Bright Line

Chapter Seven: Rules of Inference

Robin had to pull at least four post-it notes off the DVD player before he could use it. After Terra had moved in, he'd covered it with directions, admonitions, arrows pointing to things that absolutely were not to be pressed under any circumstances. It wasn't complicated to him, obviously, but ever since Terra had almost managed to permanently damage the entire system, he had been taking precautions.

He peeled away a note that said only, "NO!" in red letters, smirking and lining it up neatly off to the side with the other reminders. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time they'd all watched a movie together. Starfire had tried a few days ago, but only managed to recruit Terra (it was more Terra's kind of movie, anyway: one of those awful things with no plot, no point and a lot of crying girls). It made him feel guilty that he hadn't joined them, though, because now what if Starfire and Terra were dead and would never watch another movie again and it was all because they needed his help and he wasn't there…

Supporting himself with the side of the television, Robin shuddered and pushed the thought away. Right. The unmarked disk. Get his mind on something else. He dropped it into the player, pressing the appropriate series of buttons. (No, don't think about the night that Terra ran into your work room crying about how the DVD player "hated her or whatever"…and you were so annoyed at the time but now that you think about it, it was kind of endearing, and why had you been so mean to her--you could have just explained it to her more clearly and…)

The screen was fuzzy at first, dark and unclear, and he thought for a moment that it was just a blank disk—or possibly just not a video, which meant that he'd have to resort to other methods of finding out what was on it. It was certainly nothing he'd ever seen before…

Except, it was, and he realized suddenly that he had seen it before, because he'd been there, and oh god he knew what this was but it didn't exist, it wasn't supposed to exist, he'd watched him destroy it... There must have… A second camera. Well, of course; how could he have been so stupid—obviously there had been a second camera, how could he not have known that… Robin blinked away the tears, furious with himself for letting shock and horror get the better of him, frantically pressing button after button, but now he couldn't remember how to get the disk out—and his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't have done it even if he did remember.

But then, something else cut through the growing hysteria—it was that and yet it wasn't, because there was something different, words that had been added, words that made him take his fingers away from the DVD player.

"You're probably just about to eject this disk, break it in your little hands, and burn the pieces. And you also knew that I knew that. But I wouldn't destroy this disk, Robin; I wouldn't do that just yet if I were you."

His voice. His voice over what was being said in the video, hard to discern when it was meshed with the original dialogue. They had been talking—thank god they were still just talking—about…something…he tried to remember. Whatever he had done to the others. Something about the limbic system. At that moment, Robin couldn't have remembered what the limbic system did to save his life.

Robin ejected the disk, hands still shaking so he almost dropped it. Nauseated, he realized that Slade was right. Slade was always right. He couldn't destroy the disk, not after that warning. And it made sense, too, of course: Slade would never send him something like that without some mechanism to make sure he watched it. Doubtless, there was information buried in the video, possibly critical information, and if he neglected to find it because he was weak and stupid and scared—then, well, the others had every right to find a new leader, because a real leader wouldn't let something so trivial stop him from doing his job.

He had to watch it. Just not out here where anyone could walk in.

For them, he had to. And besides. He deserved it. His team was fighting their greatest enemy without him, and who knew how many of them would be coming back alive. This is penance, he told himself, carefully snapping the plastic case shut and beginning the long walk to his work room.

He had to leave the light on. He'd never liked it while he was working, anyway, and he was quickly discovering that excessive light made his head hurt, but the idea of trying to watch it in the dark was too horrible. Robin sat down at his desk, turning the disk over in his hands, breathing heavily. It was worse, in some way, to have control over whether he watched it or not, and when, and how. Made it harder. Because no one would ever know if he didn't; there was no possible way they could know, so if he didn't, they'd never blame him…they'd never blame him if something happened because he didn't get this information…

But Robin would know. So he slid the disk into the computer before he had time to change his mind, immediately feeling better and worse all at once.

Then, the sick, cold realization hit him as he waited for the disk to load, the realization that went along with the tape existing but that he'd somehow managed to block out of his mind until now:

A bargain. His mask for the disk. At first, the mere suggestion had nearly sent him into hysterics, but Slade had convinced him, had told him exactly what he could do with the video…what he would do with the video. And losing the mask had been the lesser of the two evils. So he'd done it. He'd done it for nothing, and now that was on the disk, too—which was exactly what Slade wanted, obviously. And since when had Slade kept his promises? He should have known. Should have known better. But now he'd have to see it.

