(Sigh of exasperation.) I really hate myself for dragging this story's updates out for so long! You all must be extremely ticked at me…The unfortunate thing is, I actually did update, and added a brand new chapter—but at the same time, I deleted the Author's Note (which, looking back, was a big waste of posting time), so it was back to five chapters, and nobody, aside from three people actually reviewed. I blame myself. I am soooo sorry. New chapter has finally arrived, and I hope it turns out well! By the way…Insanity 101: (Giggles like the air-headed fan girl I am) I know what you mean. Christian Bale is really hot, and a very good actor! (Amazingly enough, he's almost as hot and talented as Johnny Depp on my scale, and that's really saying something.)

Chapter Five: Eye for an Eye

Robin-

WHAM!

"Hey, you punk, watch it!"

"What's your problem, kid?"

WHAM!

"Yo, dude, where's the fire?"

"Who keeps slamming the doors!"

As far as the other residents of the apartment building knew, all the noise was being caused by some kid who was flinging open doors in his way as he hurtled up the staircase to his own lodgings. They figured that it was just some irritating trouble-maker who was trying his best to disrupt their lives; teenagers—what was one to do about them?

They have no idea, Robin thought, brain working itself into a blazing, feverish state. He scaled the last set of stairs and halted before his room, where he busied himself with opening the door; the task, however, was much harder than usual—his hands were shaking so hard, he couldn't fit the key into the lock, but rather kept scraping the handle up.

The robot's empty gaze was fixated on him, and it kept handing him the apprentice mask over and over again; as if it was a scene from a movie, and the audience kept hitting the rewind button and replaying the horrific event—

Robin became distantly aware that he was no longer trying to put his key into the door handle, but instead stabbing it violently.

—Slade knows where you are, he knows who you are, he'll find you, he'll catch you, and he's coming to get you

"NO!" He screamed out loud, and, twisting viciously, Robin flung open the door with a bang and stumbled into his temporary home; he kept spinning around in wild, chaotic circles; as though he were an animal.

What was he doing? Why had he stopped running? He had to get out—now, now, NOW!

Robin gave a strangled sort of cry and flew at the door. He hurled it shut, locked it, dead-bolted it…and then, half-leaning and half-sagging on the cool wood, the Boy Wonder sank to the floor, curling up in a ball.

What was he going to do…?

It seemed as if all the old wounds of the summer were being reopened once again, with a white-hot blade; Robin had no clue where Slade could be right now…the man could be lurking on any shadowy street corner, or slinking towards the entrance of the apartment building, or gazing up through one of the open windows—

Damn, the windows! He'd nearly forgotten!

Robin heaved himself to his feet and yanked each window closed, ripping the curtains—the fabric now seemed too thin, as if it would barely assist him in concealing his location—over the panes.

"What now?" He wondered aloud. He was standing in the center of his living space; he was still panting heavily from his flight home and his climb up the stairs; sweat beaded his pale forehead, and locks of ebony hair clung to his scalp. Robin's heart was pounding like a bass drum, each beat causing his breath to hitch; each beat slamming in his ear drums. His chest was racked with severe pain, and he had a stitch in his side.

Robin almost felt as if he'd just been through with a particularly bad brawl with—

STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM!

What to do, what to do? Robin was pacing in a tight circle, trying to calm himself down so he could think logically.

He could telephone the cops—

Yeah. Right. I can see it now: "Help me, save me, I'm actually a superhero in disguise, and my old arch nemesis has come back to haunt me." That'll go over real well…

Did he have anything that could be a good weapon—should worst come to worst, Robin didn't want to be utterly defenseless. The boy scanned the room; there was nothing much to fight with, aside from the fireplace utensils.

Maybe he could phone Bruce—?

At once, Robin felt a rush of regret flare up inside him. He wasn't quite that eager to call his old mentor up and tell him what had just taken place…

Besides, the young man added bitterly, Bats was probably busy. After all: "Duty calls."

Robin took a deep inhale and crossed over to the couch, wrapping his arms around his skinny legs.

As far as he was concerned, nothing had ever happened.

Nothing ever happened…

That's all he had to tell himself. Even now, the whole thing seemed like a distant memory…perhaps it hadn't occurred.

Nothing ever happened…

Maybe it would all go away. It was a childish wish, but it could work…maybe it would all go away…

Nothing ever happened…

…Maybe…he hoped.

Oh, gosh, did he hope…

-----------------------

"Jeez, have you seen the couple at table eleven?"

"Ugh! That man is so rude. When he was ordering his food, I asked him a couple of simple questions: How he would like this cooked, how he wanted his drinks mixed…Normal stuff, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Eventually, 'cuz he's getting more and more annoyed by the minute, he snaps at me, and tells me to 'stop twittering,' shut up, and just get the food! What an ass!"

