(Warnings for blood, off-screen violence. Might want to skip the bit toward the end, the paragraph after "Then the voices were louder," if it bothers you.)
Jericho was cold.
That was the first thing he noticed when he awoke, still in the room with The Machine. It was a familiar observation in this place, so it didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the absence of the heavy weights of the shackles holding him down.
It wasn't a dream. He really came for me.
With no way of knowing how long he'd been unconscious, if and when other people would arrive at the base and whether they'd be friend or foe, Jericho scraped himself from the concrete floor and tried not to look at the blood or the bodies. His gaze fell on Slade's body next to him, and he reached out to check that he was alive.
The boy's blond hair swayed with the force of Jericho's sigh of relief as he felt a pulse thrumming under his fingers and Slade's chest rose and fell evenly.
Wake up. He shook Slade's shoulder. Please, wake up.
No response.
Don't look at the bodies. Don't look at the blood. Don't think about how you killed them. I killed them. Me.
Jericho knew he wouldn't be able to carry Slade out of here-probably couldn't even drag him out of the room-which meant he would have to leave him here. Slade's mask was still clipped to his belt, so Jericho removed it and slid the mask into place over Slade's head. There were rules, after all, about taking someone's mask to reveal their identity. If the Titans found the mercenary, Jericho could at least leave him with that protection. A small "thank you" for the rescue, or an apology for knocking him out?
Shivering, Jericho turned his back on Slade and the bodies and The Machine, which he couldn't destroy with Slade so close. He'd have to run now, and find a new place to hide. Somewhere far away, with no people to hurt. Turning himself in wasn't an option, at least not until he figured out how not to implode anyone who got too close.
He managed to find a less bloody pair of boots and a heavy black jacket on the way out, both of which were several sizes too big for him. The mute didn't linger long enough to try and find what remained of his own clothes. He would have to find better ones before the sun rose, or find a place to hide away during the daylight hours.
That is how Jericho, hero-turned-prisoner-turned-monster, found himself wandering the worst alleys of Jump City. Hiding in the shadows, he limped along as best he could while fighting the darkness of the voices in his head.
Murderer.
But I didn't want to!
Freak.
I told them to stay away. I begged them.
You killed them.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry-
You can never go back.
Cold, scared, lost, and alone.
...Or perhaps not so alone.
It seemed a member of Jump City's nightlife had spotted him. The man's silhouette was nowhere near as imposing as the mercenaries who held him captive, but Jericho was in no state to fight right now. He changed directions and limped faster, until he saw another man, bigger than the last. The emaciated Jericho turned again, and made it about halfway down the alley before three men walked across to block his exit. He could hear the men from before entering the alley behind him. Jericho backed himself against a wall.
Not again… Not now…
"Hey there, Pretty Boy. What'cha doin' out so late all by yourself?"
While Robin handcuffed an unconscious Slade, Cyborg moved to the monitors to search for the scientists' data while Starfire, Beast Boy, and The Herald left to check the rest of the base.
Hovering just high enough to avoid the bodies and the blood, Raven moved into the shadow of the hulking metal machine. The giant contraption loomed over her, and the witch shuddered. Directly in front of her was an opening barely large enough to fit a person. The whole thing radiated pain and suffering as Raven reached out. There was an echo there, of the screams that awakened her at the beginning of this nightmare...
Slade stirred on the blood-soaked floor, and Raven came back to reality, jolting and snatching her hand back from the torture device. Robin readied his bo staff and Cyborg turned from the computers.
One moment, Slade was motionless on the ground. The next, he was standing, hands cuffed behind his back, yet looking as battle-ready as ever. He took in the room around him before his eye fell on the Titans. First Cyborg, then Raven, and, lastly, Robin.
"Long time no see, Titans. How's Joseph?"
Robin shifted a step closer, levelling the end of his staff at the mercenary's throat. "We're not here to play games, Slade. What have you been doing to him? Where is he?"
"The one you call Jericho," Slade said, and for once he didn't sound calm. "He isn't with you?"
"No," Cyborg cut in, "And most of the data on your system's been wiped."
"No…" Slade echoed, whirling toward the back of the machinery that consumed half of the room.
"Drop the act, Slade. What have you been doing to Jericho? Where is he!?" Robin raised his staff to strike, but Raven held out a hand to stop him.
"I'm not the one who did this to him, Robin. I've been busy playing dead, remember?" He turned back to them. "There was an old man here. Charles, calling himself 'Odysseus' for some foolish reason. I killed him. Where's the body?"
