A cool wind swept through my hair as I rode down the nearly deserted streets of the city that night; now dark, there was a chill about the air that seemed to totally replace any heat of the hot red sinking sun I'd been so fixated with no more than a half hour earlier. The lights around were barely neon and seemed, like the rest of the city, to be diluted, as if too tired to continue to provide their usually upbeat glow. The docks were even more so like this; absolutely deserted with the only light being that cast from a solitary lamppost. I had had a feeling of being totally and internally chilled—felt nothing more than the solitary urge to go back to Titan's tower and to curl up in a ball on the couch and watch a movie. But then, at the same time, I didn't, not really, because the idea of sleeping or even just sitting in the tower while life progressed without me outside was on the verge of being suffocating. In a lot of ways, I felt buried alive; and going home tonight would be like being buried in a coffin while Slade fought my friends above me. That's probably irrational of me—to have two very split and different opinions and desires—but so is human nature itself. And for the first time that night I was beginning to understand how ill-fitted I was with a group who couldn't understand those kinds of feelings—beings who may act human enough but at the heart of it were all driven by some alien, possessed, or half-mechanical mind that could never grip just what I was feeling.

Remembering my friends made me want to stay up—made me wish I couldn't sleep and wasn't tired or cold or human—because in all reality I wanted to be like them, to not think differently, to blend in. Little did I know this would just be the first of many thoughts to follow of the same nature—the doubtful, angry nature I adapted when I remembered my friends and the way they had left me the last time I saw them, and which would become increasingly darker as time increased. But that night I was enveloped by a sadness that derived from this feeling of betrayal making my body buzz with the need to do something; something, as long as I was not sitting in the tower with the idea bouncing around in my mind that my friends were out doing my job and acting like my parents as if they were any older or wiser or stronger, for that matter, than myself. And to be honest I was very angry—angry enough to be desiring things I had never even conceived myself wanting, not in my years since becoming a crime-fighter. True I had never hated the idea of revenge but that night I was feeling something much more sinister, much more like the villain I was trying so hard to rebel against; I wanted destruction, to destroy something and make it feel the pain of that, to feel control. I wanted to play the game Slade played with me and convinced me I played all the time and dreamed about with someone else; wanted to build someone up and tear them down mercilessly and drink that in like it gave me a strange high. In fact I was so angry that I don't think it would be inaccurate to say I would have wanted to do that to one of them, like they had to me…

Cinderblock was an enemy I was very happy to see that night; a villain that doesn't think much and that isn't human enough for me to really regard whether or not I harm. Maybe that was part of Slade's plan, too, maybe trying to at least calm me down now that he had me where he wanted me, to placate me with the medicating of beating something almost inanimate the way he knew I liked. And that was one time I more than ever needed a punching bag; because I was feeling so full of emotions that I was sure if I didn't find some release I would eventually and quickly explode. I can't even describe the feeling, actually, besides a quickly building energy within me that puzzled me; an odd invigorating high-like buzzing that was making me feel so alive and so much more human, and so simultaneously increasing that rage and therefore that energy. A vicious circle that would continue until it leaked out of my body; like human pleasure sleep, relaxation, would not come until I had release. And that was what the pile of rocks became that night to me, as I destroyed him—actually destroyed him—after spending almost ten straight minutes just kicking and punching and hitting him around carelessly and hatefully. He stood no chance but that night, in that moment, I had forgotten about the city and was now doing it solely for myself; even if he would have been ready to cart off to jail maybe thirty seconds after I'd begun, I wasn't going to stop. That night I forgot about the ungrateful citizens and the police and my protocol, morals, and did what I could for myself. I destroyed the block of cement, breaking him into multiple pieces. If he counts as a person, then it was the first time I had killed someone.

All while Slade watched.

That night I didn't think much about I had done, because even after I had done what I had done I was engulfed in what felt like a heated red rage and mostly I lingered in that haze while I calmed down—and I didn't think about anything but how that feeling felt as it gently dissolved away, slowly, inoffensively, felt my breath slow easily and begin to flow like steady but storm-stirred ocean waves. To calm down entirely it took maybe five minutes, but when I was I didn't stay in that spot of composure more than a few seconds however because when I turned around to go back to my motorcycle I saw a sight that always made my heart race, made my body tense and my mind spin, made me feel amazingly angry and frustrated and helpless but at the same time so in control and confident and alive and happy to be alive, excited to see what would happen next and what was in store for me—all with a gentle lightness about it that perplexed but pleased me ultimately. This was what was done for me;

