I am an awful person, for leaving all of you hanging for so long. Seriously—I should be strung up by my toes and whacked over the head with a stick…or a baseball bat…or something of the like…anyway, I realized that I have become increasingly worse at updating (and the disappointing thing is that I used to be so good at it too…), so I am going to try and improve on that as best as I can. Thank you all for you dedication, and for your patience, and I will try to make it up to you as best as I can. So: I tried to make this chapter as creepy as possible…lemme know how I did, okay?

Chapter Six: Nightmares

Raven-

It was after dinner, and already, the prospects of it being a miserable evening were high. Starfire had already locked herself in the room they were sharing, and even though she tried to stifle them, her sobs were still audible from downstairs. Beast Boy had also locked himself in his room, grumbling that he "needed time to think" as he shut the door in her face; he was spending much of his free time brooding, something that she found curious, and a bit worrisome.

To put it simply, it was another typical evening.

Raven leaned back in the swinging chair that Cyborg had installed on the house's front porch and closed her eyes, contemplating the progression of the long days that had passed since their city had been wiped out, courtesy of Holocaust and Slade. Everything seemed hopeless, doomed in a sense, even though Robin was safe, Holocaust was dead, and Slade had apparently disappeared from the world…although one could never be too sure. It felt to her as if the four of them had matured in many ways, and few of them looked like they were for the better. Perhaps it had been that all of them had been very close to dying after experiencing brutal attacks on their life, and next to the annihilation of Jump City, they had all come to realize how fragile life was. She remembered, with cold clarity, how helpless she had been, as blood seeped from her body; and the scars were always there to remind her. Maybe her friends felt a similar way?

Or…maybe she was just reading too much into it.

"What's on your mind?"

Cyborg soft voice brought her back to reality, and Raven opened her eyes, leaving behind the ramblings of her mind so that she could twist to see him sitting beside her.

"Nothing. Just thinking…"

"We all seem to be doing that a lot," he noted softly, after a beat. That was another thing that changed. Cyborg still had a lot of recuperating to do from their fights last month—his cybernetic body had suffered enormous damage. He no longer tried to exert as much energy as possible, but rather said only what was necessary, and tried to work around his jerking, uncoordinated movement. A scientist was going to be flying over from Gotham in a couple days to examine the severity of his condition, but until then…

"Yes," she replied, "we do."

"Kind of makes you wish for the old days, more than anything, huh?"

"Definitely."

Neither teenager spoke for what were a few minutes, but to Raven was an eternity of silence. She was surprised to find herself speaking up abruptly.

"I miss the Tower," she babbled, unsure of where exactly she was going with this. "I miss waking up in the morning and drinking tea, even though I loved the smell of the breakfast that you cooked; sometimes I even looked forward to listening to you and Beast Boy bicker, because inside…it made me laugh…" She hesitated, as if expecting Cyborg to interrupt. But he did nothing, and she took it as a sign to continue.

"…Sometimes when I fall asleep at night here, I can think back—even though it's only been a little less than a month—and see my bedroom, my books, all my possessions…and more importantly, I remember the nights where I went to bed before the rest of you, just so I could listen to you three guys roughhouse, or Starfire singing softly in Tameranean as she read the Encyclopedia of Mold…and I remember the nights where I would stay up reading or meditating and—" Her voice caught in her throat for a second, but she forced herself to keep going.

"—Robin would join me a couple times, to talk, or plan battle strategies…and sometimes he just came in to sit beside me while I was meditating. He wouldn't say anything, but kept quiet. I think, during those times, he never needed to say even a single word, because to me, everything that two other people might hold a conversation about just passed mentally between us…he had a level of understanding with all of us that, sometimes, I guess, we didn't ever establish with each other…And I…I wish he was here."

Her voice, which had filled and swelled with the passion and emotion of her recollections, faded to its monotone edge, and she trailed off; she was almost half waiting for Cyborg to respond with something equally sentimental. Somehow, she even wished he would. Instead, he only whispered:

"I know what you mean, Rae. I feel exactly the same."

Though it hadn't been what she'd expected, or what she'd been willing him to say, it also seemed as if those eleven words were the only, perfect way for him to respond.

Robin-

Creeeeeaaaak.

