Mutual Company-The Hit List and Lingering Fire
In the days that would come Jericho's past would be no better discovered—and he would quickly be weighted with Slade's hatred toward his late wife, Rosemary. But for the time being, in that cold darkness of the place where it seemed I was condemned to spend the rest of my life, I was made to forget about Jericho singularly and to focus on what really seemed to be the most pressing matter at hand; and no longer was Jericho outstanding from the sad group he had been unfortunately categorized in when it came to keeping me in line—and, in fact, while some of those Titans pounced out in my mind Jericho somehow would not show his face no matter how prevalent and important he would seem to me and my situation, and instead I would find more attention focused on the "ladies" as Slade's hatred of Rosemary and her surviving daughter, Rose, seemed to bleed into his affairs with those who he was not related to; and soon I found myself the subject of many anti-women campaigns like Jinx's feminist reign against men around her. And most prevalently in the days to come, I would learn that family ties to Slade were little more than non-existent; and I would learn that these could not such be used against him.
I began to quickly equate Rosemary and Rose—who would adapt the name Ravenger, or "Rave" to me—with being an epitome of evil when the drugs which I found to rule my brain and thusly my universe took hold and I found myself in that same transfixed haze which left me feeling like there could be some safety in Slade. What once had been a woman-hungry and—mostly Slade-detesting, and willful in that way, teenager became a like a loyalist to the king and with quite a set of sexist and strong-headed beliefs reflecting these, soaked into my brain by these constant lectures by my new "master" as he would forcibly assert himself as in the coming days; what had never came to fruition as my friends burst in and challenged Slade now had made its comeback and possessed undiluted force and a bright and unwavering light so that it seemed impossible to skirt around or ignore. In fact when drugged at my fullest, having the needle just seeped into my flesh with its mystery liquid and having Slade draw his pipe with its special "good stuff" to my lips to further push me into that soothed and compliant state, I could have adopted a holocaust-like attitude toward those who wronged Slade and only in their defeat it seemed could I find peace; and so ultimately three people came into mind when I lingered here, with Jericho again nowhere to be found while life went on in this way (with Slade's lists also having an absence in Jericho); and I would not rest until I had done his bidding.
Rosemary Wilson: deceased—charge unknown to me.
"Ravenger" Rose-Ann Queen: Gotham with connections to a man named Oliver John—charge unknown to me.
Oliver John Queen: unknown—charge unknown—
shrouded in the darkest of mystery which would not be penetrated so quickly in the coming days.
Wishful thinking.
There also became a hit-list which lingered with me here; Slade's enemies with connections so unfortunately familiar to me and to what I had done had I been thinking while the high prevailed; these, all more forthcoming with information, and yet would still adapt an air of mystique and an unwillingness in Slade to reveal what lay at the center of our universes and should have been bluntly apparent, yet skirted around by one another seemed otherwise easily avoided. "Brother" Sebastian Blood: stolen technology; attempted murder. The Hive-Five: betrayal; attempted murder; stolen technology. Carnaby-Neil Richards—"Mad Mod": torture; stolen technology; attempted murder. Indie "Anaxe-Herre" Tarris—"Control Freak": stolen technology; harassment. Val Yor/Valor: interference/unknown otherwise to me. Terra-"Avrretta Jade" Markov: betrayal, attempted murder. God Trigon: betrayal; attempted murder; destruction of property/manipulation; torture/manipulation; betrayal; dishonesty. God Trigon-Arella: harboring traitor. Raven-Unknown: Use/manipulation; attempted murder; interference. Garfield Logan "Beast Boy": attempted murder; interference (these two otherwise also unknown to me). The Brotherhood of Evil/The Brain/Baron Tenkai-Talbot Jackson-Unknown—"General Immortus"/Madame Jeune Débauché—"Madam Rouge"/ "Lady Red": attempted murder; stolen technology; harboring traitors; manipulation/torture; unknown to me.
And a host more, yet these became the main and most frequently brooded upon by the solitary and frightening man named Slade. Like my friends, they became another list in Slade's revamped computer, which he had rebuilt upon his return to earth and life with even more of a hatred and bias than he had had before. What he wanted, exactly, from these "villains" I would scarcely know; and not even in my most conscious and clear-headed of states could I unearth what, more specifically, was the cause of his anger. Virtually all of the names meant nothing to me in terms of Slade; while some were familiar, such as Beast Boy and Raven and Terra and it could be reasonably inferred why revenge was ideal, some of them left me feeling like I had been in a coma for a year straight and had woken up to destruction and fire all around—
Brother Blood?