Of course he'd had a second camera. Of course, you idiot.

Robin decided quickly that he had to keep his eyes on the screen, because the instant he looked away he'd never look back. The room (his room…oh, god…) they were in was dim, but unfortunately not dark enough that he couldn't see. Truthfully, he didn't really know what he was looking for, but he seldom figured out a difficult problem the first time he analyzed it. And then he realized that this was just the beginning; that he'd probably have to sit here and watch it over and over before he solved whatever sick puzzle Slade wanted him to solve. Except, it wouldn't be what Slade wanted, exactly, because the alterations were deliberate and he'd never intentionally send Robin critical information—but just because it was a ploy didn't mean it was insignificant. He had to think past what Slade had embedded consciously, had to…it was hard to think when he had to watch.

"Very well. I expect that a lecture in neuroscience is in order. It's a simple matter of control, which is, of course, my area of expertise. In this case, controlling the second-order neurons in the lamina marginalis. The free nerve endings associated with this pathway are…"

"A-beta fibers, yeah, I knew that," he interrupted, trying so desperately to sound confident, to not let his terror show, to not flinch at how Slade's eyes washed over him, not with that thoughtful contemplation it used to hold but with anticipation, the kind that came only with the sure knowledge that you'd be getting exactly what you wanted exactly when you wanted it.

Slade laughed.

Even now, he cringed, not at what he knew was about to happen but at the obvious, childish mistake. He did know, and he still knew, and he'd known for years, and he didn't know why he'd said beta when it was clearly delta… He'd been trying to keep him talking, about anything, because anything would have been better than what he knew was going to happen. And maybe he'd thought at the time that if they could just talk long enough, it would give him time to think of something, to think of anything… Robin bit his lip until the metallic taste of blood pulled him back to the present, back to being an objective observer. Stop it. Slade's reaction to that was important.

"…ventrobasal complex of the thalamus. That component was marginally complicated, but is overcome with little difficulty when…"

He didn't hear the rest of that, because he started coughing again. Wondering how long he was going to be a slave to this illness, Robin forced himself to scan back to the beginning of Slade's sentence. That part wasn't altered, and explaining how he'd done it…Robin didn't really think he would try it again, but he had to be ready all the same. He'd have to write up a report on that—could do it when he watched the disk again. A sickness that had nothing to do with the flu threatened to consume him at the thought of watching it again, and he shoved it angrily to the back of his mind.

"Interesting. Perhaps you'd care to explain your reasoning, because either you are vastly incorrect or this is some new branch of biology that I am unaware of."

He cringed visibly, stepping away with each word until he was against the wall and couldn't go any further. "…delta fibers don't have anything to do with pain…the signal starts in the peripheral nerve and ipsilaterally travels up the dorsal column and…umm…something about the medial lemniscus…Slade, please!" The tone was desperate, panicked, and not at all like his own.

"I'm disappointed, Robin. I thought you had a fraction more common sense than that. Delta fibers have everything to do with pain—coincidentally, they have been the focus of my study with your little friends. I did hope that you would appreciate my findings, but it seems as if, once again, you've failed to analyze the situation properly. One can't help but wonder if your friends would not be in such grave danger if you were just marginally brighter." Slade sighed and cupped Robin's cheek in his palm. "But since you are obviously unable to hold up your end of an intellectual discussion, let's move on to something more within your capabilities. Your clothes, please. Off."

Some image, superimposed on the entirety of the screen for little more than a second: a map, with a legend he didn't recognize. He could pause it, obviously, and he had several methods of making the figure clearer. Who knew what it was. Likely had nothing to do with anything Slade was planning. But maybe he could beat him at his own game; he had to.

"I knew that—it's delta, of course it's delta…I knew that—"

"I'm sure you did, Robin. Now, are you going to take them off or do you need assistance with that, as well?"

It had been hard to fight the compulsion to fight, to protest, to do something other than just…just do whatever he wanted…like some kind of whore… It had been hard not to argue, to try to convince Slade that he did know—but he managed, because it didn't actually matter. It wasn't about whether he knew, knowing wouldn't make Slade stop. The foolish mistake hadn't stopped anything that wasn't stopping soon anyway; Slade had been wearying of the game, and it had just been a convenient opportunity to move on. But, god, it would have been so much easier if he could have fought back; even if he'd done it anyway, it still would have been easier… But Slade had made him be compliant, said that was part of the deal…no, stop it, stop it, stop thinking about it like that—Robin swallowed another fit of coughing.