And when I saw Slade leaning easily against my motorcycle with arms crossed, I felt no different. Briefly, if the night had not progressed as it had and I'd had no experience or knowledge of the past, I would have thought it was the good old days all over again; I would have been sure Slade and I had some odd business here, he with some plan to make me his unwilling apprentice and I to stupidly fall into that trap. Or maybe we were shrouded in the glow of light cast by the billboard on the roof where I would have one of the oddest but strangely most comforting, if one could say that about something of the nature, confrontation with Slade. And I would wonder internally without alerting myself because to do so would cause too much emotional strife what strange adventure Slade had for me today; what would I be able to spectate easily like earlier that night as they fought but he'd had no intention to touch me while they'd have to anticipate and defeat. Perpetuated by that idea that I know seems odd but is something I'm totally confident about—Slade would not kill me; everyone believed signs pointed to danger in Slade, what worried my friends, that I would snap and get myself killed by over-estimating my abilities and losing control of everything as anger took hold. But I knew…and Slade knew, too—this bond the two of us had furthered—that on the most basic of levels if we didn't have each other life would dissolve and fade into this little unsatisfying, hull of its former self. And I had tried it—tried him, and he hadn't. I'd been pushed into an unwilling session where that would be realized—but only there. When the lights were on I was still alive, and yet here in this darkness he wouldn't kill me.

And he hadn't.

Knowing this at that time I remember thinking very briefly something along the lines that if I needed to yell uncle, I should. In this darkness he'd stop—and even though we'd been away from one another so long I could still sense this in him. I could see it gleaming in his eye and even though I was, I wasn't afraid.

I stayed unafraid—but I came out of that vintage-y haze soon enough and felt the waves beginning to crash frantically again; I felt the emotions boiling in me and felt myself light up with aliveness and present-ness but more than anything, hot white anger, burning, making me clench my teeth and fists and ground right back into a fighting stance. Again, a totally natural and uncalculated reaction—so natural it involved little thought because for a moment that haze enveloped everything and commanded my attention on the enemy himself and nothing else. But quickly I was beginning to come to my senses and chase thought patterns like I was doing constantly, the team's detective—suddenly, like in any of the movies Beast Boy made us watch, I was having a wait, if you're here, and I'm here…except I was thinking—wait, if Slade's here, then who are my friends fighting?—if he's here, then where are my friends?

"Excellent, Robin," he said softly, the eye as typically gleaming at me in that low light but in that one moment it seemed to glow like a hungry cat's as it spots its prey and gets ready to pounce. Right away I noticed again he was using that tone. "You continue to improve and to impress me. And to think that your friends were so intent on keeping that skill from me."

"Where are they?" Again, the uncalculated growl slipped out of my mouth easily; propelled by the way he was talking to me, the praises that seemed to further tease and weaken me while building up his ego and muscles all the more all the while. I was dimly aware how my fists were clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palm, but even so I was too enraged to notice, really; and yet Slade was all too observant.

"Relax, Robin. There's no need to—" he began to say gently, but I wouldn't hear a minute of it, so angry that I was seeing red and growling like a mad dog; I did something two years ago I might not have had the balls to do when it came to someone like Slade—rather than try to keep the wild side of me from surfacing to preserve what that side wouldn't do, I charged at him; I had charged at him before, many times, but something was distinctly different this time. The animalistic side of me that I couldn't keep from being unleashed was in control and was more than just concerned with bringing Slade down; it was so unconcerned with morals and the like that it would have done anything it needed to to accomplish the goal and it wouldn't have regretted having to do anything viewed as dissolute to the normal Robin. But more than anything else this Robin was so attached to the goal itself that emotions got in the way and did what they wanted; in a word what I did was aggravated—because I know Slade wasn't expecting me to pounce on him and to claw at him while shrieking like an angry animal, like something Beast Boy might have done to take down a foe bigger than himself. And to be honest I wasn't expecting myself to do it either, and yet here I was; where the aggravation came in, the fact that in the back of my mind I wanted nothing more than to gouge out his eye with dirty fingernails and to drive my knee into his crotch; to tear out his hair in handfuls and to rip his limbs apart. A part of me wanted to see him suffer and to watch him die slowly, to hear him moan as if in doing so he was apologizing for all he'd ever done to me. I wanted to do those things and laugh at him; I'd laugh as he took his last breaths and I'd go home and laugh and when they buried him I'd spit on his grave and years later when I was successful and everyone had moved on I would be the only one who thought of him, but the same person who visited the grave again and pissed on it in a winter's snow. And that was the part of me that only surfaced in his presence—yet was only one of many hidden and deep emotions. This, though, the first to be acted upon. Evil—revenge, betrayal, destruction. The things that encompassed us were seemingly only brought upon by the other so as to make a combination that was fearful but beautiful at the same time—and strangely really desirable. Because in that moment, though it was void of anything I'd ever taught and lectured myself—to be as removed from criminals as possible and to keep our fights impersonal—I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it;