Mad Mod?
The Brotherhood of Evil?
Control Freak?
Arella—who even was this?
But mostly—
Rosemary.
Ravenger.
Oliver John.
Again—wishful thinking.
And it became, in time, hard to tell whether or not these charges, all senseless, or so I would believe at first glance, were chalked for myself, or were meant to apply to what had been done to him or someone else…but ultimately when it came down to it, these names and ideas would become the epicenter of my being with Slade and, at the heart of it, a whirlwind of trying tasks and emotions stemming from those tasks to cloak a greater and more inconceivable idea between us. A change brought in me as my life changed, too.
The computer itself also became a large part of my life as the time would progress. In fact, that night after Slade had dressed me—when we had had that odd, first really "emotional," if such is a good way to put it, moment between the two of us as he smoothed the mask on and looked at me in that way with that one silver eye—I would come in contact with the computer in the worst way; the way which would affirm to my horror the reality of it all and convince me, finally, for the first time, I think, that truthfully there was no escaping where I had landed now. This would happen ultimately after having come out of the drug haze injected by the winking needle, and would lead to the first open protest I would give Slade in regards to the position in question, and where, for the first time, the mechanics of the whole scheme would finally be revealed to me to further affirm the fate. I considered it a crucial moment as in that moment it felt crucial and I acted accordingly; perhaps as if I was truthfully believing that anything I could do would change or sway the outcome of myself and my friends, old and new, doomed by my stupid actions.
I woke up in frigidity; not from a dream, and not from any sense of foreboding—but with a chill encompassing my body that derived from some outside source. What had been a restful and black sleep was sliced with a knife like snowy winter icicles to draw me from my sleep and back into the real world, where I lay in the bed, still dressed in my uniform, but now covered with a blanket which did nothing to compensate for the temperature; immediately upon opening my eyes I saw my breath rising from my mouth in long, drawn out streams like I was smoking something deeply. I felt internally chilled and realized immediately I was shaking in that horrid cold where life was easily felt but detested—where there was no hiding from what was the truth. Lulled to sleep by warm ignorance to be woken by cold reality: the high had worn off and I sat up as I began to gain some of my memory back of where I was.
What had happened after or during Slade's sort of holding me the way he was after dressing me, I don't really remember; and in that moment there was definitely trouble comprehending it especially when the cold bit me as it did. I sat up and rubbed my head tiredly; the gloves still caressing my fingers but now providing no comfort were painful and numb simultaneously and bending them as they ran through my hair was a feat in itself. Inside the new boots my toes were similarly frozen; my head was aching dully, and there was a stiffness about the entirety of my body that seemed to meld with the chill and easily encompass me. I moaned out my discomfort and used the other hand to rub my thighs which were cold and tight like a corpse's, and with the other I gripped the back of my head, wondering silently my disorientation; the cold, the old high, the atmosphere, all seemed to create a perfect storm which made all this physical pain ache so prevalently I wanted to just end it all then and there, because I found no safety anywhere, and in no escape from the pain I slowly leaned forward and vomited onto the floor, moaning as I did, tasting bile alone because there was nothing in my stomach any longer, my last meal having been some of Beast Boy's tofu hotdogs which I had eaten for lunch that day—however long ago it was—though arguably it was better to not have tasted a second time around. I threw up more than once and crumpled over in the pain of that, clutching my stomach because it was all I could do, my body buzzing with this overwhelming sensation of pain until it became too much to handle; and quiet came quickly, somehow, and I found myself in numb thankfulness as I lay back down on the bed and closed my eyes again, still shaking in the cold but overloaded by what I had felt previously that it seemed not to matter, though unconsciously I was tugging the blanket back around my body and pulling it tightly around me to draw out the chill.
And when I was here and dulled enough to wonder, one question prevalently flashed before my eyes as I lay here in a daze, my mouth open and drool dripping from it in the aftermath of my sickness: what the hell is going on right now?