It had been a quick and almost imperceptible noise, but paranoia had occupied his mind for almost the entire night, and Robin was awake in an instant. He lay, already sweating, beneath his sheets, hardly daring to breathe as he waited for some other sign that it hadn't just been his imagination.

The suspense was killing him; and every time his heart throbbed, it sounded like a firework exploding.

Wait for it, he told himself anxiously. Just wait…

A floorboard squeaked under the applied pressure of somebody's footstep coming down on the sleek wood, and the teen's stomach seemed to lurch with combined fear and excitement. He slid noiselessly from his bed, and crept toward the pitch black living room.

There was nothing. Not even the slightest shadow betrayed another's presence in the apartment, but it only seemed to increase Robin's panic. It was Slade—it had to be…a little bit longer, and he'd hear the man's voice echo from the darkness, taunting

him. Robin sucked in a breath—he'd been panting heavily out of his apprehension—and tiptoed toward the kitchen.

Under other circumstances, the boy might have launched himself over the countertop and plunged headfirst into whatever danger awaited him. But this was totally different: This was Slade, and he was taking no chances. But his guess that the intruder was lurking in that particular area was incorrect, and Robin withdrew cautiously from the kitchen, a mixture of relief and disappointment flooding his soul…

Until a moment later, when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and spun him about—

Robin threw his hands up in self-defense; he'd been anticipating Slade to attack with a vicious first punch that would knock him flat on his back and send him sliding across the floor—

A burst of odd-smelling gas wafted into his nostrils, causing him to gag.

"What the—?"

A sinister laugh rang in his ears.

"It's been awhile, Bird-Boy," the nasty, but known voice of Doctor Jonathan Crane, or "Scarecrow" said mockingly.

"Crane!" Robin snapped, frustrated at being caught off guard by one of Bruce's most potent adversaries. No doubt the crazed doctor was here to exact revenge on Bats, or something around those lines. "You scumbag! I—"

Wait.

"You're supposed to be locked up in Arkham…"

"I'm out now," the man retorted, and Robin could almost see him smirking. "But that should be the least of your worries right now…"

As he said this, Robin became suddenly aware of the fog that had been gathering at the corners of his eyes during the entire time. He blinked furiously, puzzled. What was going on? What had Crane done to him…?

Lights blazed wildly, dotting his vision with bright spots; there were people all about him, roaring with approval, the strangers seated on benches—everyone was clapping, laughing, gasping with shock and wonder…spotlights swept the enthusiastic crow, illuminating different faces that were all painted with the same wild delight; a male voice, magnified by several times with the assistance of a microphone, was bellowing announcing someone's name…

Robin staggered in bewilderment; he was back in his blackened apartment, with mind spinning at a frightening speed that he could not control; what had that been? How could he be going delusional at a time like this?

Scarecrow was advancing at a leisurely pace, and the two blue eyes were gazing out at him from behind the mask, as if he were some sort of remarkable specimen to be studied out of interest, or amusement.

He had to do something!

Robin stumbled backwards towards the fireplace. The pokers were the only possible weapons in the place. He had to reach them—

But before he could go even one step farther, the dreadful mist rushed back, clouding his vision, while it twisted and distorted itself back into some sort of scene…

…Multiple sounds and sights blocked out his senses, and Robin wasn't quite sure where he was yet. The brightly colored walls were swaying—air rushed overhead—and he hadn't a single idea what might be going on…but he felt a swell of pride rise in his heart, a feeling that felt abnormally familiar—

Gunshots: Rapid, ear-shattering. The sound of something snapping far above him made him whip his head up—

Two figures fell, both silent. Maybe they were too stunned to react…everything was happening so fast…

The audience was shrieking with horror, everyone up on their feet as they watched a man and a woman plummet back down to earth. And then it hit Robin.

He opened his mouth to scream, but his throat clenched; he was trying to draw breath to call to the two—

A sickening crack echoed in the air; the audience's yells had risen to a peak, and the man with the microphone was gesturing frantically, the expression on his face utmost terror—yet all of the sounds they made seemed distorted and blurred in his ears. Robin remains stock-still in his position on the sidelines, as if he were paralyzed, unable to look away. In the second following, his throat cleared, and he lunged forward, sobs erupting from his mouth, and salt tears streaking his face.

"MOM! DAD!"