A little punk named Robin who was crazy enough to literally tackle a criminal like Slade, to try to wrestle him even though he was twice his size and twice his strength—a confident rebel who would be worshipped among other rebels and respected whether or not he was successful. People whispered his name throughout the streets. But what was more Slade sat in his throne on lonely nights and thought about Robin—wondered what went through his mind and realized how awesome he was—at least, this is what I imagined happening and it pleased me so much I was that much more encouraged to continue the attack no matter how illogical and stupid it may be. Like the good old days, the fueling of our adventures and what it might bring, the connection between us and the bond that would never be broken, lasting into eternity, I wanted him to think about me. To wonder.

I wanted to influence our history but what was more—tonight I wanted to live it. In that moment, I wanted to engage with Slade and I wanted to feel whatever came of that, no matter how dumb and irrational it might be. Oddly—what I did made me feel alive and happy to be alive, and at the same time those feelings fueled what I did. A strange, never-ending circle. But isn't life sometimes?

I was hanging onto him like a cat with claws out, stuck to the shirt of its owner—and notice this perfect metaphor, which I would and would think about in the days to come—and kicking and hitting him, howling equally as madly. In truth though I know what possessed me and know that there was little I could have done in that exact enraged moment I first saw him to stop it, or if I even should have, I don't exactly remember what happened in that moment—furthering my belief that that side of me is like a beast lurking within, and when it emerges it takes on its own persona, becoming another person, shutting the friendly and known half down until it's done and leaving it none the wiser. Like any of Beast Boy's various transformations. But I remember that—hanging onto him like he was my lifeline in a monster-filled sea, and I remember how initially he was totally caught off guard—something I never would have expected from someone like Slade. When I first pounced on him he hadn't been expecting it because if he had he would have been prepared enough to defend himself—to knock me back with a swift kick to the stomach or the like; but mostly I remember how the eye had widened briefly as I came at him and grabbed onto him; he had stumbled backward, his hands instinctively going to his face where I was apparently scratching at his mask (though again I don't totally remember), trying to pry me off. This, I thought in the back of my mind, not caring much about it as it surfaced but dimly noting it, was what would have happened back there had those two jerks not held me back—and now Slade knows, too.

I hadn't even begun to think that this was a different Slade—the real Slade.

And because this was the real Slade (even though I didn't know at the time) I was seeing a really raw and unedited reaction from him—something to let me know that underneath all that metal and coldness he was human and there was a beating heart that would jump and race like anyone else's. To recoil and stagger backward and to make sounds of surprise—this, a human reaction. Strangely it was comforting—as if to alert me that the two of us were on the same wavelength when it came to emotions, that, that night, the two of us had progressed away from the oldest values of trying so hard to put up masks for the surroundings, to charade for my friends so that they only saw what we wanted them to and never had any idea about this communication silently progressing between us. As if tonight it was just the two of us and nothing else; and we didn't have to be afraid to act the way we would because they were not there to judge us. This thought was maybe too complex—an idea certainly the old Robin wouldn't have even begun to consider, not even the brooding "Red X" offshoot of my thoughts. Because in a perfect world I shouldn't have found any comfort in knowing my enemy was human—human and just like me. Because that made it that much harder when there was so much being expected of me;

To save the city—to save my friends…

But in all reality, I did.

