gale of frigid wind whenever it kissed his flesh. His hairs stood at attention, a frozen forest.
His lips turned blue as he waited for Slade to get on with it. He sniffed.
"Your next mission," Slade announced finally, jabbing a button on his vambrace.
The T.V.-screened wall blared violently in the dark. Robin winced at the sudden brightest, but his head did not twitch an inch. He peered at the monitors out of the corner of his eye.
A bitter dread dropped like a rock in his stomach.
It caused a small shudder to ricochet from the backs of his heels to the crown of his head. He had to grit his teeth and clench his hands in order to control it before it consumed his body.
"Cold?" Slade asked innocently.
Robin jerked his head side-to-side.
The copper-colored half of Slade's mask glimmered in the oppressive fluorescence radiating off the screens, sending off rays of distorted light. A black hole, his pupil absorbed all illumination. It cut through the kaleidoscope of colors and drilled into Robin's downturned forehead.
"I know you've been itching to see the Titans again," he said in a disturbing undertone. "And I can't think of a better way to test your skills than to set up a playdate with your former friends."
He clicked another switch and a picture of the Wayne Enterprises skyscraper filled the screens. Robin cocked his head another inch as the trepidation in his gut festered.
No, no, it's too soon!
"Don't worry, it's not all play and no work," Slade continued and a set of blueprints replaced the image of Wayne Enterprises on the monitor.
From the schematics, the object of his master's desire appeared to be a cylindrical case of inch-thick lead, housing some sort of energy source. The fact that it needed such precaution alluded to its unstable and dangerous nature.
Robin swallowed. His tongue felt swollen and dry.
Slade motioned for him to follow, taking out a map of the building. They gathered around a granite worktable that was off to the side, hidden in shadow. A light switched on above without provocation, encircling them in an illuminated halo. The thermal blaster glittered serenely upon the rocky desk, catching Robin's eye.
Slade smoothed out the map. He had circled the most heavily guarded points in red pen. It seemed the entire paper was a flurry of red splotches.
"We'll have to be more…creative than last time," he admitted wryly. "Security has tripled."
Robin grunted.
Slade tapped the top of the sheet.
"You'll go in by glider," he decided. "There's a vent on the roof. You know the one."
Robin said nothing and kept his gaze fixed on the map in front of him. A weighty, unspoken threat permeated the space between them. Slade had not forgotten—nor forgiven—Robin's costly error from the previous mission.
"Once inside the vent, make your way to the twenty-ninth floor," Slade explained, eye flashing. "The objective is in Sector 7. It'll be heavily guarded, but that won't be a problem, will it?"
"No," Robin muttered.
"That's right," Slade commended patronizingly. "It won't."
Robin's lip curled at the tone his master took; a flicker of ancient anger thumped once against his freezing chest.
"We leave at midnight. The rendezvous point is at Pier 11. You'll have one hour."
"Fine," Robin hissed.
"Don't pull your punches."
"Fine."
"Put one toe out of line and you'll go the rest of your life skinless," he reminded him with a voice utterly inflection-less. "Not to mention friendless. Do I make myself clear?"
Robin nodded curtly to which Slade sighed.
Instantly, his frigid, gloved hand was snaked around the back of Robin's neck, squeezing. He leaned in.
"I asked you a question."
Robin shivered. The sensation of Slade's fingers curled around him was straight out of his nightmare. His shoulders hitched up, straining against the collar.
"Yes, master," he responded through clenched teeth.
Slade's clutch tightened. His fingers crept up Robin's skull like tarantula legs. Soon, his thumb was resting above Robin's left ear, cradling his cranium in a monstrous grip. The feel of leather against the stubble of his scalp was unnerving to say the least.
He compelled Robin to face him head on, something that the boy had been resisting all day. Their eyes connected and there was no chance Robin would be able to look away now. The wolf's paw had fallen into the steel jaws of a hunter's trap.
The man studied him for a moment, soaking in information. He could tell by the determined set of Robin's mouth that the teenager had not been completely broken of spirit; however, the obvious, bold-faced fear that danced in the depths of Robin's hollow stare said otherwise.
He would never admit it, but Slade had wormed his way deep within his psyche. He was the object of Robin's nightmares now, the epitome of terror.
And he couldn't be more pleased.
It would be this fear, this poisonous neurosis, which would bury the ideal and resurrect cold reality—the hero would die and the villain would rise in his place. Selfish, self-preserving fright would erase the memory of the Titans, for it is hard to be a saint when being scourged by demons.
Robin's will to save his friends would succumb to the natural desire to survive. Of this, Slade was sure. Only a bit more pressure and the boy was his.
He was only too happy to oblige.
"I don't think I like your attitude, young man," he hinted horribly through a hidden smile.
Slade watched with sadistic pleasure as the fear in Robin's eyes spread infectiously to the rest of his face.
His talons dug in, he set his stance.
All mine.
When the alarms went off at Titans Tower, the team was ready for it.
They had taken shifts every night, waiting for the inevitable. Four days had passed, but none of them doubted that they would see Robin again.
The call came in at 12:23am.
There was a break-in at Wayne Enterprises. Suspect unknown. There had been an explosion.
Ten security guards were unconscious. Four had broken arms. Two had snapped femurs. Seven had concussions. One was in critical condition—a cracked skull. All, at the very least, were badly wounded.
If the Titans had any misgiving as to which side Robin now belonged, the casualty count he left behind erased it.
They were out the door at 12:26.