(Hr)

Chapter Two: A Vernal Kingdom

(Hr)

1

June 1, 2001

Titans Tower --- The Computer Room, 02:14

Robin sat at one of the smaller consoles connected to the Tower's central computer. On the screen before him scrolled results for his search of "Logan, Garfield Mark."

Google had pulled up old newspaper articles about the deaths of his parents. It also pulled up the patient lists of several mental institutions.

—I admit that Garfield is a troubled boy. But I think the Titans will be the perfect place for him.

—Whatever you say, Supes. What kind of addition will he make to the team?

Thanks to confidentiality laws, the institutions didn't mention why they treated Logan. They listed only his name, date of birth, date of entry, and his assigned room.

Robin sighed. He could easily hack the institutions, but...

Well, Superman would have told him if Logan posed a threat, wouldn't he? Besides, if Batman found out that he had gone behind a League member's back, Batman would pull him off the team in no time flat.

The mere fact that Logan had been in several mental institutions, one of which had no discharge date listed, didn't bode well at all.

He stopped his fingers just above the keyboard when he heard it.

Footsteps.

The door hissed open behind him. The person entered the room.

He refused to turn around. Instead, he logged into the security system and checked the cameras.

Everything looked normal, except for the lack of certain a redhead in Starfire's room.

"Robin, you have awakened especially early this morning."

He sighed. "Stress or worry exacerbate my insomnia. Is there something you need?"

Starfire smiled, reaching out to touch his cheek. "I require only you."

He smiled back, pulled her closer to him. He brushed his lips up against hers.

She responded in much the same way, deepening the kiss and making small noises in the back of her throat.

Clothing came off, and, in the darkness of the computer room, they touched each other.


Titan Tower --- The Kitchen, 08:15

"So, you're a vegetarian, right?" Cyborg asked.

Raven stared at her prophecy tea again, determined to ignore the conversations around her.

"Yeah. I'm a vegan, actually. I don't eat animal products of any kind. Meat, eggs, dairy— can't eat any of them."

"What kind of additions are we going to need to make to our grocery list, here?"

"Well, let me take a look at your fridge."

It wasn't working. She could still smell the sex on Robin and Starfire. Maybe her nose was sensitive.

Maybe she was right and neither of them had showered afterwards.

It disgusted her. Not just the general grossness of not showering after you got sweaty and exchanged bodily fluids, but the hypocrisy of Robin lauding the Titans' professionalism... When he was screwing one of his teammates.

Maybe, just maybe, she was a little jealous.

She quashed whatever emotion she was feeling— put it all in a little ball that she imagined pushing down, down, down, throughout her body, down through her stomach, into her legs, to her feet, then out through her toes and into the ground, where it couldn't hurt her.

Relaxation techniques. Handy tools Azar had taught her, when confronted with the fact that emotion was the nature of a sentient, organic being.

—When you name an emotion, you give it power. You show it that you are willing to grant it a foothold in your heart, and it takes that foothold. It takes that foothold and then you are feeling all kinds of things, and Trigon will dominate you.

"Raven, is everything all right?" Robin placed his hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged it off. "Everything's fine."

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't a lie because everything was just as it normally was.

She wasn't a liar because she hadn't said I'm fine.

"Are you sure?"

Look around, she wanted to say. Does everything look fine to you?

She wanted to scream that something bad was going to happen, that she could taste it with every breath.

She didn't. Instead, she nodded and tried, desperately, to see the future.

But the only vision she had was of a sunrise over the harbor, viewed from the Tower's living room.


June 1, 2001

Jump City --- Streets, time later estimated to be between 20:00 and 23:00

Her heartbeat races through her ears, now. It pounds in her temple, in her breast. If she were to put a hand between her breasts, she would feel it. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP, like her kid brother bouncing his legs or tapping her pencil.

Briefly, she considers just stopping in somebody's apartment building, but nobody would believe her. They'd call the cops and she'd get arrested for trespassing. Her parole would go straight down the tubes. So much for winning back custody of Aaron.

When she was young, she played hide and seek. Sometimes she played tag. She never much liked tag. Too much running for her. Especially when you play the way her brother loved to: without a base.

She is running now. Earlier, she was walking quickly, refusing to give ground and look scared. Such concerns no longer concern her, now.

Now, she runs, with all the mad abandon and huffing and puffing and aching lungs that she didn't have as a child playing tag.

This isn't a game, though. This is what you might, if you were a long-winded person, call a life and death situation.

You might, if you were the type long-winded people called "frank" and the true frank people called "a jackass," say that a maniac was hunting her down.

Neither, however, is the case. Because the thing chasing her cannot possibly be human, and is therefore not a maniac. And she isn't going to die, either, because she's taken judo and kickboxing and knows Hell's Kitchen like the back of her hand.

The problem with that simile, she realizes, as she trips over a speed bump she'd forgotten was there, is how often do you look at the back of your hand? And how often do you remember what the back of your hand looks like during high stress situations? Could you, if you had to, draw a picture of it without looking at it?

The thing chasing her does not catch up to her someplace dramatic, like a dead end, because she doesn't go into any dead ends, or ironic, like a few steps from her door, because she doesn't even get close to her apartment building.

That is not to say it doesn't catch up— she stops to rest, to breathe, behind a convenience store. And as she bends over, chest heaving, she sees it.

It pounces, massive paws knocking into her shoulders, pushing her onto her back.

And instead of lowering those vicious fangs to her neck, it licks her forehead.

Almost as if it's saying, "tag."

She screams.


Teaser added today instead of tomorrow because I'm headed out of town tomorrow.