Not that there was actually much of a question, when it came down to it; because in total honesty I think the knowledge of where and who and what I would become always lingered in my mind, if in the back most corner. Maybe the vomiting just provided for a nice cover for that cold knowing, what ultimately bound me to pain and the misfortune of understanding itself—the implications it proposed. But the last time I woke to physical sickness was the morning of my parents' funerals, when the images of wreaths and dark wood and gray skies over the vivid green fake turf of the cemetery reigned supremely in my mind—and so naturally, I could be at least credited slightly for my confusion, mostly wondering how, in Slade's presence, let alone while he gripped me and looked at me with that odd mysterious expression, I could have gone off to dreamland so easily. The larger idea of my drugging lingered as I lay there, shivering in the frigid air; as the memory of the needle and its penetration of me loomed, I understood my actions, if could even be called that, were not to be prevented, inevitable; and I understood that it was not a judgment of my own character or morals—and yet anger, abhoration, took my mind and created a storm of its own, where the idea of sinking claws and feet into Slade could not have seemed better; as if the sickness, the cold, and the memories all flooded together to drown me in this feeling of need; the feeling to act if only to satisfy that property and not to satisfy the smarter, retro Robin.
In short—I wanted to fight Slade. Badly. No matter how stupid it was—considering.
And without hesitation it seemed I did not care that I had just vomited my guts out of my mouth (and, in turn, did not consider why, or care, hold any forward concern, really, if it lurked, of course), or that I was weak and sore, or that my body was so encompassed by frigidity my teeth chattered hopelessly, I made myself rise from the bed and slowly, quickly as I did, I threw the blanket off my shoulder and clamored up, where it was harsher, and made me feel as though I'd emerged from a safe cave and into a wilderness bitten with winter. I could see my breath again, emerging from me in the same smoke-ring type fashion; and the trickles of stray vomit on the suit, the new, shining S, had hardened in the cold, frozen on my face and neck, disgusting me as I wiped with the back of my gloved hands, where a phantom IV prick moaned beneath them, healed instantly by the good probes; and this small tingle, the alerting of what had been and how it had gone and what that implied and reaped forth in my mind only furthered the drive to attack Slade if so helplessly and carelessly. In that instant I would remember how he had tricked my friends, would remember how he had dealt with my body like it belonged to him, how he had dressed me like that was his to decide what I wore. It was an understatement to say this upset me; no matter how my physical body moaned for repose, thoughts tendered a rage which was worse than when the girl named Terra flaunted herself about with Slade; the girl, who, Raven would later recount, had mocked her and laughed as she tried to finish her off. Now—this seemed irrelevant.
And left more room for forgiveness and a need, for completion, to aspire…
I stood. Black boots tapped softly on the cold metal floor, which groaned and responded to the sudden weight on its stiffness. Strange shifting was heard beneath the floor as I stepped, the gears and cogs, turning and clicking, while the ground worked to process what I proposed like an overloaded computer. I stepped around the vomit and grimly continued to wipe myself of the result of my seemingly irrelevant sickness and walked from the room, slowly and arduously but with an unending confidence and determination which made my step easy and sure; and without hesitation I threw the door of the bedroom open and the sound of that echoed throughout the place, hollowly but loudly, like an organ hastily pressed in the emptiness of an abandoned cathedral. And standing in the doorway, I clenched my gloved hands so tightly I felt pain in my palms, callouses being opened and torn. I stared out at the place as I stood there, and I felt stupid and thoughtless, instinctual, rage burn within me.
"Slade," I said slowly, and similarly the room reverberated with my voice and the cogs and gears seemed to turn and respond, like they had been made fearful by my presence; and the name bounced and lingered hauntingly about the place, only further reminding me of my predicament, its implications, hateful knowledge. Angered, "I'll shove this thing down your throat!"
My hand lingered on the S over my heart.