"That's nothing—when they were at the bar, I brought that chick so many drinks…apparently, the bill was on him; but when he finally paid up, I stood there, kind of waiting for a tip…then he looks at me and asks me if I get paid for standing around, drooling like an incompetent moron!"

"I think he must have said something really rude to Sam. After she led them to their table, he seemed to say something to her, and she looked really upset. I think she's still up front, since the other hostess doesn't come to take her place until eight…but I just know she wants to run off and cry."

"You know, that woman doesn't even look like she likes him either…come to think of it, they seem to both hate each other…"

Whispers of gossip fluttered between the employees with a speed that even Wintergreen himself had not predicted; somewhere, in the more reasonable part of his mind perhaps, he knew he shouldn't be so crude, at the risk of drawing more attention to himself than was necessary…but he also couldn't stand being around Watson, and his hatred obviously had gotten the better of his judgment.

"Would you mind hurrying up and ordering something?" He hissed between gritted teeth, voice feigning politeness. Amelia curled her upper lip with disdain, but otherwise showed no signs of hearing his words and buried her nose deeper into the menu. Wintergreen resisted the painful urge to lean over and drive his fist into her nose, and instead sank back into the velvet cushions of the booth where they were seated; he satisfied himself with shooting poisonous looks at the workers of the restaurant, and silently criticizing the overdressed, wealthy occupants that were dining there that evening.

The nervous, mousy-looking waitress that he'd snarled at earlier returned (for what seemed to be the fifth time that night, Wintergreen thought unhappily), and cleared her throat.

"Are you ready to order now?" She asked them in what she must have believed was a disgusted, haughty manner (although with her breathy, girlish little voice, she hardly achieved the edge in her voice that she had been aiming for). Wintergreen shrugged carelessly and glanced over at Amelia—who, he was thrilled to see, had finally seemed like she'd made a decision.

"Fish."

William could have throttled her.

"Any particular kind?"

"Tuna. Plain tuna. Bottle of beer to drink with it."

The waitress raised her thin, penciled eyebrows, but nodded compliantly and turned to face Wintergreen.

"Another glass of white wine is fine."

"B—but—?"

"If I wanted something to eat," Wintergreen said in a soft voice, "I would have ordered it just now, no?"

The girl blinked, and then scribbled down a few words on her notepad and scurried off. William shot a look of loathing at her retreating back.

Silence reigned once again at the table, the pair seated there contented with pretending the other had simply ceased to exist. Light, classical music tinkled from cheap speakers above their heads.

Beethoven, William noticed absently, despite the pitiful sound systems that were installed. He had to admit, he was keen on the idea of ignoring Watson all the way through dinner…but that wasn't why he'd been sent by Slade to attend this little meeting. Plus, the soldier would know that William was lying to him, from the blank, empty static that would come from the recorder taped to the staff sergeant's chest.

Wintergreen took a deep breath.

"Anything happen at the highschool today?"

Amelia, chugging down the remains of a bottle of beer from earlier, paused in mid-gulp and shot him a nasty look.

"Yes, I suppose so," she grumbled under her breath, and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her coat. Wintergreen closed his eyes to avoid watching the lack of etiquette that was being displayed before him.

It was quiet for a minute or two.

"Are you waiting for an invitation, or do you honestly have no idea what I'm waiting for?" Wintergreen growled unpleasantly. Amelia responded with a loud belch that made diners nearby turn and stare unbelievingly at her, as though she had stood up and swore at the top of her lungs. She merely grinned, and waved back at them; Wintergreen closed his eyes again. He was starting to get the impression that she was doing all she could to publicly embarrass him—and acting coarsely at a five-star restaurant was an excellent place to start.

"Well…" She drew the word out. "I think I found your boy."

Any chances of William cutting her off with a snide comment evaporated entirely from his mind.

"Are you quite serious?" He demanded, but in hushed tones. Amelia smirked impishly for a moment, and then nodded.

"Yes. He looked exactly like the picture you gave me…" She paused, uncertainly. "Black, spiky hair…and these kind of…" Watson broke off and pondered for a little bit. "…These kind of…brilliant blue eyes—the kind where, when they stare at you, you feel…odd," she finished lamely. Wintergreen began to feel much more relaxed now.

"Yes. Yes, that's him. You didn't happen to get any of his books, or personal belongings or anything, did you?"

