"It feels good to know you're mine. Now drive me far away. I don't care where just far."
Twenty Minutes Later
Slade's steps were sighs of shadow. Each stride was the epitome of lethal grace, a predator stalking. The moonlight above reflected off the copper side of his mask, throwing off faint, bronzed rays of light—the only witness to his presence.
Gusts of dirt-saturated wind danced around his legs as he walked calmly toward a rundown gas station. His eye flicked down. The boot-prints he followed were faint, almost completely obliterated by mischievous whirlpools of wind.
Slade frowned. His apprentice was beyond fortunate that the elements of nature were on his side.
The wind ensured a tangled scent; the dogs would be chasing their tails until the air stilled. Their Area 59 masters would be even more helpless. They did not possess the strength of mind and body to track and re-capture the elusive boy wonder in this kind of weather. The Teen Titans posed more of problem; however, they were nowhere to be seen.
By some stroke of impossible luck, Robin had managed to evade his former friends.
Yet, Robin's skill did not bring a smirk of pride to Slade's hidden face. A glare was burrowed deep in his brow. His eye sparkled with maddened malice. His black-gloved hands curled into fists and the leather crackled, popped.
Good fortune or not, Robin had some explaining to do. He had disobeyed a direct order and failed to achieve the mission's objective. It would take months to clean up his mess; Slade's plans had suffered a major setback. Robin's ability to stick the landing did not excuse his miserable performance.
Slade's skin began to tingle with a renewed rush of barely restrained fury as he stepped through the gas station's open doorway. Disgusted, his apprentice had not even deigned to booby-trap his temporary shelter. Robin lay exposed, unprotected, where anyone could find him.
His escape was not just lucky, it was an act of downright divine intervention; if his adversaries had possessed any wit, Robin wouldn't have lasted the night out here. He would have been found, captured…stolen.
Slade's jaw clenched. A vein bugged out along the side of his neck, bulging and throbbing. His indigo eye flashed in warning and his pupil contracted and smoldered like a blistering coal. The muscles in his biceps and back coiled.
The boy belonged to him; Robin was his property. He had not spent two months of training and torture and social engineering to see his greatest triumph fall into enemy hands. He would slaughter anyone who dared to rob him of his prize.
No one would take what was rightfully Slade's.
Angered that Robin had put himself in such a weak position—and after a failed mission no less!—Slade slithered up to the corner where his apprentice lay sleeping, blissfully unaware, planning to beat the boy into oblivion for his foolishness.
He stood over his apprentice like a gargoyle, assessing Robin's pathetic state with a critical eye.
Robin was nestled in a pile of trash with a farmer's burlap sack serving as a blanket. He was curled into an impossibly tight ball, a testament to his extreme flexibility. Still, his gymnast body was not completely covered by the vegetable sack. His characteristic, midnight hair was tangled in a mesh of plastic rings and the soles of his boots poked out from under the burlap.
Slade had to give the kid credit. Robin had camouflaged himself rather well. To the untrained eye, he would appear to be just another piece of rubbish—a lumpy bag amidst a pile of garbage. Slade lowered to the ground and pulled back the "blanket" just enough to see his apprentice face. Robin flinched away from the sudden rush of cold but did not awaken.
He was knocked out.
Slade narrowed his eye, unsure whether to be impressed that Robin had managed to run over thirty miles to the rendezvous without getting caught or enraged that his apprentice had been too weak to hijack his way back to Jump City. There were several trucks just begging to be stolen in the nearby town. If Robin had not trusted himself to drive, Slade was sure that a Good Samaritan would have stopped for a battered, semi-conscious boy on the side of the highway.
Then again, such actions could have brought other complications.
Robin suddenly gave a great sleepy exhale, snapping Slade out of his deliberations. He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Leaning forward, he flung back the rest of the burlap blanket mercilessly. The boy gave an unhappy shiver and mumble, but his eyes were welded shut. Within seconds, his expression smoothed out and he drifted back into leaden slumber.
Under the mask, Slade raised a brow.
Robin looked like he had gone several rounds with a mountain.
He was covered in dirt, painted in bruises, and splattered with rust-colored blood. There was a jagged tear in his uniform that ran from the right side of his back, over his shoulder, and down his side. His entire upper arm and part of his torso were exposed; the black sleeve hung by a thread.
The pallid, bruise-battered skin of his chest was stretched to breaking point over his ribs and clavicle. Angry red burns peeked from beneath his steel collar, buried in filth. A gash marked his temple and was accompanied by a tender, purple-black entourage. His destroyed mask stuck to his face by sheer will alone.