I seemed to snap out of the haze when there came no response to my threats; and after the name faded I was left with that haunting and forever lasting sound of the cogs and gears as they wound and turned and remained lurking with stealthful silence. And it was then that I realized the darkness about the place—and realized that the darkness was not only implied and created by spirit, but was real and looming. Where lights had once been was darkness, and even in my bedroom, where the light had illuminated the glinting S, darkness was ignored and pushed aside by my anger. The only thing that remained illuminated was the screen—the computer which would so manage my life in the days to come; and the only other source of light became that thrown by a strange array of headlamps, flashlights, candles, and industrial battery-powered lanterns. And one would think that these things would at least neutralize the cold, would think that the candles, like those which we had complained to Raven more than once were causing global warming, would at least provide some heat in that drab place; but of course there was no relief here, even as I took in the dim scene and was reminded briefly of nights the Titans had spent together watching horror movies and then, too anxious to go to sleep, staying up all night and playing cards by candle-light, seeing which of us would be the first to scream out their pent up horror of the film we had just watched (and Beast Boy usually took this).
But those nights were anything but cold.
Arguably, there were not enough of them to warm the place, but then, in comparison to the hatred of their flicker it should have generated enough heat to at least touch me where I had been sleeping. I noticed a strangeness about the place which, in further introspection would only strengthen my remembrance of Raven and everything she stood for and we had done together in our special connection which had been established on that night so long ago and so seemingly far away. When Raven meditated the heat of the candles she burned was strong, and, in proximity to one, with the hand lingering more than a foot from each, a burn still could be achieved. And yet the room was enveloped by such stark cold, always, as she meditated and repeated those words so familiar to me—Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos—Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos—and with each word, making the candle's flame to flare brighter and larger but simultaneously cooling and chilling the room to a winter-like climate. I could only assume it was feng-shui which she achieved through this in her meditation; and yet it would not cease to unnerve me, especially because, in relation to everything else, she had only begun to do it after she'd defeated her father—and I didn't know whether or not to put it from my mind and think nothing of it, or to wonder, seemingly hopelessly, if it might be some source for alarm—and yet, in this night, I would look back on my decision and wonder if perhaps the process by which she meditated was more than just a new fad or acquired trick, because—
Slade's place felt like it too.
Briefly I was reminded of the dream which had encompassed my sleep when I had first passed out in Slade's presence and before me flashed the vision of Raven and Slade together, burning the field, the three eyes glowing, begging for a fourth to complete their hateful and powerful nature in that feng-shui—and with knowledge that the eye would not come from Slade, whose right was dead and gone and shrunken and—Rosemary. The name stood prevalent in my mind and before my eyes for a moment, and with the briefest but most ending passion and relevance than anything else. The candle I fixed my eye upon in that moment seemed to signify this name; images of a military tent and reading late at night, later a chapel, passion lit in the darkness of a cold bedroom, candles encompassing the very birth of a forthcoming child. I was horrified when, for the briefest of moments but like the name of the most undying clarity that it was upturning of my human natural and all I believed, I suddenly felt very connected to Slade; a new connection which, I knew certainly in the moment remembering Raven and Slade and having been provoked upon by the name Rosemary, was not limited to our fragile lives but which would continue into the future and eternity and would encompass the flames of Hell to create a bridge with which would serve to never separate us. In the flames as I stared I saw Jericho burning—his vocal cords disintegrating as he cried out for his mother in the unending darkness, where there was no heat of the fire. And four coffins would lay beside one another, yet empty beneath the headstone of (unspecified to me, blurred to the point it was not clear), allowing for () to walk away and to leave a trail of fire burning soft fields and fake cemetery grass and that of battlefields, scarred as the boy clawed at the edges of his coffin, struggling to resurrect himself; and this connection was forever made true as he writhed and the nameless man drew upon the delicate powers of the blue haired girl and made candle flames rise, drawing me to them like a helpless insect, and—
"Robin—did I hear you threaten me?"
The vision was gone, and so the connection, and I was again just staring at a regular candle, a simple wax one which seemed to be like those in emergency kits, unlike some which Raven had, which were shades of color and possessed interesting designs or scents, which she used for certain rituals or spells. I remembered briefly, but this time with little emotion or relevance as my mind fixed itself upon the glowing eye which now lingered before me, when Raven and I had meditated with one another only a week or so before this new incident, I had asked her if finally I might be able to do a ritual with her, which she had denied me even since the incident with her father; and though she seemed hesitant, she finally unearthed a purple candle and lit it. She told me to hold her hands across it and I did—and needless to say, it happened quickly and I understood little of it. In fact, like an anesthetic, I seemed to have slipped out of consciousness for that period of time and into a region of fuzzy gray, where thoughts were void. And yet I remember when we were done the candle, which had big to start with, in the seemingly small amount of time had reduced to a small pile of wax with a wick drowning within; and the wax had turned a dark brown, mingled with black and gray. She had seemed disturbed, but when I asked her what it meant, she was very vague and banished me quickly from the room. I had only been able to uncover after limited internet research that a purple candle was meant to exile evil before Gizmo and Cyborg had almost beat each other up as the result of a video game and had had to break it up.