The scene froze, but he kept moving—unaware—tripping over his own feet as he tried to scramble to them; he landed, face first, in the brittle dust, still crying pitifully. He had never wanted to relive this moment…he'd tried to hard to push it to the back of his head, try to make-believe that he'd never seen his own mother and father murdered in cold-blood...he had found that if he pretended, it made the agony of the memory a little less painful…

And then everything began to move backwards.

Robin watched in startled astonishment as the audience slowly resumed their sitting positions, as Mr. Haley's—that was the announcer—facial features melted back from terror to that of joy…as his parents drifted back upwards into the air, back towards the trapeze.

How is this…possible?

Time started to move at a regular speed again; Mary and John Grayson leapt into their act, while Mr. Haley and the patrons cheered on the couple from the ground.

Tony Zucco's shots rang as they were fired, and Robin stared transfixed, as his parents died a second time…until the scene rewound itself once more.

The Boy Wonder watched, with an ache in his heart, as he witnessed his mother and father's murder over and over again, while all the while, silent tears slid down his cheeks, and into the grime and dirt below his kneeling form…

Hot, burning tears were coursing down his face, and Robin stood stock-still, uncaring of the world that moved about him. The cruel memory from his childhood had frozen him in place, left him lost in the pain and sufferings of the past; he was unable to fight…unable to think straight, or behave normally—

Somewhere in his head, his subconscious was screaming bloody murder…screaming for him to wake up and fight—

Robin opened his mouth to speak, and felt himself gag as a bitter liquid seemed to burst from out of midair and flow down his throat, causing him to hack and double over retching…

Drowning.

Torrents of water swept into his lungs, making him gasp and flail for the surface in desperation; he was being swept this way and that, struggling for a hold or a place to climb onto, to prevent himself from being pulled farther down the dark tunnel. He could hear—if not faintly—the sound of triumphant cackling above the roaring in his ears, and he blinked his eyes furiously to try and see up through the chasm that he'd fallen through, and that was steadily becoming more and more distanced from.

His friends…his friends—he wondered if they were all right…

Robin tread desperately to keep breathing, but more and more of the foul-tasting liquid was spilling into his mouth and nostrils, choking and pulling him farther and farther into its depths.

And then the waves folded over him, similar to the way a coroner might draw a sheet over a corpse: An act of finality.

As he sank farther and farther towards the bottom, his thought process became slower and slower from lack of oxygen; thoughts drifted and wound lazily through his head, foggy and unclear like ghosts. Only one truly stood out from the rest: This entire situation was a perfect example of his life. He'd spent his time, ever since his mom and dad's murder, drowning; it figured that he was going to die this way.

…He wondered if this was how he was going to die…he wondered if anybody would care, if he were missing, or dead…

Robin closed his eyes, body carried by the current farther into the sewers, unaware that their first battle with the HIVE was over, and that Raven and Beast Boy were fearfully calling out his name…

He was still trying to vomit up a non-existent mouthful of water when Scarecrow buried his foot into Robin's stomach, sending him skidding across the floor.

"Simple, actually," the former asylum patient commented as lightly as he were reflecting on what kind of weather they were having that month. "Slade had warned me to expect at least a small challenge..."

Robin felt his stomach contort into fearful knots as these words, and he stared up at Crane disbelievingly, still curled and holding his stomach.

"S…Slade sent you?"

His voice sounded so different; harsh, tormented, burdened by his laborious breathing from Crane's blow, and from the way his fears were being thrown in his face. Bruce had explained to him how the Scarecrow's greatest weapon was his opponent's mind, and the teen was trying his best to control his otherwise shaken self-control.

"But of course. Who do you think broke me out?" the villain hissed, an edge of sadistic glee lacing his smug voice, but already his words had taken on a monotone, groggy sound as Robin found himself sliding back to encounter his worst fears once more.

"He told me to give you a message…"

Wintergreen-

William yawned widely, and glanced over at Slade, who had returned from his "outing" to Arkham Asylum awhile ago, and was now hunched over his desk, inspecting plans of some sort; probably sketches of the newest weapon he was eyeing, or something like that. The remarkable thing about Slade (and Wintergreen had never been clear on whether or not this behavior was a side-effect of the serum that his friend had endured during the army) was that he rarely seemed to need sleep. It was a quality, aside from his immortality, that made the villain distinctly inhuman.