For an answer, Watson withdrew a grocery bag from beneath the table; it contained a few library books, a pair of pitch black sunglasses, and a notebook for Science. William had noticed her carrying it earlier, but hadn't taken the time to wonder what it might be holding. He picked up every object, weathered palms handling the young man's possessions with intense care; Amelia watched him as he did so, and presently Wintergreen became aware that she was chewing incessantly on her bottom lip.

"Something troubling you?" He questioned dryly, returning the boy's things to the bag. Watson, slowly, bobbed her head up and down.

"What now?"

"…This kid isn't normal, is he?" She finally let out, eyeing him with curiosity. Wintergreen didn't even blink; after all, he'd spent several years working alongside the Deathstroke, and had perfected the ability to lie with remarkable ease.

"What do you mean?" He replied, voice as smooth as oil. Amelia snorted.

"Please—don't feel that you have to lie to me. Now, tell me, who is this kid?"

Wintergreen was only at a temporary loss for words. He'd remembered—only too late, now—Watson's claim to seeing events before they took place. No doubt she'd foreseen his attempt to conceal the truth from her.

"…He…is…just someone who my employer happens to have taken an interest in. Why does it matter to you?"

Amelia shrugged.

"It doesn't matter to me; all I really care about is doing whatever your 'boss' and you want, and getting your blackmail off my case. But I'm wondering because…"

Watson sighed, and withdrew one of Robin's library books.

"Normal highschool teenagers usually don't read books on criminology and economics in their spare time. And—" She removed the science notebook from the bag as well. "—When they sketch in their class books, they don't typically write down what kinds of nightmares they're having, so that they can remember them, or work out different scientific formulas that are probably more advanced than what they're learning in class."

She raised her eyebrows and stared fixedly at him.

Wintergreen remained mute.

Bruce-

"Messy business…messy, indeed…five security guards, all found in…necks snapped… The inmates—"

A sudden blast of static erupted in Bruce's ear, and the man cursed, adjusting the piece in his ear.

The Dark Knight was poised on a window sill outside Arkham Asylum, subjecting himself to the bitterly cold winds of the fall season in his attempt to listen in on two doctors' discussion. When the alert had gone off back at the manor, Bruce hadn't been quite clear on the details of the break-out at the asylum; he'd assumed that, before he started his investigation, he'd be able to learn a bit more about the case. Unfortunately, the weather seemed to be doing everything in its power to hinder him.

And to think I said, just a couple hours ago, what a nice day it was, Bruce thought ironically, and pulled his cape a bit tighter around his shoulders in the weak hope of it providing a bit more protective warmth against the relentless, battering gusts. The static alternated, rising and falling like the waves of the sea; Bruce continued to catch snatches of the conversation, and clung to them, trying to piece the scraps of information together.

"…escaped…missing for—" Static crinkled for a second or so. "—hours…"

"Who got out?"

Bruce's ears picked up, straining to hear through the white noise.

"Doctor J…Crane…"

The other doctor was saying something, but Bruce wasn't listening anymore. An unbidden shiver had coursed down his spine, and he'd unconsciously drawn away from the filthy window pane.

The Scarecrow was… free?

This is not good…

Bruce swallowed hard and flipped open a compartment in his belt, withdrawing a cell phone; he called Alfred on speed dial.

There was ringing for a second or two. Then:

"'Lo?"

"Alfred!"

"Master Bruce! What is it, what's wrong? What's going on over there at Arkham? "

"Alf," The Dark Knight said solemnly, while trying to mentally calculate the first place that Crane might head for. "I need you to go down to the Bat-cave; drag up all city security cameras. Don't stop watching them for even a minute!"

"What? Master Bruce, I don't understand. Why do I—"

"Crane managed to break-out tonight."

There was stunned silence on the other end of the line.

"No…no, it can't be…"

"It is," Bruce retorted grimly, glancing back through the smudged glass; the two doctors had gone, but the hallway was now occupied with other staff members and police men, all of them babbling about the inmate's successful escapade.

"But, Master Bruce," Alfred said slowly, as he tried to work it out. "Crane can't have gotten loose. He was bound in a straight-jacket, and locked inside a padded room. There were security guards…the last time you faced him, he was only strong when he wore that bloody mask. He was no fighter—so he can't have murdered the guards. The only possibility is that—"

"—someone must have helped him," Batman finished with a bleak edge to his otherwise stern voice.

"Yes, yes," Alfred mused. "Well…that only leaves two remaining questions: Who, and why?"

Bruce said nothing, but his brain had already presented to him an awful, disturbing prospect.

Slade-

Slade was reclining casually—more so, than his self-discipline typically allowed—at his desk, feet propped on the damaged, but otherwise sleek wood. He was working, but not on his newest, lethal device, or formulating the final touches to his plan, as he normally did.