And all I can affirm is that, if the ritual accords to now, then the purple candle, to banish evil, did not work.
"Did I hear you threaten me, Robin?"
Slade stood before me, illuminated only vaguely in the low lighting cast by the dripping white candle, flickering in a breeze that penetrated the place. His arms were crossed, and he stood, looking down at me with clear expectation shining in that one eye, narrowed in anticipation of my answer. He obviously seemed not to be pleased at the current moment, quite a change from his demeanor before I'd fallen asleep, when he had seemed almost as if he could kiss me from the ecstasy he felt from seeing me once again dressed like him. I could tell beneath the mask the face was scrunched up, and I noted dimly a tapping foot on the cold concrete floor of the place. Metal gears and cogs turned and threw slinking and creeping shadows over him, in the strange twilight evoked by skylights within the ceiling, projecting the world above with little more than passing interest, but which told it was early morning, very early. And horribly, his shadow was thrown across the terrain and seemed to encompass me; and for a moment, he seemed huge and menacing, and called to me immediately to step down and to do everything I could to stay on his good side; but when the clouds shifted and shadows changed, I regained my strength and confidence, and, the visions already forgotten, I remembered the kindled hatred of everything Slade encompassed—and I was made ready to act upon it.
"What did it sound like?" I sneered at him, too crossing my arms to mimic him and drawing my eyes up in an angry glare. "You think this is going to be like last time?"
He took a step toward me immediately, and it took everything in my power not to stagger back as he came horribly close to me, so much so that when he leaned down to meet my eye level I could feel his breath on my skin. "In fact I do, young man—except for the fact that this time, you won't get out so easily. In fact, you won't get out at all unless you wish death upon everyone you know. You seem to have forgotten how this works."
"I didn't forget anything," I snapped, and straightened up, so that my own face was now just as close to his as he was to mine, invasively, no matter how much it disgusted me or how uncomfortable I was immediately made. "I didn't forget how much I hate you, or how much of a moron you are and always will be. I didn't forget how not only couldn't you win anyone over without screwing it up, but how you couldn't even make them stay with you. I didn't forget how pathetic you are, Slade."
He slapped me, and it hurt, a lot; a residual sting left upon my right cheek, a swollenness that would come later but immediately heal, I felt a soft trickle of blood slip down my cheek and begin to pool in the crook of my neck as I stood there still, my feet grounded, for I would not allow myself to fall though the impact would have been hard enough to knock anyone else off of their feet; and slowly, the anger built and tried until I could no longer stand it to sit by idly, I turned my head back to look at him, with what I could feel was perhaps one of the most hateful glares my eyes had ever taken the trouble to form. My fists clenched immediately as the two of us locked our gazes, his softened a little at first because he perhaps felt badly for what he had done and did not expect what I did next as I hissed out, without any hesitation, my breath drawn into a low growl, "You bitch."—and for the first time in forever, I finally, finally, drove my fist into his stomach, which of course he hadn't seen coming, because it sent him flying backwards and into the wall behind him, the motion of that snuffing out candle flames and his impact damaging several flashlights and lanterns so light became immediately even more scarce within the room. There was the brief shattering of glass before a silence, in which I heard a few bats taking flight to the rafters, stirred by the commotion, and this sound echoed like the name hollowly within the room. And then—
Glass falling and the shifting of a body.
Slade stood up, slowly, the pieces tumbling from his body and shattering further against the ground when they fell. He looked at me and I saw that there was a small trickle of blood running from beneath his mask and similarly dripping down and splattering against his gleaming tech. The eye was fixed into a glare I could only find from the experience of the first time I had ever actually injured Slade, breaking his mask in half when I had slammed him onto the ground the first time I fought him as his apprentice. In a word, it was vehement, and portrayed that violence in the eye as what he mostly likely would have preferred to be a painting of my future, bloody and broken as payment for drawing his blood. And like last time, he, too, had drawn his voice into a low and just barely controlled growl, trying to keep himself from leaping at me and attacking, and I could tell, as he said, "You're going to wish you hadn't done that."