I came out of my haze maybe the minute I noticed he had regained his composure and pulled me off of him and was holding me still against his chest with one arm beneath mine and the other at my throat, wrapping me in a tight and painful embrace. I didn't know, really, how I'd ended up in this position (vaguely I recall my attack on him only being halted when he'd kneed me in the stomach and then grabbed me just as I fell, because there was a dull thudding there making me feel sick and hungry and horribly damaged) but I can attest that in that moment I was thinking back to our last fight when I'd been his apprentice, when he had grabbed me and had held me like this. I don't know what he would have done if I had not kicked him then; and I was not about to find out now, because out of the corner of my eye I noticed a long, glistening needle glinting in the low light on the docks that night, its so-called beauty only diminished by the determined shining of Slade's eye. He was moving it towards my neck and the minute I saw it I panicked—because the combination of ideas, Slade and a long needle with a strange liquid, really did not mix well. In the briefest of moments all the possibilities of what this would mean for me flashed before my eyes—gruesome images that made me want to curl up into a ball and close my eyes and never open them again, made me long for comfort. In hindsight none of them were very realistic but probably more just the result of the fight-or-flight, thoughtless Robin who reacted only based on instinct, but they were enough to influence what I did—and this is where I begin to wish I didn't act based upon instinct;

I grabbed at the needle instantly, totally without thinking; but the minute I saw the needle I was determined to stop it from reaching its destination of choice and my hands were not totally restrained by Slade because the arm he had had on my neck was holding the needle and his grip on me was no longer as acute and unable to be struggled out of—so there was absolutely nothing to stop me from just grabbing it. Similarly when I get into "battles" with criminals and I see a knife coming my way, sometimes the first impulse is to just grab it and on any other night I would have been able to stop myself; but that night with so many emotions flying around and being acted upon who even could guess if my thinking was half sane enough to do something like that? Either way it didn't matter; in the end I grabbed the needle and screamed as if felt it plunge into my hand, which, even though was gloved, provided little resistance to the needle as it penetrated the flesh there. For the first time since he died, I think, I heard him gasp and I felt him remove the needle quickly from my hand, and he dropped me, probably in surprise or shock or some other emotion I would have been more interested in had my hand not been aching with this odd new sensation I felt there; dimly, I noticed how there was an odd emptiness enveloping the spot he'd put the needle, accompanied by seeping wetness, a warm, sticky liquid staining my glove dark purple, but more than anything I realized there was little pain after the initial injection—in fact, numbness being the main feeling there.

Slade dropped to his knees beside me, where I was grasping my hand and sitting there in this shocked, dazed silence, most likely pushed there by this sensation which had overloaded everything else and made any thought or action now completely impossible, only replaced by a fuzzy gray screen in front of my eyes. So I was barely aware as he took the injured hand and began slowly removing the glove, which I did not feel entirely, the whole arm seeming to tingle now after just a few moments of lingering in this weird aftermath of the needle. He began to look the hand over, handling it seemingly gently, though I couldn't feel, as he wiped the blood and this clear liquid mingling with it, maybe the liquid in the needle, away with my glove.

"Robin," he scolded, but not loudly or enough to really upset me, with seriousness and this odd concern I wouldn't really think much about just then more than anything else, "I don't intend to hurt you—I was just going to give you a little anesthetic. But your struggling could have hit an artery and killed you."

It was only when he touched the forearm of the arm that had not been pierced that I snapped out of my stunned haze, though I still could not feel anything in that arm; he was helping me up from off the ground in this odd, almost fatherly way—not overly motherly, not cradling me in his arms and kissing my injury, but simply touching me, as if to reassure me that he was there, and would take care of me, and that things were, in fact, fine. Any other night I might have thought about this—thought about all it meant and decided how I wanted to apply it to my life and everything I knew; but with a hole in my hand and growing increasingly numb (the numbness was spreading swiftly from my arm and to the adjoining parts of the body, stiffening them), and with my brain at full capacity for thoughts or analyzing them, I was now running solely off instincts because it was all I could afford to do, all my body and mind could take. The anger, frustration, confusion, hatred, uncertainty, happiness, comfort, euphoria, wonder, pain, and the feeling of glad familiarity—had all created this storm that had literally shut down my brain and left it only to zombie-like defenses because there was nothing else I could do;

And again instincts were not friendly to me because instantly, no matter the soft touch he was providing, the strange but fatherly comfort, I found myself driving the good, still receptive fist into his stomach, sending him flying backwards and into a stack of crates that was stacked on the pier near the edge of the boardwalk, close to the water. Some of the crates spilled into the bay and broke open, releasing their contents into the water; Slade, however, was fast enough to recover in time before being drown with them, and slid across the dock until he came to a halt at the very edge of the boardwalk, with his toe just touching the planks of wood. His fists were clenched and again, his eye caught my attention, glowing, like a beacon in blackness, narrowed at me, to suggest extreme displeasure—a infuriation at my arrogance in the face of his kindness, reminding me had I been thinking of when he'd looked upon me after I infected myself with the probes and he had been shaking in rage, ready to kick me with the force of all that anger. If I were to consider myself lucky this time, it would be for the fact he seemed more in control—as if there was no rage to be spent at my expense, as if he'd moved past being angry at my insolence.