On the other hand, Wintergreen was a tired, grumpy old man who, much to his distress was finding that he needed more and more rest these days, and he was growing irritable just standing around and watching Slade plot.

"Though I know how much my advice and ideas are valuable to you," Wintergreen announced, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm actually beginning to feel tired. So if you don't mind…?"

Slade had seemed surprised when Wintergreen had spoken, as if to show that he had forgotten the other man's existence (something that did very little to improve William's mood) after being lost in his thoughts for so long, but he turned now to fix Wintergreen with an understanding look in his remaining eye, a rarity, indeed.

"I'm sorry. I should have let you go a long time ago," the infamous Deathstroke began, apologetically, but Wintergreen waved a hand to stop him.

"Please, don't. It doesn't suit you at all. Besides, I know how you get at times. I take no offense." After a pause, Wintergreen smiled to show that he was sincere. "You needn't worry about me; whatever you're planning this time around is far more important that any little complaints I might make."

Slade raised a mock-skeptical eyebrow, for he'd taken to removing his mask frequently when they were alone, but returned the grin.

"If you insist; I'll see you in the morning."

"The same to you," Wintergreen replied, words muffled by the hand he was using to conceal another yawn.

William was halfway to his room, when a thought that had been nagging him for much of the evening returned to him.

"Uh…" He stopped and stared at Slade guiltily, for he knew how much it bothered the man to be interrupted in the middle of his work. Slade regarded him patiently, an invitation for him to continue speaking.

"I hate to sound as if I am...whining, per say, for I know that there are much more important things to be concerned with, but…" Wintergreen cast around for the right words.

"This Watson woman, who you've been blackmailing to assist you…to put it bluntly, I can't stand her."

Slade let a surprised chuckle escape from between his lips, before immediately composing himself.

"Really?"

"Yes! The woman is obviously psychotic. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't much fancy consorting with petty criminals like her. To make matters worse, she seems to detest me just as much as I do her, and has done everything in her power to create stressful situations for me, whenever I am forced to meet with her on your behalf. So…I must ask: Is she playing an important rule in our plans?"

Slade frowned, as he took his friend's plight into serious consideration.

"I understand that you hate her," he commented finally. "I've never met the woman, but I take your word for it. Miss Watson, however, must still play one, final key role in this plot. And for her to do that, I'll need you to bring her back here tomorrow morning and give her instructions. But," and Wintergreen was shocked to see a malicious smile twist Slade's features. "After that…"

The mercenary mused for awhile longer.

"Tomorrow will be the last day you will ever have to speak to her again, I promise you that. Once she has carried out my instructions, she will no longer be useful."

William looked taken aback, but Slade seemed to be enjoying the thought as every second passed by.

"And then, I shall deal with her."

Robin-

He was surrounded on every side, walls of drones blocking every possible way out; Robin wanted to scream, or swear, or lose all control and behave like a rabid, untamed animal, he had become so overwhelmed in the wave of frustration that had overcome him. Slade had him trapped perfectly: And none of the Titans knew he was here...anything could happen to him, and no one would know until it was too late…

He could die.

The blazing white color of the walls was too bright after his growing accustomed to the room's darkness, and he blinked furiously to regain control over his vision; sweat was trickling down in beads along his forehead and the back of his neck, his breathing becoming increasingly shallower; his stomach churned, his head pounded…he wasn't able to focus at all…

What was happening to him? He'd never cracked under pressure before! Trying to calm his breathing, Robin turned towards Slade's imposing figure and narrowed his eyes—for once, he appreciated the comforting feeling of a mask completely concealing his face. It hid away everything from the rest of the world's penetrating eyes. For once, he was glad to be able to hide behind the intimidating persona of his creation, Red X, even if he still felt guilty about lying to his friends.

The robots started to march forward, closing in their ranks—crowding him. Robin began calculating exactly how many he would be able to take on, when the ceiling exploded above him, and, one by one, his friends emerged from a shower of plaster—

"You and Slade are…similar…"

Starfire was regarding him mournfully with those deep green eyes of hers, and she turned her head away as she spoke, and if she didn't want to see him anymore; as for himself, he could hardly hold back his dismay. She couldn't be saying that…she couldn't be admitting that she though he and Slade were alike—it sounded so wrong, coming from her mouth, and it hurt him so much more than when the villain ever said it.

"He did not trust you…and you did not trust us."

