30Kisses Theme Ficlets

Robin/Raven

By Kysra

Theme #21 (violence; pillage/plunder; extortion): Soft

She used to say that if they lost her it would be to grief, betrayal, or the drive for vengence; but in the end, they lost her to none of these. Grief was an addendum to care. Betrayal implied a large amount of trust. Vengence was the flowing blood of a wounded soul. All of which she could not claim.

Rob, she's GONE, man! She's GONE!

We can't just let her go! We have to help -- bring her back!

Look at her! Her skin is RED!

Let me go! I have to get to her! I can talk her down, please! PLEASE!

. . . . please . . . .

It had been a surprise attack. A military base had been destroyed in a matter of minutes, fire, and smoke. She had been the first on the scene, hood up and cape flying - majestic as always, illuminated by the swirling flames. He had recalled then, as he did now, that she hated fire. It was the power her father had gifted Slade. It was the instrument of destruction proposed to be hers, burning behind her eyes and singeing her nightmares. It was the element of torture that the demon took the greatest pleasure in.

That night . . . That terrific, hateful night Starfire had fallen as he rushed, calling the Tamaran's name - reckless, rash, and unceasingly brave. Slade seemed invincible, a veritable god of violence bent on the supernatural family feud that had become an uncontrollable war of the worlds. Beastboy had been flying, pterodactyl wings spread large and leathery, overhead before a fireball tore through the space between bones, grounding the changeling and making him prey for more attacks. Cyborg immediately ran to the youngest of their little group, but by the time he and the robotic man realized they were being corralled into that small area, it was too late.

And Raven was the only one to escape the cage of molten lava fashioned just for them.

LET THEM GO!

Now, now little Raven, you should know by now that our interest is not with them.

What do you want?

My master wants you, little Raven. Nothing more, nothing less.

Will . . . If I give in, if I do as he wants, will he spare them?

Of course, of course he will.

. . . . but you won't . . . .

The transformation had been instantaneous, vulgar and ugly. She had reached out to them, unrecognizable and tear stained with clawed hands, crimson skin, and ebony hair. And somehow, even as he railed against the truth, he knew they had lost her forever.

We can . . . We have to save her. We have to.

Ro -- Richard, there's nothing left to save. She was dead the second she sealed the deal.

That can't be, Cy . . . It just can't.

Let it go, man. It's the end of the world as we know it. We have to figure out how we'll survive. We don't have the resources to save anyone but ourselves.

H . . . How did it come to this? Why did she do it?

Maybe . . . Maybe she cared too much.

. . . . and maybe we were all blind . . . .

She had mutinied against the pillage and plunder of her mind once she realized her father and Slade had no intention of upholding their end of the bargain. Their shredding extortion of her unknown soul was painful to hear, to see, to feel. It was a tornado of light, color, and darkness burning through the night in waves and crashes, disrupting their little cage and catching them in the crossfire. Her power, unleashed as it was, crushed Beastboy. The sound of the green boy's bones crumbling to dust would stay with him for the rest of his life. It was Trigon himself who killed Starfire. She had been maimed by Slade's previous blow. She was dismembered by Trigon's wrath.

Raven's last force of will caused the cage to collapse, allowing the remaining Titans to scramble to 'safety' when - in fact - no safe place existed anymore. They eventually found themselves underground and alone with no food, water or hope. Gotham fell within hours of Jump. Metropolis closely followed, and so it went across the nation, the globe.

And she never returned. Not in the first year. Not in the second. Not now. They were the last. The Justice League had perished through various assassinations despite efforts to hid, recoup, and plan. She would be after them next; and as they huddled around their small cooking fire, he allowed the mask to curl in upon itself - the last disposable article they had retained as a fuel source.

"When do you think she'll get here?" He doesn't talk much anymore, and his voice was hoarse, cold. His words had been locked away as soon as he had admitted that though her body still walked the Earth, her heart, mind and spirit had long since been murdered; and he couldn't shake the feeling that he should shoulder the blame. If he died by her hand, it would be poetic justice. He only hoped he would see her in the afterlife . . . if there was anything left to see.

"Don't know. I'm almost looking forward to it." A red, cybernetic eye gleamed and glowed amidst the floating embers.

He nods. No replies are needed. Hell on Earth is no place to live, and he has been a dead man walking for too long.

Cy -- Victor stares at him for long moments over the dying flames. "You should burn it."

"Too many things have gone up in smoke, Cy. I'm not gonna sacrifice my last words because you think it's liberating."

When it was all new - the loss and loneliness, the bereavement and annihilaton - he had found a notebook in a trash can while scrounging for food. The pages were filled on one side only, and he had been quick to claim the clear space for himself. Letters were written to each of his lost friends each day only to burn them in the night, hoping (he would not allow himself to entertain the thought of praying) that the words would somehow reach them, wherever they were. Upon reaching the last page, he had decided to save the preserved scrap of processed wood bark for his last will and testament - a sort of cynical 'Fuck you' to the universe at large.

Instead, he wrote to her.

Dear Raven,

Who knew it would end like this? I thought I could save the world, but I didn't know I would be one of the reasons it would be destroyed.

You should have known better than to think they would keep their word. Does trust come so cheaply to you? Or were you just desperate? It goes round and round in my head, but there's never a good answer. I just can't believe you could be so stupid. You spent your whole life running from that bastard only to run to him when it really mattered; and instead of blaming you, instead of hating every last atom of your being for taking everything away, I blame and hate myself.

I once promised you that you were safe, that it would be ok. Even after all the secrets were pulled out of you, even after you admitted you had screwed us over by keeping it all hush-hush, I promised to protect you - my friend, my teammate, my . . . . And I failed. I was too cocky, too confident. I believed that knowledge was power, but you could not fathom the reach of your father's abilities just as we didn't know the extent of yours until it was too late.

I wonder if you realize what you've taken. Beastboy . . . Starfire . . . you, Cyborg's laughter, my voice. I wonder if you're looking down upon us or if you're burning in Hell, a fitting punishment for someone who hated fire so much. I wonder if I believe in anything anymore.

I remember your birthday . . . the day after when we threw that party and you said no one could have stopped the 'bad thing' that occurred despite your wish to avoid it. I remember Beastboy urging you to make a wish over your candles. I remember asking what you wished for.

You never answered me, not with words. Our bond would give me impressions sometimes, but it was so subtle, I thought the images and feelings originated in me. You were always searching, weren't you? Sometimes, the pictures would seem muted and dark, as if I were looking through a blindfold. There was always that want of stability, like you were teetering towards the edge with each breath, always waiting for the second shoe to fall or the bottom to drop out. And a need for warmth, someone or something to hold you and tell you it would be okay . . . or maybe a foundation to rest upon when you were weary and couldn't support the strain anymore upon your rigid shoulders. Yours was an inflexible attitude, and perhaps that was your downfall. You always landed hard on your feet, but your knees were locked and so only multiplied the pain or cracked the bone just a little more, just a little deeper.

And no one could save you, because you never let anyone know that you needed or wanted to be saved. By the time you did let us in, it was too late and you were already gone.

Yet, I still can't let go of your ghost, so I offer this last promise. One more empty, hope-filled vow before the harbinger comes for Cyborg and me:

I will light your way in the dark.

I will make you still when the ground tries to throw you.

I will embrace you when it becomes too much to handle.

In me, you will always have a soft place to land.

Wait for me.