A/N: Sorry for the lateness! Enjoy.
"It's empty in the valley of your heart. The sun, it rises slowly as you walk away from all the fears and all the faults you've left behind."
Robin's feet were a blur beneath him as he darted through the smoldering hole and into the darkening twilight. As luck would have it, the interrogation room was within spitting's distance of the fence that wound around Area 59; the explosion had ripped right through the electric-laced barrier. Sparks tickled his calves as he leapt over the shattered, wiry skeletons.
When the alarms began to squeal and the dogs began to howl, he was already sprinting into the inky horizon. The desert was vast but an entire day had passed since his capture; he had the cover of new darkness to aid him.
The enemy had the advantage of speed and strength, but Robin had the unparalleled cloak of nightfall.
A new gust of adrenaline was pumping through him, spurring him on. Having just used the last of his arsenal, he had only his fists and mind as his defense. Nevertheless, if Slade had taught him anything, it was how to survive in a harsh environment.
The sand was smooth and thin—a wispy, gravelly surface. His boots crunched softly as they pounded the clumps of dirt into oblivion. The heat of day was dying. It left a cold corpse behind. The wind picked up and danced madly across the desolate plains. It surged under his wings, quickening him and practically lifting him off the ground.
Carried on the gales, Robin could hear the distant rumble of car engines, the squeal of frantic tires, and the shouts of cheated men. The sirens were a low wail, growing fainter and fainter. Within minutes of his hasty departure, the sun's anemic light gave way to complete darkness.
Eyes adjusting, he could barely see an inch in front of his face.
Still, he ran on.
Blindness was a close friend.
His body felt antsy, eager. Although unconscious for most of the time, he had been sitting uncomfortably all day and now he was able to really stretch his legs. He was of medium height and in the awkward stage of growth plates and spurts; however, he ran as if he was a foot taller.
The muscles in his legs contracted and expanded powerfully, propelling him like a torpedo. The wind sang through his hair and strummed his skin. It was an elemental feeling, as if he were just another gust, just another strand in the airstream. Not even his lungs cried for rest. They swelled with a surplus of energy and oxygen. His heart was a steady rhythm, in sync with the pumping of his arms.
Nevertheless, he kept a sharp ear out for approaching obstacles.
He waited for the inevitable nip of a dog at his heels, the warning whistle of a sentry, or the potent stench of Diesel exhaust burping out of a charging Jeep. He took extra precautions: he never ran in a straight line for too long; he zigzagged around cacti and took off in random directions from time to time.
Again, the wind helped him here by obscuring his footprints. The fickle, capricious sand didn't hurt matters.
If he remembered the map correctly, Area 59 had been about twenty or so miles from the nearest road. Robin had traveled here on a turbo-glider and had planned to leave in similar fashion, but that was now a lost cause. He needed distance and needed it fast.
Sadly, the glider was still stashed behind a crop of brush some ten miles back. It waited for a master that would never return. Indeed, Area 59 was not even a blip in his mirror now. It transitioned into a memory. He hoped it would stay that way.
Robin pressed his feet harder into the ground and continued his mad pace—a careening speck in a sea of black.
50 Minutes Later
The original rendezvous point had been an abandoned gas station a few miles off the main highway, and Robin decided to try there first before retreating all the way back to Jump City or some other hideaway. Within less than an hour, he hit upon an old tributary road and followed it—from a distance—back to the freeway.
The closer he got to the interstate, the closer he got to civilization. Cars bumbled on the obsidian horizon, their dusty headlights blinking sleepily. Billboards sprung out of the earth like rectangular trees. The calming whoosh of speeding trucks greeted his ears. The stench of gasoline hung over him.
When his boots smacked into the smooth, freshly-paved asphalt of the highway, he waited patiently for a lull in the lazy, early morning traffic and then dashed across the two empty lanes.
Running resumed and he went over the directions over and over in his mind: the rendezvous was two to three miles due north of a nearby town, Halcón Garra, which squatted unassumingly near the southern border between California and Nevada.
