"Every day's a struggle just to get out of bed, and I fight constantly with the voice in my head. When I look in the mirror I see a face full of scars..."
Alone at last, Robin shuffled his way to the bed and, without even unstrapping his boots, collapsed onto it. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
Exhausted and emotionally drained, his troubled mind sought the escape of sleep easily. For the first time in many nights, he did not dream.
That was not the strangest part.
After many hours of rest, Robin awoke alone. Slade was not yelling at him to get dressed; he did not feel the horrid chill of Slade's fingers on his scalp as he yanked Robin out of bed.
On top of the covers, he realized that his mask was still on. The thing was practically glued to his face and he had to use considerable effort to strip it off. He flung it away and rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the mattress.
He rubbed his neck and gave a great yawn. He arched and cracked his spine and ran a hand over his face.
He felt raw, wrinkled, groggy. The bodysuit clung to him. The metal guards pinched and imprinted his skin. His feet were numb; the leather was not worn-in yet. Sighing, he bent over, untied them, and kicked them off.
His brain was still a fatigued blur. There was an echo of sorrow radiating from him that he couldn't place.
Deciding that ignorance was bliss, he got out of bed and gathered a new set of clothes: the usual sweats and a large t-shirt. He had cut slits in the neckline so that it would fit over his collar.
It took a while to wrestle out of the suit. The flexible but skin-tight fabric did not want to part ways. Nevertheless, after about twenty minutes of fighting with it, the black-and-orange uniform sat defeated in the back of his closest. He tossed the boots in after it.
Finally comfortable, he went to check his reflection.
He no longer had a desk or any other substantial furnishings besides the bed and the makeshift nightstand. Slade still had him on furniture probation. The lamp was replaced, but bolted securely into the slab of rock at his bedside, and another lantern was nailed in the wall next to the burrowed closet. The extra light made his room seem even emptier, fallow.
A jumbled pile of supplies was stacked under the chunk of mirror: athletic wrap, anti-biotic ointment, a massive tub of disinfectant wipes, sterilizing fluid, a needle and thread, several kinds of bandages, and a host of bloodstained towels. His constant need for medical attention forced Slade to provide him with a decent stash of remedies.
Some of the washcloths were soaking in a basin of soapy, pink-tinted water which was silouetted against the cobbled wall. He wrung them out and set them on the bed to dry. Then, he went to check the mirror.
He knew before he looked that it wasn't going to pretty. Crawling through the vent last night was the easy part. Getting past the tripled defenses was another matter. He had taken them down, but he hadn't gotten out unscathed.
In the end, he had to blow up half of Sector 7 to get the guards off his tail.
So, when he saw the smears of soot and dirt and blood streaked across his face, he wasn't surprised. Shallow and deep cuts congregated together like good friends on his forehead and chin. One particularly nasty one ran alongside his cheekbone. It demanded the most attention.
Gonna need stitches, he thought with a frown.
Grime accompanied the rakes, blending with the dried blood. The bruises hid behind the layers of filth. As he lifted his chin, he noticed a few minor burns—the explosion's doing, no doubt—but his neck seemed altogether whole.
Plucking a disinfecting cloth from the cylindrical, plastic container, he cleaned his face. The subtle sting grew into an eye-watering pain. He inhaled sharply and kept going. It took three rounds to remove the muck and blood; he could finally see his ghostly, pale-blue eyes again. Haunted shadows ran around them. His wintry irises flared brightly against the shaded backdrop.
He snatched up the bandages and applied them. The cut on his cheek would not be so easily cured. With a heavy, annoyed grunt, he prepared the needed tools. He sterilized the needle and weaved the thick, black thread through the eye. He cleaned his hands. He grabbed a towel and shoved it in his mouth.
He assessed the laceration, prodding it gently with his fingers. Pinching the limp, irritated flaps of skin together, he pressed the tip of the needle in; however, before he could puncture it, Slade burst in.
It must have been an odd sight.
There Robin was, a dirty washcloth clenched between his teeth and a needle to his face. Upon seeing Slade, he gasped and spat out the towel. Amused, the villain chuckled lowly. He strode calmly over, plucked the needle from Robin's hand, and motioned for the boy to sit.
"Face toward the wall," Slade commanded as Robin plopped onto the bed.
The boy wonder obeyed with a sense of déjà vu. The scene reminded him of his first night here.
"Here."
Slade offered the same leather strap. Robin took it without complaint. It was better than the rank towel. He placed it between his canines and molars.
"Tilt your head to the right."
Slade's frigid fingers floated across Robin's cheek as he judged the wound. After a minute, he stood straight and took off his gloves. Robin's eyes widened. He had never seen the man beneath before. As expected, Slade's skin was the color of pure snow. The severely pallid pigment was almost translucent; it was hard to look at.
However, Robin caught a splotch of red in his peripheral: bloody knuckles.
Slade leaned in.
"Don't move," he instructed.
Robin stiffened, hardly daring to breathe. He bit down on the leather and curled his hands into fists. When Slade pushed his fingers into the wound, it wasn't the pain that made Robin suddenly flinch, but the cold.
"What did I just say?" Slade snapped.
It was inhuman, how icy those hands were. The man should have been dead! He should have been a corpse!
Robin garbled out an apology, fighting the chatter of his teeth.
"Unless you want a scar on this pretty face of yours, you'll stay still," Slade growled, his glacial nails pricking.
Before Robin could so much as elicit a grumble of affirmation, Slade had pierced the needle through. Robin's nostrils flared and he gnashed his teeth against the leather. A whimper warbled out of his throat involuntarily.