"Dangerous behavior, Robin," he said, and again my mind was cutting to memories of the past, this, a faraway dream that seemed like forever ago and preluded one of the strangest events in our history, a memorable chapter because from then on I would never be the same little deluded Robin again, who sincerely believed that if I just trusted in the power of friendship I would be okay—knowing from then on that I had narrowly escaped Slade but knowing more seriously that I would never escape him and that even if I never saw him again I would always have the memory of that time with him, doing what I had sworn never to do. From then on I would be brooding ideas of my falsified past and when Terra came around, I was still sore, tender and bitter enough to care. That voice and that sentence brought uncalculated rage to my mind and I started to shake; the fists, both drawn into a clench and my feet swinging back into a fighting stance once again;

He was speaking again, but I wouldn't listen.

"You'd be best not to attack the person responsible for you after that anesthetic has put you to sleep."

I growled, and without a moment's hesitation, I charged at him again, shrieking out my anger even though I was becoming considerably weaker because of this sedative which, even having been administered wrong, was still making its way into my body and making me feel slow and sluggish. As a result, when I came at him, this time, having anticipated it, he easily grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back; with a screech of pain, I found myself bound here by his strong grip, unrelenting on the "good" hand which was becoming swiftly numbed and even more so by this pressure. Again, my mind burned with a memory of Slade; dimly I was remembering the way he had attached the thermal blaster to the hand he had twisted and at the same time insinuating that in time I'd think of him as a father. What he was doing therefore was excruciatingly painful, on so many levels; not only was I dealing with the physical agony but also the emotional turmoil and stress and cold nostalgia which all just seemed to propel the pain of his hand even further. And the instinctual wrath of that came out full force as I began to kick and punch and struggle with everything in me; I was putting all my weight and strength on him even though the real Robin, the educated and thoughtful Robin would have pleaded with me to stop and to formulate a plan and to stop being so stupid had I been in that state of mind. But what to me was an anomaly of everything I had was to Slade a tantrum which was easily quelled with his still undamaged strength and another dose of anesthetics, these this time successfully in my neck because this time I'd been too weak to protest as he held my hands down during the administration. And after this the fire in me was dead and I was totally, completely drained of everything; I began to collapse and dimly I thought I would fall and crash onto the wooden boards of the pier and that would be the last I saw of light for a while—but to my surprise, again indistinct, Slade caught me and held me there in that same fatherly way he had before. Supporting and apparent without being overbearing.

I must have looked distraught, is all I can infer from Slade's reaction: brushing the hair off my forehead where it had been plastered with my sweat from my struggling and then smoothing it back and down presumably to restore some order to it, if it had ever had any, he said gently, in again an uncharacteristic gentleness that my mind wouldn't have had half the capacity to comprehend had I even tried, "Relax, Robin. I have no intent to hurt you. I never have."

"Where…are…they…?" It was all I was capable of mumbling as I drifted into the unwilling sleep, because of the things circulating my mind it would not leave and quickly became the only thing I thought about in those last moments. "Where…are…they…?"

"With my robot duplicate, I assume. Unless it's killed them. Silly they should think I would let you wander off…"

The needle would appear in my dreams that night. It would linger and it would not leave, and even after sleep was gone it would remain. My fate, delivered by the white gleam of the needle.

"An antidote?" I barked out, staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes—forgetting in the wake of this revelation that he had removed my mask and my eyes were in full view of him—to further his arsenal of information. Though honestly it would not surprise me if he had already studied up on me enough to know everything about me, because in the coming days he would make it painfully clear with each new expansion of past ideas that I really had been the object of his intent all along. But what was more in that moment it didn't really matter whether or not he saw my eyes, even if I failed to notice; because my mind had enough to be concerned about with the idea of an antidote—something I already had a clear enough and horrified knowledge of its purpose. And yet in denial I wanted to believe this was all a dream—I would wake up in the tower in my old bed and realize that Slade hadn't bothered us in years and there was nothing to worry about…

"Yes, Robin," he said, and looked at the needle thoughtfully. "You didn't really think your little friend's birthday would be the last time you saw me, did you?"