Keeping at a steady trot, he skirted along the side of the road, avoiding random blobs of streetlight. He scanned the obscured skyline hungrily, searching for a marker.
Finally, the monotonous highway gave birth to an exit.
Robin shadowed it to a single, dusty street and noticed the faint outline of a motel nestled upon a rare hill. Its neon "NO VACANCY" sign was barely perceptible, buzzing and blinking haphazardly.
It was joined by a hodgepodge of blocky, tan buildings decorated in vibrant Mexicana fashion—a tourist destination. Creeping closer, Robin noticed a sunny, brightly colored banner draped above the lonely road, hanging between rooftops. The billowy, painted cloth fluttered ominously in the desert wind.
"BIENVENIDO A HALCÓN GARRA!" it read in bold yellows and reds.
Relief surged through Robin. Luck was with him...for now.
He trudged up to the top of the hill and looked around, squinting.
The town was dead. Curtains were drawn and the doors were locked tight. A pair of beat-up pickup trucks were parked on the curb beside the motel, lonely and hollow. Quaint, antiquated lampposts lined the dusted sidewalks, giving off subdued light. Their filigreed, iron spines rattled. Trash shuffled across the street, the only perceivable pedestrians.
Still, he didn't trust appearances and wanted to be as far away from prying eyes, or the potential for them, as possible.
Robin continued on, skulking behind the backs of the buildings and gaining an unobstructed view of the black valley below. It was hours until dawn but, from this advantageous vantage point, he could see relatively far.
It was as if the earth had been swallowed by an indigo void. The moon was a brittle thumbnail, providing little help, and the stars were gems blurred beneath the black waters of the midnight sky.
Nonetheless, a tiny blot of silver sparkled weakly some distance north of him. It seemed to fit the general location of the rendezvous and was the only thing that remotely resembled what he was searching for.
Robin chewed his lip. What if the distance was greater than he thought? What if it was a trick or a trap or an illusion?
As he deliberated, his body made the decision for him. It began to mutiny.
He was tired, hungry, thirsty—the usual suspects. The temperature was a notch above freezing and it warred with his flushed, sweaty skin. If he didn't keep moving, the cold and fatigue would overwhelm and paralyze him.
Adding insult to injury, his boots were stuffed with sand and thistles. His face was raw and encrusted with a thick layer of prickly dirt. His ripped uniform was covered in grime and sweat and blood. He had run thirty miles on empty and his engine was sputtering, dying.
A surge of exhaustion suddenly made his knees go weak. He snarled softly and clenched his hands into fists, fighting the lethargy.
"C'mon…" he urged himself in a mumble, shaking his head. "C'mon…just a few more miles…you can do it…"
Resigned, Robin sucked in a breath and pushed off, flying down the hill. The bottoms of his feet complained loudly while thorns stabbed his ankles. He muttered expletives every other step, grinding his jaw.
The initial adrenaline of escape had been watered down, leaving him in a regretful state:
He should have hijacked a Jeep while he had the chance.
He should have waited for the Titans to transfer him to a different location.
He should have listened to Slade.
He should have told Raven everything.
If he had chosen any of these options, maybe he wouldn't be stuck here, running from everyone and anyone. His thoughts were marred with self-pity and worry. He had gotten himself into this mess, and he would have to find a way out of it or die trying.
Nevertheless, as he raced toward what he hoped was a dilapidated gas station, he prayed that Slade had decided to stay there after all—that, for once, his master waited for him.
The map in his head had not failed him.
Dead-tired but victorious, Robin staggered up to the gas station.
The station had only two pumps, which were clearly out of service being as that the hoses were severed—their bodies lay on the ground like decapitated snakes. The propane tank had been stripped away. A gray square marked the spot where it used to stand.
The adjoining, rectangular building had a giant hole torn in the side of it. Debris and trash leaked out and floated dreamily into the night before being caught on the spines of surrounding cacti.
One of the two glass doors was missing. The one that remained hung on by the skin of its hinge. It clattered disconcertingly, tossed to and fro by the wind, making a rakous.