I looked at him, and mimicked almost instinctively that rage shining in the eye as it glared uncaringly at me, now seeming to say, You've done it, boy, no sympathy from me, and this was only furthered when I hissed out, "I still wish I would have done it sooner, Slade! I should have finished you off when you were a helpless, desperate corpse. I hate you and I'll wish until the day I die that I would have killed you when I had the damn chance!"
I was sure, upon everything in my belief, that he would charge that me; was sure, that, in a matter of seconds, I would be lying on the ground beneath his feet and looking death in the face; and yet that moment would not come, at least not yet under the circumstances. He instead approached me slowly and steadily, his hands clenched tightly at his sides as he strode in that calculated way he had adapted; and I watched as blood dripped and pooled, and, horribly, his eye seemed to grow red as it became apparent from where the blood originated, and it would appear that he was crying tears of the sticky crimson; and that sight knew no bounds of terror with which to possess me, instantly, to make me once again briefly shrivel in doubt and fear so that I would stand down and do what he said like a good little boy, the boy he wanted me to be. And though I will never know why that sight got me the way it did, as I stood there watching the blood fall from the one good eye and drip onto the floor, leaving a small trail as he approached me, I will always remember the horror of that—and the waves of emotions stemming from that horror, a raised heartbeat, music in my head that was fast and deep, crunk-sound by turning cogs and gears which had become the entirety of my life to elevate the anticipation that boiled within my mind. And I shrunk away, without thought—though a part of me when I saw that dripping eye, like a wild, instinctual and scared animal wanted to lunge defensively at his looming form.
"Little one," he said, almost cooed to me, as if the eye did not bleed as it did. His voice was unnervingly soft and only further fueled the desire within me to pounce with claws drawn, raised the beat of my heart and the sureness that any minute he would swing one of his practiced hands toward my face, and the softness as a result would tempt me easily to shriek like Beast Boy, the candle-lit card games, as if I would have rather had him screaming at me: like a horror movie, those which encompassed our Friday nights and my memory of good times, in which the suspense gradually builds, with the audience knowing the killer will pop out and feeling that knowledge turn and possess them, even though it would fall and cease the minute the killer struck; and Slade could have fooled me for a monster, without a doubt—wicked scary. And as the eye bleed and cried he said, "Are you talking about Terra, little one? Is this jealousy?"
The name and the meantion of Jealousy, some larger idea than I could in reality comprehend in its entirety, loomed over me and, like a time machine, a tempting bottle to a recovering alcoholic, forced me suddenly to revert back into old ways which had shaped my thinking since the day the little bitch wrecked one of my best friends' cars; the day she had mocked Raven and taken great pleasuring in "doing away with us"—as if she thought she could actually kill us, as if this moron actually thought SHE could kill us? Who does she think she is? Who does he think he is to assume this little BITCH could kill us? Could kill ME? Did he think he could kill ME with HER? And needless to say—there seemed very little beauty in Terra now, and our field seemed irrelevant; and I was saying in the depths of my brain and that dream, screaming, let it burn, you little bitch, let Raven burn it…and I could only see Terra in her outfit for Slade, could only see the smirk, the hatred, the stupidity. And so, the idea of these two words being connected to myself in regards to Slade hit me like I had had the wind knocked out of me by a solid metal baseball bat—the fact that Slade could think—
Needless to say, I threw my fist his way again; but needless to say, he caught it, this time, and did not show me mercy as he had before in the bedroom, when he had simply let it go; this time, he twisted my wrist around like a flashback to my past, held me there and wouldn't let me go. I began to shriek and embody that wild, caged animal I had so felt as I tried to balance my fear and defensiveness; I twisted and writhed, unlike before, however, when I had been so submissive and had simply laid there in his grip, panting, unmoving, thinking about the pointless and hateful nature of life itself as I took in the reality of my situation; but now I kicked and screamed until he could not keep me still enough by my wrist alone, and had to heave my body up and wrap his arms around me in a violent bear-hug to keep me from writhing out of his grip; and he leaned down so that he could speak into my ear, his mouth inside the mask being less than an inch from my head, making the hairs on my neck stand up, shivers sent through me and goosebumps as I felt him breath, and made a small whimper, and then a growl, slip out of my mouth as he said to me, "Of course you're jealous of her. You think I like her better, don't you, and so you're acting a bad boy to show me."