"I was hoping it'd be the last time," I spat hatefully, squirming away from his hand as he slowly lowered the needle down to my neck; and when I noticed I felt panic rising and a lump forming in my throat, my body becoming rigid with fear and hot from anticipation and sickened from horror. Though the only time I had called uncle with Slade was in my delusion, when I had thought he was real, the needle and its consequences terrified me and I barked out, wildly, "Slade, stop!"

The other hand came down, this one free of sharp, damning objects, and went to touch my forehead, again playing a little with the hair, sweeping it back behind my ear and smoothing the whole mop so it became a little more kempt; this, a new habit I was beginning to despise. I did not like my hair being touched, let alone by Slade, and the motion itself did more to confuse and disturb me than to relax me, if that was what he was trying to do, I did not know. And because I couldn't really understand what it meant or what he was trying to do I didn't know how to react and therefore I was left feeling pretty weak and misplaced; like a fish out of water as I just lay there on the table, trying to squirm out of his grip as he touched my face and the ever important exposed eyes, probably further instilling him with power and weakening myself as I made my helplessness ever apparent. But I didn't know what to do—after all, since when had any enemy had any contact with my face other than a foot or a fist?

At least he wouldn't taunt me today with this; again, it seemed past him. "Relax, Robin," he said softly, the eye gleaming as he looked at me intently, "It won't hurt. Just a small injection and it will only take a few minutes. It's quite simple, actually—quite impressive. See," he held up the needle and indicated to the liquid inside, "inside are nanoscopic probes, like the ones inside your body now. Except, I built these to deactivate the harmful probes. It will be done quickly and you won't feel a thing; and after the harmful probes are removed you will have these inside your body, which can be used to regenerate your health and heal your wounds should you be injured in the future. So we can have you young and healthy for a long time."

The eye gleamed.

My mind was quickly receding back to that state of disarray, ripped apart by a tornado of cruel thoughts and vying emotions. And yet outstanding from these were strong and conscious, "real Robin" thoughts, calculated and attentive, without deception or initial shock. These thoughts were considerate of the past and were quickly recognizing problems with Slade's theory—and like the old Robin, the foolish, real Robin, it used each of these as validation for its own actions, as a way to avoid the truth and build up a false but safe and pleasant reality to exist in, yet without any recognition of the meaning of a coward. Simply, feeling "smart" stroked my confidence and made me feel strong enough to confront the subject with a tight hold to whatever conclusion I'd come to even if it wasn't correct. In the end, it was all a sad struggle to justify my ego, to avoid ideas of delusion and truth and to be able to distance myself from what I actually was. The old-young Robin was a fool and I hated him, but he reared his head more than I could control or would have liked.

He declared confidently: "But we removed the probes! Even if you could create technology like that, there isn't anything you have to use it on anymore. Cyborg even took the generator!" I thought I had him, but;

The eye narrowed and gleamed. "You think you can remove the probes? Nanoscopic probes?" I heard a chuckle from beneath the iron mask. "Poor delusioned boy, there are millions of them—trillions. No matter what technology your little scrap-metal friend has, nothing can remove probes on a nanoscopic level once they have attached to the patient's signature and become encoded in the DNA. Not, unless of course, you have the original software the probes were created with which to form an antidote."

I looked at him, stunned. "But Cyborg said—"

"Robin, your friend does not know as much as you and he think he does. I built the probes to trick his systems because I made them in accordance to their signatures. He can remove the base probes on any of you but no matter what, the active chemical will be encoded into the DNA which is something he can't reverse. And because I used coded software the traces of nanoscopic elements will not alert him to any changes in DNA structure or health condition; in fact, I had a feeling they would catch on after your little incident at Wayne Enterprises and so I decided to do some…wireless updates to ensure that if they did discover the probes it would be virtually impossible to remove them—and as an added bonus they would remain undetected again until you disobeyed. But of course I didn't count on the little stunt you pulled—though I will admit, you surprised and impressed me with your confidence, Robin.

As for the generator of the power, well—it would have been helpful to have had the original your friend stole. But I managed. When I came here after being brought back, I traced the probes' signatures and downloaded the information back into the mainframe and then pulled the logistics of the generator from that—working backwards, in a way. And yet the benefit of all the hassle is that because the probes have become specialized to the subject's DNA, we can further minimize the risk that you will be re-infected with the virus because your signature was never re-encoded. Meaning that if you were ever to get your little hands on the generator you would not be able to infect yourself with the probes again—meaning you can't pull a stunt similar to last time."