His mask lying beside his feet along with a stack of yearbooks collected from multiple highschools. The villain was silently skimming through a Gotham school directory he'd recently gained possession of; his single gray eye scanned list after list of names, searching…

Gotham Boarding School for Young Women: W's section

Walson, Erica…

Wek, Naomi…

Wilson-Worth, Rose…

Slade tossed aside the directory and searched the pile of yearbooks; at the same time, an odd feeling began to well up in his chest. He had no idea what he was doing—he had better things to concentrate on, than rediscovering his "long-lost daughter."

And yet…he was compelled to find Rose.

Slade turned directly to the back of the yearbook and, almost immediately, his eye was drawn to a sullen, but pretty, looking girl with stark-white hair; she eyed the camera with poison in her lovely blue eyes.

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud at his daughter's stubborn but strong-willed attitude.

Slade stared at the girl, the child who barely knew him, and vice versa. At the same time a small, shock of pained grief shot through him.

Oh damn. He couldn't be going soft…

"What are you looking at?" asked an all too familiar British voice. Slade's barely repressed a gasp as his heart leapt into his throat, and he busily began cramming the books into his many desk drawers.

"Just reviewing some files," he told Wintergreen, trying to sound as if he were up to nothing.

His old companion strode up behind him and placed a wrinkled hand on Rose's yearbook, which Slade had just been ready to hide. Slade gave a small wince, but otherwise waited for Wintergreen to make the next move.

With agonizing slowness, William flipped open to the "W's" section in the yearbook, eyes alighting on Rose's picture.

The pair said nothing, for a moment.

"Slade…" Wintergreen finally whispered. "I…"

Blue electricity crackled in one of the corners of the criminals' hide-out, and both men whipped towards the light; moments later, the crumpled remains of the robot that Slade had deployed earlier to track down Robin appeared. It managed to drag itself to its master's feet, before it collapsed in a shower of sparks.

Wintergreen stared at the utterly destroyed foot-soldier, but Slade only gave a sly smile.

"So…he does remember…"

Robin-

It was so quiet; one could have heard a pin drop.

The rest of the electricity in his apartment had been switched off, covering the place in a blanket of black.

Only the bedroom remained lit, soft yellow beams flooding through the door frame. Robin was sitting, Indian-style, on his bed, back pressed against the wall; his fingers were steepled (it was a brooding pose he'd adopted from Bruce), and his light blue eyes had taken on a dreamy cast…as if he were a million miles away from everything he'd ever known…

Secretly, Robin wished he were.

He would still miss the Titans, would still crave to see Jump City after its reconstruction had been completed; but there were too many bad memories that lingered with him in Jump and Gotham. Memories that would surface, frail and distant as ghosts, but would only solidify with time and weigh down his heart with increasing burdens.

Sooner or later, Robin knew he was going to snap.

His eyes itched, longing to close, but the young man forced them to remain open. He wanted, so badly, to sleep—plummet into senselessness, and leave behind cares and the complications of decisions…even if he knew, in the corner of his mind, that he'd have to return to reality at dawn's arrival.

The trunk at the foot of his bed was still part-way open; Robin glared at the lid, and slammed it shut with a grudging hammer kick.

"To hell with it," he grumbled. What was the matter with him? He was acting like he was six years old again, and afraid of the bogeyman; he seriously needed to get a grip.

The boy sighed with exasperation and ripped back the sheets, before climbing into bed.

"Don't worry Richard," his mother whispered fondly as she caressed his head…

Robin reached over and flicked off the lamp on the side table.

"…There's no such thing as monsters."

Oh, Mom…you have no idea…

-----------------------

Far below, in the deserted streets, a hooded figure watched and waited.

The stranger stood stock-still, head tilted upwards to stare unblinkingly at the apartment building that towered over the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. The odd man—had it not been for the faint orange light coming from street lamps—would have been almost entirely swathed in the shadows…

Suddenly—

Movement; a figure moved on the floor he was eyeing, and second later the bedroom light went out.

Crane smirked and strode forward, nearing the darkened structure. He was the picture of perfect confidence…and he was savoring the anticipation at frightening the brat.

After all: Batman had locked him away in his own asylum for what felt like ages.

It only seemed fair that Scarecrow terrify the Knight's kid out of his mind.

An eye…for an eye.

To be Continued…

I know how much I hate waiting for people to update on their stories, so, once again, I must apologize for taking so stinking long. Unfortunately, every time I tried to write, I either got a ton of homework from school that day, or got sick. Crazy, huh? Well, hope you guys liked this. Please review and I'll see you guys soon!

Later!

Rebel