With those solemn parting words, the alien girl drifted away, into the hallway; she made a point of shutting the door behind her, and the boy was left alone in the darkness of the room…and his thoughts…

Slade's mask rested in his clenched palm, the empty, soulless socket looking up at him; Robin didn't know if it was a slight flicker in light that caused it next, or if it was his imagination—or whether it had truly taken place!—but it seemed to leer triumphantly at him, almost as if to say:

'I told you so…'

"He knows where you are…he's going to find you, Robin, no matter how hard you try to hide, or scurry away like a rat…"

Scarecrow relayed the words in an almost sing-song voice, watching with an entertained glint in his gaze as the Boy Wonder tried to drag himself forward, trying his best to get to the fireplace…he was frantic for some means to defend himself, to possibly even kill Crane with, if it meant all the nightmares would go away…he didn't want to hear anymore, he didn't want to see anymore.

A sharp pain struck him in the side, and he let out a gasp of shock, as Scarecrow removed his heel from where he'd plunged it into Robin's hipbone. The criminal used the pause in Robin's attempts to break free to grasp one of the teenager's shoulders and flip him over, pinning him so that the two were looking one another in the face, before whispering:

"You're never going to escape…"

Familiar situations began to drift into his head; peoples' silhouettes were running, fighting—

"…The chronoton detonator was merely a decoy for a much larger trap…"

Robin's eyes widened, back arching drastically, as he thrashed and struggled to fight off Scarecrow; he was punching wildly, and without aim. More than anything else, he didn't want to see this—

"This isn't about your friends, Robin. It's about you. It's always been about you…"

"No," Robin pleaded between gritted teeth, from the effort of holding off Crane, and his attempts to control his thoughts, to try and steer them away from heading down that path. "I…I won't…I…"

His words slurred, and his muscles went limp as he was smothered by illusions of previous events.

'No…no, no, NO!'

"I might even become like a father to you…" Slade stated, the triumph evident in his voice, and Robin wasn't sure whether to stay quiet in case he said something he might regret, or respond by slugging the man in the face as hard as he possibly could. He felt sick to his stomach; angry, forgotten by his friends, ashamed...he tried to imagine how Bruce might react, while trying not to think about how disgusted the Dark Knight would be with him if he found out about the whole situation in the process.

In the calmest voice he could manage—without allowing a single tremor of rage or sadness to creep into his tone—he murmured stonily:

"I already have a father."

The sound of bats flapping their wings as they ascended into the night sky rustled from overhead; Robin tilted his head backwards to watch them go, and found himself thinking desperately after them:

'Don't go…don't go, and leave me here…'

"I made you my apprentice…" The usually smooth tone that Slade used had vanished to be replaced by utter contempt, and Robin felt the man's eye boring into him, penetrating his soul as he rolled over onto his knees, chest heaving for air.

Why me? Why me? After everything I've sacrificed…this is what I get…

Fingers dug themselves into his scalp and jerked his head to one side, so that he was forced to stare up into the face of his enraged master.

"All my knowledge, all my power, all for you; but the only thing you care about are your worthless, little friends!"

Slade's voice was livid with unrestrained fury, and Robin felt himself quiver; he wanted to crawl into the darkness, and just be left alone. No more pain to bear, no more responsibility, nothing to care about anymore; he was so scared of what was going to happen to him…he was scared if whether or not anybody was going to rescue him in time…or if anyone would bother to save him in the first place…

He was hyperventilating, and every inhale seemed to bring a new surge of Crane's gas into his system, burning his insides, causing his body to tremble with spasms; his eyes had rolled back into his head, and he seemed to be falling…falling into endless night…

'Please let this be it…please let it be over…'

But the images only came faster, more chaotically, tumbling over each other like tumults of water roaring over a dam.

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

Gregory Scott exhaled deeply, as he tilted his head backwards and drained the rest of his beer, before he threw the empty bottle onto the pile of trash that they'd collected throughout the day, and belched loudly.

"Hey!"

Scott's partner, a Mr. Tyler Ross, strode up behind him and cuffed him, annoyed, on the shoulder, eliciting a small yelp from Greg.

"What was that for?" He grunted, not at all pleased.

"You know what; we might be the scum of society, but we both know the rules. No alcohol while we're on the job."