Graffiti tagged every solid inch of the place. Spindly weeds pushed through the blacktop surface and crept up the sides of the derelict pumps—the desert ocean reclaiming the asphalt island.
The wind, which had been his ally earlier, turned vindictive. It chewed on Robin's skin ruthlessly and ate away at his heat. It stole sound and siphoned off his last stores of energy.
Dragging his feet, Robin stumbled through the darkened entrance, wheezing and coughing. His arms were coiled around him and his shoulders hunched as they sought solace from the bitter gusts.
The interior was only marginally better than the station's facade.
There were no shelves or counters or aisles. Rubbish of all stripes littered the deteriorated tile floor. The cracked crater in the concrete wall to the right of the doorway was half his size, letting in an insidious breeze. There were dents in the ceiling from where light fixtures once hung. A faded green stripe ran around the room, but it was mostly obscured by the more vibrant graffiti.
All in all, it was a large, sad, and empty place but, despite the leak, it gave decent shelter from the malicious elements.
That aspect was welcomed, but it wasn't what Robin sorely needed.
Slade was nowhere to be seen. The place was deserted.
The apprehension that he had ignored was nonetheless confirmed.
Defeated, he sank weightily to the floor, to his knees. His teeth chattered as he hung his head.
Morning was fast approaching. The clock, his eternal enemy, was against him yet again.
He only had hours until the exposing light of day; however, he knew he could travel no further. He would have to wait until tomorrow night to continue his journey and yet time was a luxury he did not possess.
There was no telling when the soldiers would catch his scent and swarm him. The unruly wind and tumultuous sand had muddied his trail, but the dogs would not be deterred forever.
There were only so many places to hide in a flat desert. Could he hold out here for a day?
On the other hand, the window of opportunity was closing. He still had surprise and confusion on his side. If he stopped now, he allowed his enemy time to strategize and coordinate. Should he at least try while he had the chance? Was it even possible?
His legs shook at the thought alone. An anemic tint colored his wan cheeks.
The haunt was easily one hundred miles away and had the added monkey wrench of being impossible to find without Slade. If Robin managed—by some miracle—to smuggle his way into Jump City, he would be a sitting duck, a dog scratching at a locked door.
Frustrated, he groaned throatily. His breath came out as crystallized fog.
"Idiot," he snarled halfheartedly at himself.
The wind outside howled, mocking him. Remains of paper bags and fast-food containers swirled around him in a parodic blizzard. Warped soda cans and bottles clanged and jingled. Frigid air filtered through the three-foot hole in the wall, piercing his frozen flesh.
He shivered and rubbed his numb arms, fighting a losing battle against the cold. Waves of exhaustion came unabated now, dulling his senses. His thoughts were sluggish, stale.
Resigned, Robin knew he wouldn't make it another mile out there. His body screamed for rest. His eyelids were leaden.
Sighing, he pushed off the ground stiffly and began rummaging about.
In the corner of the station, he happened upon a few scraps of grubby cloth and a bundle of mashed-down trash—the remnants of a vagrant's burrow leftover from the warmer months. In the late fall, drifters migrated out of the wild desert and into temperate California, for winter nights in the Mojave could be unpredictable and vicious.
Robin was learning this lesson the hard way.
He gathered as many bits of usable material as he could find and built his own nest. A torn sack labeled "CORN" served as his blanket. His mattress was made of strips of newspaper, patches of linen, and smashed plastic. He constructed his makeshift bed as far from the wind's evil influence as possible, but he could not avoid it completely.
He did not know what the future held for him. In fact, he did not know if he would have one at all after tonight. But the worries of his brain were drowned out by the complaints of his body. It would not rest until it rested, and Robin could not argue with it. He lost the will to move, to fight.
He petrified.
His fatigue was so persuasive that as soon as he curled up against the stained wall—huddling under the flimsy burlap of the vegetable sack—his eyelids fell like final curtains.
A deep darkness overtook him and he fell into a shattered slumber.