"That's quite alright; you don't have to. Who should I kill first, do you think? The happy one with the pretty, red hair? You like her, don't you? Do you think we should bury them after they're dead, Robin? Personally, I wouldn't be bothered; perhaps we should just incinerate them…I'll let you be the one to do it, I think…"

"No!—okay, okay, I'll do it—just don't hurt them, please just don't hurt them…" His voice broke.

Slade ran his fingers through Robin's hair. "I'd never dream of it. And if you do well, I can stop forcing you to make all of these difficult decisions, Robin. As soon as you show me that you belong to me, all the tests can end. Only you can decide whether to do that, or when."

Having to watch the rest was almost worse than actually being there. Because at least then he'd been able to pretend it wasn't happening, to shut down and stop thinking, stop existing, convince himself that it wasn't real. And it had worked, a little, had made it easier until afterwards when the illusion wouldn't hold together anymore. But now, he had to think about it—because there wasn't any point in watching if he didn't; he had to dissect it and somehow force his brain to work so he could figure out whatever information Slade had given him.

He cringed away from seeing his eyes, looking straight at the camera for one moment with all the weakness and horror that no one was ever supposed to see. Robin had stopped looking in mirrors without the mask after all of this. Every time he did, it brought him back… It was like that space underneath the shower drain: you didn't go down there, you just didn't; you weren't supposed to see what was down there because it was impossible and wrong and depraved and immoral and…

"Stop it-- please-- just stop..."

Robin flinched at the pleading, knowing the answer-- but he'd known the answer even then.

"You know how to make it stop, Robin." The hand caressing his thigh paused slightly as Slade waited for his response, offering to end it all, to let him go.

He bit his lip, not daring to open his mouth for fear of giving in, of trading innocent lives for his worthless body. The mockery of having a choice was agonizing, an added torture to the whole situation.

Slade waited, then chuckled low in his throat and took Robin's face in his hands, staring into his eyes, his own holding some amusement but mostly triumph. "Just remember that you have all the control," he murmured, tone suggesting that the sooner Robin got used to the idea that he belonged to Slade, the sooner his misery could end. He touched one finger to the corner of Robin's eye and drew it back enough that they could both see the silvery droplet suspended from it. "It's your choice."

Then, thankfully, he heard the first clue, the thing he'd been waiting for all along, weaved into the original audio like Slade's warning at the beginning of the tape. He had to listen to the relevant section several times before he got it all, but once he did, it left him feeling sicker than anything he could have been forced to relive.

"I do hope you are enjoying my gift to you, Robin. Yes, unfortunately, our… arrangement did not transpire quite as I'd intended—as you well know. I wanted to assure you, however, that you need not concern yourself overmuch with thoughts of my loneliness. You might be interested to know that I have selected a…replacement, of sorts. Of course, I do miss you terribly…but there's no shame in the silver medal, now is there?"

Drawing in a breath with difficulty, he gripped the desk with his hands to stop them from shaking. He knew it. Knew there would be something like this. And maybe Slade was lying, but he couldn't take that chance, because he'd rather…he'd rather go back to…he'd do it again, anyway, a million times over, if the other option was to have it happen to someone else. He was already filthy, spoiled—he couldn't let that happen to anyone else, he couldn't. Robin didn't want to think about it just yet, but already the words were sinking in as he tried to figure out who Slade might have been talking about. Angrily, he shoved away the pleading voice that just wanted it to be anyone but his friends: it didn't matter who it was; it was equally bad whether it was someone he knew or not.

He couldn't even think of where to start. Slade had access to more information than Robin had ever seen in his life; it could be anyone. The only possible lead was the disk. There had to be something there that would help him. Something Slade didn't intend for him to find. Or maybe he did; maybe he wanted a fight and was idiotic enough to think that Robin wouldn't be able to handle it (unless he really couldn't handle it…oh god, what if he…not again, not again, please not again…).

No question about it. This had to be taken as a serious threat until he had proved otherwise. Had to be, and it didn't matter how much he couldn't bear to watch it—because he had to watch it. It was his fault that he had to watch it, anyway; if he hadn't been so stupid… Robin sneezed. Three times. It was getting hard to sit up straight.