As he drew even closer to me, so that a few drops of blood splattered on my shoulder, I let out another series of whimpers and growls, these further heightened by my hatred as I could actually felt the metal of his mask, which, like the candles and their hateful patter, was freezing on the outside but hot and almost uncomfortably so on the inside, touching my cheek near the ear as he cooed again, "But don't worry, my little one, you can put her out of your mind like Joseph; and once you do we won't have to worry about another one of these little temper tantrums you're throwing. Don't worry, Robin—you have all my atten—"
I managed to kick him as I had done before; the metal boots which he had designed to provide excellent traction for fast running and agility maneuvering those places which would be intimidating to a clunky shoe crashed into his face as I flipped around, and I heard him recoil in pain and startled realization. I landed on the ground and he fell back into the wall where glass and metal shards resided and undoubtedly cut back into the already marred flesh as the eye cried its tears of crimson blood and stained the room and my own body; and I heard him exhale in the pain of that, the air being forced out of him as he was once again met with the unfortunate result of his obnoxious teasing and his sense of self-righteous entitlement, like he could do whatever he wanted to me, like he owned me. I heard him cough and realized that within the mask, he was bleeding eternally and hacking it up; and little did I know the impact had broken one of his ribs, even with his extensive armor.
In the twilight I watched his breath rise in wispy streams through the vents in his mask and mingle with my own as he slowly rose and looked at me with that one, bleeding eye, now with a hatred which reached new depths of which I had never seen of any enemy I had ever faced, for what could have been an eternity, silence prolonged and enhanced by turning gears and cogs and the sounds of the world above, where things were brighter and hatred was rarer; until suddenly, in an instant, without warning, the eye became totally red, lighting up with fervency, a sickness that boiled into this tangible hatred, as he said, his voice rising with each word he uttered,
"You ungrateful boy!" His fists were clenched so tightly he drew blood from the palms and it became apparent that he was clenching his teeth because his growl became a snarl, quickly, vehement, as ever, and the eye, now appearing to burn red like the fires of hell, narrowed so fully that I saw the furrows of a dark drown eyebrow come down and shade hatefully the eye—and then, shaking in rage, it widened as he yelled, his voice encompassing every aspect of the world, seemingly, in that moment, "You little ungrateful child! You worthless louse! Do you KNOW who you're FUCKING with, Robin?! Do you want to DIE like the bastards in Vietnam?! DO YOU WANT TO DIE LIKE MY STUPID WIFE WHEN I SNAPPED HER NECK?!"
And now around him a ring of fire rose; the extinguished wicks of the candles lit and flared up in streams of lava; and his fists glowed as he rose them in time with their flaring, fire bleeding from them like the eye which now was burning and predicted and assumed Fire and Brimstone; and blood poured from him as he stood within the flames, shrieking out his passion which rose from the vented mask like steam from hotbeds in volcanic climates; and as the sky blackened with ash and the ground cracked and fire rose, beneath me became the clear image of an empty and waiting coffin, and hands of flames and dark energy reached from the gaping abyss to pull me into it and to lock me inside where darkness would reign and the world could plant flowers on my grave and where I would be forgotten. My shrieks were drowned in the sounds of his own, like banshees in the swamps of foreign countries, like the sound of lost souls clamoring in darkened and abandoned hallways, as the hands dragged me down into the waiting oblong box; and as I hung desperately onto the ledge where the ground had cracked as I lost swiftly the battle to the clawing hands, I could only scream, helplessly, as it became the only word within my mind—"Slade! Slade! SLADE! SLADE!"