"None of the bodies in this room have moved since we got here," Raven deadpanned, "Aside from you."
"Then there's no time. We have to find him-"
Robin growled. "The only thing you're going to find is the inside of a jail cell!"
"Once again, Robin you fail to understand! If Charles isn't here, then he isn't dead, and Joseph's in danger. We need to find Joseph right. Now."
"Why are you so interested in Jericho?" Robin's face was mere inches away from the smooth metal of Slade's half-orange, half-black mask.
"He didn't tell you?" Slade almost sounded amused. "Of course not. I can't blame him for that."
"Blame him for what? How do you know him?" Robin was gripping Slade's uniform now, raising his voice, with Cyborg and Raven inching hesitantly closer, arms raised and preparing to intervene.
Slade leaned an inch closer. "Joseph's my son, Robin. My sweet, innocent little boy." He savored the sight of Robin's mask/eyes widening in surprise before he leaned back to stare pointedly at the carnage around them. "Or… maybe not so innocent anymore."
Slade snapped the chain of the handcuffs and threw a handful of spherical contraptions to the floor. The Titans covered their mouths, coughing, as the room filled with thick, white smoke.
"I'm going to find him, Robin," Slade's voice echoed through the smoke, "With or without your help."
Robin growled Slade's name into the smoke, while Raven heard a faint beeping sound. Turning her hooded head, she caught a glimpse of a flashing red light and pulled Robin and Cyborg close, whipping out her Titans communicator.
"Everybody out of the building, NOW!" Raven shouted. She conjured her signature black, spherical shield around Cyborg, Robin, and herself as the room exploded around them.
Grant Wilson didn't remember much. One minute, he was stealing some priceless artifact from a museum that he couldn't care less about. The next, he was lying in a field outside of Paris, France wearing fucking yellow of all colors.
Once he got over the shock of being dressed like some ridiculous bee enthusiast and missing over two years of memory, Grant found (read: stole) some decent clothes and gear and tried to figure out what came next. Contacting his mother was out of the question; they stopped speaking long before whatever happened to land him on a different continent. Slade didn't answer any of his phones, and a quick search on a public library's computer told him that the merc had disappeared, presumed dead.
Dead. Yeah, right.
He could try calling Wintergreen, he supposed, or he could make his way back to the States and try to retrace his steps. He remembered Slade wanting to try something in Jump City after that last heist. Apparently he went on to terrorize the place. Good for him.
So now Grant was hiding out in Jump, spending his nights scaling the rooftops and searching for something. He didn't know what he was looking for, exactly, but he knew he wouldn't find it relaxing in a hotel room or partying in a nightclub.
The city seemed to be more active than usual, lately. He'd seen a few of the so-called "Teen Titans" running around the night before. Looked like they were searching for something, too.
After his normal routine of searching, sleeping, and training (because, dammit, Slade still had that drilled into him and whoever the hell he'd been for the past couple years didn't even eat right) he found himself back out on the rooftops of Jump. There was something in the air tonight, as silly as it felt to admit, and he wasn't going to miss it.
Grant followed the feeling to a shadier part of town, all dark alleys and run-down buildings. The kind of place where you hurry through and don't look back. Maybe he'd get to beat someone up.
As he surveyed the various twists and turns of back-alley nightlife, Grant caught the sound of men's voices. Then, in his own head, Grant heard a shaky reply:
Leave me alone. You don't know what I'll do to you!
"What the fuck." Grant muttered to himself.
Don't touch me! Don't! NO!
Then the voices were louder, and then they were screaming, green light flashing from a nearby alley. Grant dropped from the rooftops and rushed around the corner.
He was greeted by the sight of an alley absolutely covered in blood, the lumps of various body parts scattering the ground around a lone, trembling figure in an oversized jacket. Grant gagged with the realization that oh God, he's just a kid. The voice from before returned, sobbing a faint no no no into the air. Grant moved toward the figure, raising his hands palms-out to show he meant no harm.
"Hey. Hey, kid. It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you."
The figure raised his head, and despite the blacked-out eyes with glowing green irises and the energy shimmering off of him, Grant recognized the boy.
"Joey?!"
Grant. Joey responded, almost disbelievingly, as he took a weak step toward him before his legs failed him and he collapsed.
Grant caught him, scooping Joey's ragged frame into his arms before he could hit the ground.