"Quiet..."
Slade made quick work—a testament to his prolific experience. He soon had the tear cinched and the stitch tied. He unsheathed a hidden army knife and clipped the thread's tail.
When it was over and done, Robin had a pattern of perfect crisscrosses decorating his cheekbone. Even the swelling was minor. He lifted a curious hand to it, tracing the bumpy 'X's.
"If you're done ruining my handiwork," Slade barked, shoving his gloves back on. "I believe it's time for breakfast, bird."
Several hours later, Robin had his hands on knees. Sweat dripped from his hairline, down his temple, and splashed onto the black gym mat. He panted hard, chest heaving.
Training was going unusually well today. Slade hadn't electrocuted him once and his fighting form was top notch. The two had gone all morning in a continuous spar. They broke their previous brawling record by an hour.
In the end, however, Slade had still bested the boy wonder. Robin's heel had merely slipped an inch, but it was enough of a window for the villain to throw him off balance.
"I suppose that will have to do," Slade commented indifferently as Robin heaved himself to his knees, his ears ringing.
Even after hours of combat, Slade still appeared unruffled. Robin thought he heard a minor exhale of breath slither through the metal slits, but it was hard to tell over the thumping of his heart. Slade's endurance was on a whole other level; Robin wondered if he would ever be able to stand toe-to-toe with him. Hell, even Bruce would have a hard time keeping up.
The thought sent an odd shiver down his spine. He had always believed Batman to be invincible and incorruptible. The man was certainly flawed—Dick was well aware of that particular fact—but the blemishes of his personality never seemed to bleed over into "The Job."
Now, as he tried to gulp in air while kneeling before a man who appeared to need none, Robin's worldviews began to shift beneath his feet. Even if Bruce or the Titans or anyone came for him—would it matter? Was Slade too powerful even for the juggernauts of justice?
Did Robin have any chance at getting out of here?
He knew the answer as soon as he asked the question, for it already been decided: No.
There was no hope. There'd never been. He saw that now.
Slade was never going to let him go. He would kill him before he allowed his prized possession to fall into enemy hands. For that was what Robin was now: a trophy. He had Slade's signature chiseled on his skin. Every inch of him, every fiber, was property of Slade Wilson.
There was nothing to be done about it. Like the subjugated peoples of yore, Robin had been led away from his conquered homeland in chains. He may have been a hero in his house, but no more. His past accomplishments might as well have been a pile of ashes for all the good it did him.
There was no going back.
He knew this and yet the sting of longing still bit him. It wasn't fair. He had been happy. He had found his place in the world. He had just begun to fall in love, could still recall the flutter of butterflies swarming in his gut. The darkness of his childhood had dimmed in a new light of day on the horizon.
And then…cataclysm.
All of it gone. All of it disappeared like sand through his fingers; like a good dream unremembered.
It's all my fault, he despaired.
He had been able to suppress his conscience for the majority of the day, preferring the bliss of self-enforced ignorance. Yet, as he compared his two masters, his two lives, it was becoming harder to ignore the memories, the shame.
It bubbled up in his brain, tickling the back of his skull.
What have I done?
He snorted and straightened. He ran an angry hand through his chopped hair. He couldn't think about it, now or ever. It would destroy him. There was only a flicker of himself left, a fragile ember. He was already lost, already fading. One more push and he would be obliterated.
So, he stomped down his guilt and morality and waited for the next round. He stared at a spot above Slade's shoulder expectantly.
The villain silently watched Robin's expression darken, saw the internal struggle as clear as day. The boy was far too easy to read—a lesson for another day.
"That's enough for today," he said, tossing a towel at the sweaty teen.
Robin caught it and wrapped it around his neck. His face was suddenly wary. Slade had never cut a sparring session short. He reveled in the superiority of his skill, in bringing woe to the conquered.
"Come," he ordered, gesturing.
Lights switched on above. The dark-gray, rocky walls and floors of the atrium were exposed in the harsh fluorescence. The black plastic of the gym mat glittered. Slade turned and strode in the direction of a tunnel on the western side. Robin had never been allowed access to that corridor.
The sweat on his skin froze. He swallowed thickly as he trotted after Slade. The villain didn't look back as he walked right into the mouth of the tunnel, disappearing into the shadows.
Unnerved, Robin picked up the pace. He squinted as he tried to make out Slade's outline in the oppressive dark. He strained his ears, trying to match Slade's strides.
The man's footsteps were faint click-click-clicks, a leaky faucet echoing for miles.
After about ten minutes, Slade finally halted. Robin almost crashed into him, but managed to catch himself by bracing against the curved cavern wall. He heard the rusty creak of a door being yanked open.
"In," came the bodiless command.
Robin took a few cautious steps in the direction of the noise. It wasn't fast enough for Slade. Something grabbed his neck and pushed him, hard. He stumbled forward, his bare feet clapping against concrete.
Blind, he heard the door clang shut. Slade brushed up beside him. An icy hand fell on his shoulder. The trepidation exploded in his chest. This could only be bad.
"Your training is nearly complete," Slade stated and Robin could feel the thrum of his tenor. "Your final lesson awaits."
It was then that Robin heard the whimper. His heart stopped.
A single light switched on.
A man, handcuffed to the floor and badly beaten, kneeled in front of the master and apprentice. A black bag was over his head, but Robin could still detect his muffled sobs. His bare chest and arms were littered with weeping wounds—a canvas covered in red, black, blue, violet, and yellow. His khaki pants were torn and stained with blood. He trembled violently from head to toe.
"Kill him."