Robin was tapped, that much was clear. Dragging him back to Jump City, stumbling and staggering, would only slow them down.
Slade gave a throaty snarl of annoyance. The tribulation Robin had endured getting here would have to suffice as punishment for now. Slade very well couldn't make Robin see the error of his ways until the boy opened his eyes.
Frowning, Slade put aside his righteous wrath. Once Robin was safely secured back in the haunt, Slade would have decades, an entire lifetime, to re-educate his young apprentice.
The worst had yet to come for Richard Grayson.
Mildly placated, Slade re-covered Robin in the burlap sack and picked the swaddled boy up like a new father. Robin's black-feathered head leaned against Slade's chest while his reedy legs dangled—cradled.
He was light; the kid couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds.
Sensing movement, Robin stirred. The comatose boy muttered a few unintelligible quips before succumbing once more to darkness. He then buried his forehead into Slade's shoulder, seeking warmth. The villain sighed, partly irritated and partly amused.
"Lucky bird," Slade muttered as he turned and walked toward the door. "You've just been granted a stay of execution."
A Few Hours Later
Eyelids fluttering, Robin's return to the waking world was not what he expected.
The rumble of an engine thrummed through him. The whirr of tires rushing across silky, newly paved asphalt hummed a greeting. His view was no longer the unseemly sight of a stained, decrepit gas station floor but that of a spotless car interior. Streetlights danced across the windshield, flashed across his dazed face, and illuminated the front seat of a massive pickup truck.
Robin was curled like a cat in the passenger seat.
His mask had been stripped from his face. His arms were wrapped around his knees while his head was tucked against his chest. Drool dribbled down his chin and his eyes were crusted over with sand; his eyelashes stuck together. Gaining consciousness, his senses jolted back to life in painful resurrection.
An involuntary gasp spilled from his split lip.
"Ow…"
His entire body throbbed like a second, agonizing heartbeat. Sleeping in an awkward position had not helped. His sore shoulders were stiff and his neck was a lump of petrified wood. Nostrils flared, he straightened in his seat and was rewarded with a few satisfying crackles of his spine.
He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck and froze as realization smacked into him like a belated bullet. His now-unmasked eyes darted to the side.
Sure enough, there was Slade…driving.
Unlike Robin, the villain appeared utterly unfazed. He had one hand on the steering wheel while the other elbow leaned casually upon an arm rest. An impressive, surround-sound stereo pumped out soft, ambiguous beats. A temperate breeze filtered out from the air-vents.
It was still dark outside; the sun remained buried beneath the horizon. The headlights of Slade's tank-like truck cut through the oppressive night like twin blades. The black of Slade's uniform blended into the dark; the steel guards on his forearms, shoulders, legs, and neck appeared to be disembodied, floating in a pool of shadow.
The car passed by a particularly bright neon billboard and Slade's form was fully illuminated—revealed for all to see like a magic trick. Bright blues, purples, greens and reds fought for dominance, painting him in a kaleidoscope of fluorescent color. The metal he wore glittered like a sky full of multicolored stars as the entire front seat was bathed in a brief, brilliant moment of vibrant radiance. As the truck continued its mad, 100-mph pace, the master and apprentice sunk quickly back into the molasses-thick darkness. Red spots clung stubbornly to Robin's sight as night embraced him once more.
His naked brow crumpled in bemused confusion. Was he still dreaming? He gave his leg a pinch. The ensuing sting answered with a clear negative.
Swallowing thickly, he unfurled his limbs and readjusted in his seat. The brush of his body against the leather sounded like a ricocheting boom in the intense quiet of the car. Slade's head twitched to the side. His eye pierced through the dark. The force of it smashed into Robin's head like an arrow to the temple.
He stiffened, hardly daring to breathe.
Slade didn't have to say a word. His glare easily communicated his repulsed disappointment. He would neither forget nor forgive Robin's blatant defeat at the hands of the Titans. Robin supposed he should be lucky that he wasn't presently hogtied and gagged on the roof of the truck.
Slade's eye narrowed into a slit of black fire that left Robin trembling before he returned his blazing gaze to the road.
Released from Slade's spellbinding stare, Robin breathed a noiseless sigh of relief. His teeth picked at the scabs on his cut lip as fresh fear bloomed inside. If he had any self-preservation left, he would leap through the window and take his chances with road rash. Having his skin ripped off couldn't be much worse than what Slade had in store for him.
Then again, being skinless probably wouldn't be enough to earn Robin mercy. Only death could stay Slade's torturous hand...if that.
Shuddering, Robin took to studying his surroundings, desperate for distraction.