I thought I had him—though at the same time I think I knew I didn't. There was a part to the real Robin, a great part which was very critical of every move and thought; sometimes that was bad, but sometimes it saved lives, too. That part was now recognizing that someone like Slade would not have gone through all the trouble to create such an intricate device like these "good probes" he talked about just to realize they were useless. He would have thought it out better and certainly, he wouldn't have spent three years away from me if he hadn't been doing some serious thinking and planning. I was kicking myself now—because even if I had been anticipating Slade, why hadn't I done anything about it? Even if I wanted to interact with him again why did I just sit back and wait for him to come up with something like this? Because certainly this was not what I wanted and I should have known—this was not what came to mind particularly, when I thought of the good old days and the light and warmth that brought me. I should have known that nothing good would come of Slade and I should have just stayed away from him and done what I knew was right; because when it came to Slade it was similar to meddling in the occult—it was just better to stay away than to dabble and end up regretting later what would come of it. This, what had happened to me, should have been no surprise—but in reality and in all bluntness it never should have happened. Slade may be a tempter—he might provide me with things that felt good—but in the end he was little more than the face of the devil himself and I should have known better than to allow myself to fall victim to the petty pleasure it gave me to do so. And the fact was now—now I wasn't the only one being affected by my stupidity, arrogance, and selfishness. Now there were others—now, once again, people's lives were at risk because of me and there was not a thing I could do about it. And now—it was no longer a question of whether or not I'd ever been in control: the fact is it's a certainty that I was never holding the cards because if I'd ever had the chance I blew it or second guessed myself or acted impulsively or let emotions take hold of me. I was weak, stupid, and I was the worst thing that happened to the city, and in that moment, I sincerely believed it. My friends would have been better off if I had killed myself years ago.

A few minutes of silence from my part—just me laying there, staring up at the lamp illuminating me, drowning in this overwhelming sense of my failure and the sudden idea that my life had been a lie and a waste of everyone's time. I didn't realize I had started crying again until I felt him wiping my eyes with his gloved hands. Again, they were strong and confident but gentle and controlled, and now I could feel them, and I didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing. Strangely laying there weeping with my mortal enemy standing in front of me and looking down at me and holding that long, sparkling needle while I was completely helpless gave me this crazy sense of being so alive, and that made me want to fight. The feeling of being alive instilled me with this desire to make things right and to do what was right and to fight in the name of goodness; in fact the thought itself that I would be better off dead made me feel completely relevant and present, actually made me want that much more to be allowed to be alive, to be justified to be alive, and then to have the chance to turn it all around and prosper. As if I wanted to prove fate wrong and to prove myself wrong and to prove Slade wrong—as if proving these forces wrong could only be done with persistence and confidence and undying devotion to my cause and to goodness even if it was at the expense of my friends. And yet I knew that that was crazy and pointless and wrong, still it seemed to be the only thing tying me to this world anymore—establishing a consistency that, if everything else, couldn't be torn from me. I would take this to the grave and that would be my vindication and defense when it all came down to it, no matter what I ended up doing.

As if, if I didn't bring back the old Robin who was the champion of stupid questions and inappropriate over-confidence, insistence and one-track mindedness, then no longer could I call myself a Teen Titan.

Maybe that was what we were about—consistency without quality.

Or maybe it was just me.

"I don't believe you!" I sneered, crying harder though unable to help it and really not taking much notice to it, helplessly turning my head away from his hand so that I did not have to feel that confusing touch. "I don't believe this is true! You're lying! You're lying to get me to obey you! You're—"

I felt the sharpness—a gentle and quick pinch of my skin and then a little pain spreading from the area on my neck. Then Slade took a cloth and wiped down the area as it began to bleed, disinfecting it with a solution that stung slightly before bandaging it. He removed the blanket and then released the locks on the straps retaining me and helped me to sit up. I sat there in his arms, quiet and dazed.

After a few minutes he took the hand which had been impaled by the needle in his and caressed it, gently, bringing it up to my eyelevel. "Look, Robin," he said, his voice projecting the smile that must have been on his face.

I looked dizzily at the hand, and even in my stunned haze I could see that where there had once been a painful, bloody hole, there was now smooth, young skin. Like new.