Gregory just chuckled good-naturedly, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, as his disapproving partner narrowed his eyes, and then leaned forward, sniffing Greg's breath.

"You're drunk," he concluded darkly, displeased by his co-worker's lack of responsibility. Ross knew that some people would think he was slightly deranged, for taking a crummy, miserable, low-paying job like a garbage disposal man, so seriously; however, it was the only work he had known in fifteen years, and he wasn't at all eager to return to the slums, where he'd constantly haggled with landlords about how much longer he could hold off on his rent, and had gotten drunk almost every evening. So, ignoring Greg's intoxicated giggles, Tyler squared his shoulders and directed his gaze toward the mountain of debris that the reconstruction crews had gathered over the course of the day. There was nothing much to speak of: Cars that had been smashed in during the tsunami, broken pieces of buildings that had been destroyed, and—

"Oy! What the heck is that?"

Tyler sighed and resignedly faced Gregory again.

"What is what?"

"There—there's a body in that pile!" The other man gasped, sounding appalled and mystified at the same time. Tyler followed where his quivering finger was pointing. At first Ross was bemused; all the bodies of civilians that hadn't made it had been ordered to be brought to a coroner (no matter how badly decomposed they were), where it could be arranged for them to have a proper burial. Perhaps someone had made a mistake? Then Ross caught sight of the mask that disguised the corpse's identity.

"Oh. Him. No, you don't need to worry about him. After all, they say that that's the one who caused all this wreck," Ross explained. "The Titans ordered that he's supposed to be torched with the rest of the garbage."

"Funny-looking fellow," Gregory observed, squinting at the decayed body, while he busied himself with pumping gasoline. Tyler shrugged, not the least bit perturbed.

"I'm not surprised; you get used to seeing a ton of whack jobs in this town after you've lived here for awhile.

With breezy nonchalance, Ross struck a match and tossed it over his shoulder, igniting the pile of debris behind him, and Holocaust's corpse…

Robin-

He was hammering from the inside of the coffin lid, writhing and trying to break through the concrete, while he struggled to breathe in the thickened, dust-ridden air—Starfire let out a tortured scream as Holocaust's blast of fire struck her, sending her, burnt and terribly injured, hurtling back towards the ground…It was all his fault that she'd gotten hurt, his fault that all of them had been attacked and had suffered—he watched helplessly as Jump City was pummeled by wave after vicious wave, the buildings giving way under the force of the storm; he listened in anguish to the citizens' futile pleas for help…they had been relying on him, and he'd let them down, let them die—Raven was dying beneath the trees, blood pooling from where Holocaust had impaled…every single bone in Beast Boy's body had been snapped—Cyborg lay in a hospital bed beside Starfire, attacked by Holocaust when he'd been trying to find Robin; his fault, all his fault—

One by one, his friends turned their backs on him, hurt, confused, angry. The Red X uniform was laying, limp and torn, at his feet. However, the mask was still on his face. Try as he might, Robin couldn't pull it off; it prevented him from talking to them, from telling them that he was sorry, and that he never would do it again. And the harder he tried to yank it away, the more the forms of the Titans faded into the darkness, and the more the form of Slade became visible before his eyes—

He was running, as hard as he could, but a black, sticky substance was pooling around his ankles, dragging him down as slender tendrils of murky slime wove itself around his legs like vines; it was impossible to run, to save himself, to leave behind all the fears that tormented him…the darkness would soon swallow him whole—

Bruce was staring at him with open disgust and Robin soon became aware that he was wearing the apprentice uniform. The loathing in Bruce's otherwise stern but gentle, eyes was more painful than any wound he had taken during battle. Robin opened his mouth to explain, to tell his father that he was doing it for his friends, but the Dark Knight silenced him with a single, sweeping gaze of regret.

"I should have known you were nothing, and that you weren't worth the trouble. And now I find that you are ungrateful, even after everything I've done for you. How could you, Dick? What's wrong with you?"

Batman shook his head, and walked away; Robin wanted to cry out of frustration and hurt at Bruce's harsh words.

'What is wrong with me?'

He began to feel pressure letting up on his arms and legs, but he barely noticed; his eyes were unfocused and bleary, and they stared blearily off into space. Robin became distinctly aware of how loudly his heart was thudding in his ears, pumping the blood through his veins…how sluggish movement felt.