The hood of the truck was a glossy black, the windows were heavily tinted, and the seats were made of crisp, black leather. He stole a glance over his shoulder. The back seat was equally flawless and vacant of life. The car was almost too pristine. Robin couldn't find a scuff on the leather, a scratch on the carbon dashboard, a stain on the carpeted floor, or a fingerprint on the steering wheel. Robin became very conscious of his filth—his seat was covered in dirt and flakes of dried blood.
The interior didn't feel lived in and yet the unmistakable musk of Slade was imprinted into it—a sickly sweet aroma that tickled the nose and raised the hair on the back of his neck. It was akin to cologne mixed with bleach or the antiseptic, anesthetic stench of a surgeon's operating room: cold, clean, callous.
In that regard, the truck was a perfect representation of the man who supposedly owned it.
"Go back to sleep, apprentice," Slade ordered suddenly, making Robin jump out of his skin. "After all..."
His eerie, high-tenor was as smooth and deadly as spider's silk. Neither the steering wheel nor the car budged a millimeter as Slade twisted around to glower at Robin.
"...you'll need it," he hissed.
Robin's blood froze. A tremor spread from the backs of his heels to the crown of his head.
Slade's eye flashed like a black diamond. The bronze of his mask radiated dimly, fighting back the shadows.
The temperature seemed to plunge and dwindle into single digits. A shiver electrified Robin's spine. His mouth went dry. His lips and fingers numbed.
"Yes-s, m-master," he stuttered, bowing his head submissively.
He didn't have to be told twice. The tang of sleep hadn't left his body yet, anyway.
With Slade watching like a hawk, Robin lifted his spongy legs from the floor and crossed them, Buddha style. He let his shoulders and arms sag, dangle into his lap. He then leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. The tickle of lukewarm air hit his chest, caressing bare skin.
The sensation surprised him and he slowly lifted his hand and let curious fingers hover over the gaping rip in his uniform. His right sleeve was almost completely severed, revealing his entire shoulder and a considerable section of his upper torso. The throbbing sting of scalded, oozing blisters greeted his roaming touch. The trail of burns ran from his collarbone to his hips—Starfire's doing, no doubt.
A frown pulled at his lips as he remembered the interrogation room incident. The whole thing seemed like a strange dream.
Raven truly didn't seem to give a damn about him while Starfire...
He licked his lips.
She had never been so transparent, so passionate. The influence she had over him was disturbing to say the least. He hadn't been expecting that.
A rush of blush raced into his pallid cheeks. His blood became heated and gushed like white-river currents under his skin. A vicious, ancient hunger bellowed a deafening roar within him. God, he wanted her.
The imprint of her perfume was carved into his mind; the overpowering sparkle of her eyes called to him like a siren's song. And the way her flaming mane of scarlet hair tickled the curves of her hips...
He chomped his canines and stifled the desirous growl that threatened to rip out of his chest.
They were just playing good cop, bad cop. Robin told himself, trying to clear the lump that had formed in his throat. It wasn't real.
Still, something nagged him about the entire exchange. It wasn't just Raven's well-acted apathy or Starfire's seduction that made him suspicious.
The ardor of his passions subsided, replaced by cooled calculation.
He had expected, counted on, a fight with the Titans after blowing the interrogation room to smithereens. Yet, they never came. They hadn't even tried to catch him.
What's more, they never checked him for weapons beforehand, a rookie mistake, and had placed him in one of the most vulnerable areas of the entire complex. Then there was the mysterious matter of his restraints unlocking by themselves...
It was almost as if the Titans had wanted him to escape. But that couldn't be right, he thought. His former friends would rather die than let Robin fall back into Slade's hands, right? That's why they kept trying to get through to him, why Starfire had attempted—in vain—to coax him back into the fold, and why Raven had tried again and again to burrow into his mind.
His escape had been a rare moment of good luck, that's all. Who knows, maybe Slade had orchestrated the whole thing.
Robin's fingers massaged his exposed collarbone absentmindedly.
Whatever the reason for his miraculous escape, it wasn't like it made any difference now. The master and apprentice had been reunited. Robin was back in his cage, safe and sound. Why should he care about the plan that the Titans had up their sleeve, if they had one at all? He shouldn't worry himself, shouldn't kid himself. His former team's naive hope would soon fail them. Of this, he had no doubt.
The Teen Titans would have to learn, just as he did, that no one could stop Slade.
Emphasizing that point, Robin gave a great, feline-like yawn. Apathy won out over curiosity; his mind went blank. Unseen weights blanketed his body, dragging him back down into dreamy waters.
He slumped in his seat and drifted into darkness, utterly convinced of Slade's invincibility.