And when I was heard the hands left; fire diminished; the ground reformed, and I was still alive and present; and there was only silence except for the turning cogs and gears and the slow moaning of my name in return, "Robin…"
Robin. Robin…Robin…
0~0 0~0
I sat in the throne—the chair where he had so often dealt business regarding evil, watched as Terra or I were made to destroy everything we loved, watched as our most personal lives, inner secrets unfolded and revealed; I was wrapped in a blanket, shaking violently within the cold metal that surrounded me even though I had balled myself up so tightly it seemed impossible I shouldn't retain some heat. My breath rose and fell rapidly and the smoke rings became haphazard and anything but sophisticated and sultry, and quivered with my shaking body as I pulled the blanket and my old cape tighter around myself, groaning in the cold. A digital thermometer read below zero temps, while a clock read 4:52 AM. On the computer screens before me, the paneled spectacular for monitoring and observation, sported red; pictures of the bloodstream had embedded themselves in my mind for over two years, and yet now, more than quadrupled, they returned and lingered and made themselves unable to ignore as they encompassed the entirety of any motion my head could make in turning—and all I saw was the bloodstream, and the names to match.
Just another hit list:
Beast Boy
Raven
Cyborg
Starfire
Speedy
Bumble Bee
Aqualad
Más
Menos
Thunder
Lightning
Hotspot
Kid Flash
Wildebeest
Bushido
Harold
Argent
Jinx
Gizmo
Pantha
Kole
Red Star
Killowat
Terra
Jericho.
"You're not even going to ask me how I did it?" Slade said softly.
He stood in front of me, holding out a cup of something that was steaming and which really, and I mean really, looked good in consideration of the circumstances, but I didn't take it. His eye was no longer bleeding.
"I don't care," I said softly in return, shaking, my teeth chattering as I did. "It doesn't matter, does it? You did it and that's all that matters."
There was a moment of silence, and now silence was prevalent because Slade had shut down all the systems but the computer in an attempt to get the heat back working after it had shut off due to an overuse of power in recent days when the use of computers and the technology of it all in relation to that monitoring was needed for my being there more than ever; but the control for the probes was wireless and the computer had a backup generator dedicated to it, so there was not to worry, and no use for turning cogs and gears to work other features which were irrelevant in comparison, so quiet encompassed us. But it was only for the briefest of moments, and Slade said, offhandedly and very softly, almost timidly, if that were possible for someone of his character, "…Here, little one, drink this. You'll feel better and you'll probably get warmer more quickly."
He held out the beverage. From spending time with Raven I knew it was tea, and it smelled delicious. My body ached for sustenance and warmth—but though the body was drooling for the relief of what the cup would give me, undoubtedly drugged, the mind was somewhere else and refused bluntly with a look. It couldn't have cared less for warmth when it considered the matter at hand; and it responded offhandedly in the same tone as he, though lacking timidity, with exhaustion reigning like the silence. "What are you, Slade?"
The steam rose in soft wisps and dissipated over his head, into the air to be carried on the unfriendly breeze that claimed the place. The two of us stared at the thin film of steam between us, for only the smallest moment as he seemed to consider, and our emotions and thoughts seemed to meld into one clot of confusion between us, where bright from dim were undistinguishable and the past seemed so far and yet so close at the same time to the future. For once the two of us were quiet and resigned and for a moment we seemed little more than two timid people in the presence of one another—two strangers with no connection previously, as the steam cloaked us in a fog as if to keep us from rekindling the connection which had seemed to have always ruled our lives; and looking into the eye it seemed that I looked into one unknown, as no emotions were sparked and fire seemed irrelevant. I knew little anymore, and I knew that he did not, either, but he seemed to strive to preserve what his memory told him we had had, like my own:
"Drink this and we'll talk about it, Robin."
So to mimic him, before the screens showing the bloodstreams of my best friends and cherished family, I drank the tea given to me by my enemy while we lingered in mutual company; not for the warmth or relief, but for knowledge still unknown to me which became my life from then on;
Fire to reign on.
Author Note:
I was gonna update on Friday, but I had my wisdom teeth ripped out of my damn mouth and then got back from the movie Lone Survivor at like one thirty with my brother...so I was like, ah, f$$$ it, there's only like nine people following this story anyway llllloool. (FEEL BAD FOR ME, I AM A REVIEW WHORE LOL no seriously I couldn't give less of a shit). So yeah.
I'm gonna go watch ghost adventures.
I DONT LIKE BULLIES!
~Rick