That's when he heard the voices, muffled from behind the heavy door but getting louder. Before he could be properly horrified about the idea of being discovered, a flood of intense relief hit him, because he knew those voices like he knew his own and they were very much alive. No thanks to him. He still put them in danger. They were good enough to survive by some miracle, but that didn't excuse him for forcing them into the situation in the first place.

But then the panic took over, and he was frantically closing the video player and trying to get the disk out of the computer before anyone decided to see if he was in his work room. He hadn't thought far enough to have a plan for where he would keep the disk, so he snapped the case shut and shoved it in the middle of the upright row of disks that lined the back edge of his desk. It still wasn't labeled, and Robin had to squash an irrational urge to write something on it so at least it would fit. He didn't have time for that; he'd worry about that later.

"I have already looked and am distressed to report that he is not in his room."

"That kid…oh, he's in trouble…thanks, Star. I'm going to do the infirmary thing—Terra'll get upset if we leave her in there by herself for any longer." A heavy fist knocked repeatedly against the door. "Hey, Robin, if you're in there, you're not being cute, okay?"

Robin forced his voice to remain calm as he stood up and walked over toward the door. "Yeah, I'm here—is everyone alright?" They didn't know what he'd been doing. They weren't going to know, and besides, their safety was exponentially more important than his reputation, anyway…and why was Terra in the infirmary and oh god…

The door slid open and Cyborg looked down at him, shaking his head. "Robin, why are you awake?" Cyborg looked tired. Drained. He was standing next to Starfire, who had dirt all over her face and was holding a towel to her nose. They were the only two in the hallway. And yes, he'd mentioned Terra before, but what if she was in the infirmary, mortally wounded… Leaving her alone? But if Cyborg and Starfire were here and Terra was alone in the infirmary—oh god.

What if they were the only two alive? What have I done? I deserve worse, so much worse than that stupid video: Beast Boy and Raven and Terra, it's all my fault, I killed them, I killed them…

"Is…" The rest of the sentence broke off into a fit of coughing. "…are they…did they…?" He couldn't say it. Couldn't say it for more reasons than the coughing. Just that much more proof of how much he'd failed; he couldn't even own up to his own mistakes.

Cyborg anticipated the question that he didn't want to ask (and yet had to). "Christ, Robin. No, they're not dead. You need to sleep."

"I did sleep!" He felt himself start to lose his balance and grabbed one side of the doorway, having trouble breathing. "Then where's everyone else if they're alright? You have to tell me what happened and I'm not just going to—"

"Robin, if you don't let me end this conversation and take care of Raven and Beast Boy, then they will be in trouble. They're in the infirmary, which is where I'm going—and no, it's not serious, but I do need to be in there right now." He sighed. "See if you can talk some sense into him, Star."

Unfortunately, Starfire seemed to agree that this was a good idea, and promptly got between Robin and Cyborg's retreating form. She grinned. It was stretched, forced, highlighted by the towel in the middle of her face, and Robin didn't believe it any more than she did. "Friend, I believe that it would be most beneficial if you did not concern yourself with Raven and Beast Boy at this time. As you know, Cyborg is most capable in these matters."

"What about Terra?" The tightness in his chest returned.

"She is quite undamaged; she remained in the infirmary to offer...encouragement to friend Beast Boy," said Starfire. Her green eyes narrowed, losing their humor as she seemed to think very hard about the next words to say.

"Starfire, what happened to your nose?"

"It is nothing—please do not worry." Cautiously removing the towel from her nose, she took a deep breath and continued slowly. "Robin, sometimes I feel that you exert yourself…in excess. This…concerns me."

He stared at her, not really listening. Starfire was everybody's friend—she was good and clean and would never hurt anyone. What if Slade wasn't bluffing? What if he's trying to get someone else…and it's her? What if it's Beast Boy? He's so innocent…it's not right. Not fair. They don't deserve this. None of them do.

Robin had to stop it. He had no choice. He'd failed so much…but he wouldn't fail, not this time.

Without warning, he sidestepped Starfire and ignored whatever she was saying, trying not to think about what a good friend she was to be concerned and how he didn't deserve it. First order of business—find out for himself if the others were alright. He'd never believe it until he saw them. And then. And then he would—

Then he'd go back to his work room and watch that tape until he was sure that everyone was safe from his mistake.