…Bruce…Bruce had once told him that the gas that Crane used was poisonous…or that it had the potential to be…was he going to die now, from a mental breakdown, or from too much of the toxic gas infiltrating and messing with his body…

At least death would be welcome…he wouldn't have to see anymore…

The memories slowed as he began to sink into the blissful mist of sleep…and perhaps he would never wake up again…

Death…

A metal staff cut through his flesh, spilling blood everywhere, the tip piercing his heart…he was kneeling on a catwalk, hardly able to believe what was happening to him…he grabbed the staff and managed to drive it through Slade's skull, right before he fell to the floor below…his arm snapped beneath the pressure, and he was dying…

Rain fell lazily from the sky, as a mountain rose before him, tall and apparently insurmountable from his position on the ground…pages of a calendar fell away as the years sped by—

Robin's body slowly stopped shaking and jerking, and his breath became faint and indistinct...he was exhausted, and horrified out of his mind's belief…so many awful things he'd tried so hard to forget…all thrown back into his face in a single moment…

A voice above him was murmuring, and he strained his ears to hear the words that Scarecrow was saying.

"Curious…so much fear, in someone so young…"

Ebony mists swept his vision away, and Robin let go of his mind, and collapsed into a thankful, dreamless slumber.

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

"Woo-hoo! Oh, baby, just look at that!"

Tyler Ross shook his head in exasperation as Gregory skipped to-and-fro, dancing about the perimeter of the blazing bonfire and making a complete idiot out of himself.

Some things would just never change.

Tyler withdrew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, before inhaling deeply. He knew it was a bad habit, and a detriment to his health, but he'd never seemed to be able to kick it. And besides—his bosses had issues with drinking, but the rulebook had mentioned nothing about having a good smoke once in awhile.

The fire was especially bright that night, with sparks crackling and leaping into the air in vibrant shades of crimson and orange, and the flames darting and reaching for the sky with their long, greedy tongues of heat.

If there was one thing about this job that he actually loved, it was the fires, and watching them grow, and escalate to a sweeping pinnacle, and then dying and twisting into nothing but red-hot embers.

Tyler pursed his lips, and let white tendrils of smoke pass through his lips, letting them float into the air to join together with the gray swirls that seemed to veil the evening sky.

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

Fire.

The touch of the flames…it seemed to ignite the remaining flesh that clung to his body and bones. The heat restored sensation to his frozen, rotting limbs, and his skin began growing again at rapid speed. Breath was returned to his lungs, his pulse resuming…

His eyes opened.

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

"It don't look like anything you can't handle," Gregory was trying to explain to Ross. "So I was thinking I could head home…be with the wife…?"

Tyler withheld a derisive snort.

"Greg—you aren't married."

Gregory Scott froze, and Tyler knew that he was going to be out of his skull for the rest of the evening.

"Come on," he started to say, his more sympathetic side taking over. "You can probably find a decent chair somewhere in the middle of this dump." He gestured at the other piles of garbage that surrounded them. "You can take a load off your feet, and—"

"What the hell is that!" Gregory shouted, gaping at something over Ross's shoulder. Tyler, expecting another moronic exclamation, groaned and turned—

A solitary figure rose from the middle of the inferno, arms lifted slightly as if the mysterious person was welcoming, or beckoning the fire to come to him—

Gregory was gabbling mindlessly, but all Ross could do was look on in horror and alarm.

Two, soulless orange pinpricks stared out from the midst of the fire, blazing with a intense evil that rivaled the light emanating from the bonfire.

With slow, wicked joy, the man raised his arms high above his head and cackled insanely.

Holocaust was back.

To be Continued…

Duh, duh, duh! Holocaust is back! Betcha thought he was a goner, eh, eh? Sorry. I just have a tendency to be a dramatic…and sometimes a bit too much. Anyway; anybody catch what was supposed to be the last episode of Teen Titans? What'd you guys think? Personally, though it was an interesting plot twist, I think it was a rather crappy way to end an entire series. They left so many plotlines hanging, when they could have completed it! Or…something! (Sniffs) I shall miss that show…it was one of my favorite shows…oh well. Anyway: I'll see you guys around—my next update for this chapter will (hopefully) be Monday, which, coincidentally is… (Drum roll please!) my birthday! Huzzah! It's kind of my treat to you guys.

Please review and I'll see you around!

—Rebel