Author's Note: I know in some ways this story has been anticipated since Dawn of Generation Lost. The cover art should give away who our big bad is. I would like to give a big, fat warning here that there will be a lot of fighting, a lot of violence, and yes, there will be death. I hope that doesn't put off some people, but I wouldn't blame you. Regardless, enjoy.

Disclaimer: We do not own Teen Titans

Time is Running Out

It was colder than Hell out here, but low temperatures were low on his list of complaints, both for today and in life. Had everything been going the way it was suppose to, he'd be in the house, laying right next to Adeline, enjoying the aftersex glow, and getting ready for the next round.

Business had to call though, and Wintergreen had been the one to intrude. Work needed to be done, but it could at least wait another five minutes, right? Well, then his trusted friend had informed him of another mood killer.

He was quick to dress not because he was in a hurry but out of the sheer practice of doing so. You never knew when you needed to get moving in less than twenty seconds and he had mastered that art. This brought him out here in the snow and the cold, his breath visible due to the steam pouring out of his nostrils.

Booted feet barely made any noise. Most people would be stumbling out here in the woods, creating all sorts of noise and—hmm? Well, sounded like most people was close by, which meant that interception was close at hand. It took very little effort to pull ahead; he knew these woods like the back of his hand, perhaps even better.

Through brush and vegetation, he made it to the road, paved asphalt curving its way through the wilderness. If he looked to his left, he'd be able to see windows illuminated by the neighbors. Still some ways away. Privacy was all but assured; it was why he bought the place.

From a pocket, a small package of cigarettes and a lighter was removed. It was perhaps the only vice he had outside of his job. Lighting up, he took a quick yet deep drag, then let the tobacco-laced smoke pour out. A second drag was more relaxed, slower, and he exhaled at the same rate.

There he stood, waiting. Minutes, actual minutes, ticked by, and this slightly irritated him. Don't tell him, the boy had fallen behind. Not only had he beat him to the road, but now he was enjoying a smoke. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

While he did not show it, his attention perked up as he heard the sounds of uncoordinated legs crashing through the brush. Further down the road, a teen in a blue jacket stumbled out, barely catching his footing. That was hardly the wear for this kind of weather. Didn't he know better? Probably grabbed the first thing he could before running out of the house.

The boy was able to regain his footing, taking a moment to smooth his nowhere near winter wear and then clasping his hands together, rubbing them quickly to get some friction. Was the chill finally hitting him?

Looking back in the direction of the house, the brown-haired boy spat out, "Jackass," as he began trudging his way down the road. Not even towards the neighbors, sheesh.

However, that insult made for a great set up.

"Man, are my ears burning,"

The boy startled, looking much like a deer in the headlights. He whipped his head about before finding him leaning against a tree, cigarette held between two fingers as smoke wafted from the end.

Removing the cigarette out of his mouth, he added, "Going somewhere?"

Brown eyes were wide, and the boy took a step back. The fear was obvious, and it pissed him off a little more. "I…I…" And a stutter too.

Pulling away from the tree, he approached the boy, his son, lowering the arm which still held his lit cigarette. "Ready to go your own way, right? Pay your own rent?"

He came to a stop within the boy's personal bubble. There was something about getting up close and personal that made people uncomfortable. They liked their space, needed room to breathe, and when given no escape, panic ensued. The boy was no different.

Giving a jerk of his head, nodding, the boy stuttered out, "Y…yeah…"

Moving even closer. "So you're a man now?" Up came the cigarette and another drag on it.

"Y…yes."

A puff of smoke was blown into the boy's face. Quickly, the boy swiped at the smoke, coughing. He flinched back when he saw how close his old man was. He stared into his son's eyes, finding only fear looking back. This just wouldn't do.

"Then hit me."

Surprise shared some space with fear. "Wha…?"

"You're so grown, now. Be a man. Hit me," he pressured, leaning even closer, giving the wimp of a boy a target to hit.

The boy didn't take it.

Standing straight, he pointed the lit end of the cigarette into the boy's face, jabbing it with each sentence he spoke. "This is what's out here for you, boy. It's what I've been trying to teach you. This is what the world is—wolves and sheep. Which will you be?"

Drawing the cigarette back to his lips and taking another drag, he offered his challenge one more time. "Hit me."

Once more, he was disappointed. The boy was shrinking away, looking away, no eye contact. A sheep, was it? This was his boy, huh? How? How in this world was that possible?

Nevertheless, as a father, he would never stop teaching him. At the very least, this one lesson would be drilled into the boy's head.

"One punch, and I'll never bother you again. Just show me something. Anything. Prove to me I didn't raise some gutless freak—"

In a brief second, fear was replaced with fury, and snarling out from the adolescent throat were the words "SHUT UP!" and that was followed up by a swinging fist. It was so slow, yet he let the boy strike him. To give the smallest bit of credit, the boy aimed for his face and landed the hit against his left check.

He didn't flinch once. He returned the look of rage with a bland, unimpressed expression. Then he followed that up with one more drag on the cigarette.

"Seriously? That's the best you got?" He had felt the fist, but not even a glimmer of pain. "All right, Grant. All right. You want to go, I won't stop you."

His arm lazily swung away, throwing the cigarette away as it did so. Grant began backing away, and he took his first step towards him. "But let me give you something to remember me by."

Out into the middle of the road did Grant back up, and in doing so, he put himself into the path of an oncoming vehicle, headlights blazing as they drew closer. Tires squealed and quickly he pulled back towards the trees while the boy nearly made a hood ornament of himself. Lucky for him, the car was just barely able to stop in time, though Grant was practically laying on the hood.

The driver's side window lowered and a head stuck out. "Hey man, are you okay?"

Another voice from within the car exclaimed, "Dude! You scared the heck out of us!"

From the passenger side, another head stuck out, some stoner with a goatee. "You need a ride or something? Hospital?"

Brown eyes found him, and cold, steel blue eyes stared back, watching. Looking back to the car's windshield, Grant gasped out, "Yeah, yeah I do. Need a ride."

"Where to?"

Almost shakily, "Anywhere the party's at."

The driver offered a smirk. "Perfect. We know just where that is!"

Scrambling off the hood, Grant climbed into the car, going for the closest door. Slamming it shut, the car began driving off, passing by his little spot where he stood and watched it all. He could see the boy sinking into the car seat, got a look at the driver, a pretty-faced girl with glasses who looked like she had just started college.

The car passed by him, the red taillights initially blaring into the night before fading into the darkness.

That had been the last time he had seen his son alive. True to his word, he had kept himself out of Grant's life, never bothering him. Naturally, after that, so many things fell apart, and well, he fully evolved into the man he was today.

The Terminator. Deathstroke.

If the job paid well, consider it done. Yes, there were some jobs he would turn down, sometimes because it was too much trouble, others it was too ridiculous, and some he just didn't feel like doing. Those were few and far between, his services were in demand, and it was typical that as soon as one job was complete, there was already another lined up.

Business was good. There were people who needed killing, and there were people willing to pay through the nose to have them killed.

Some time ago, he had been approached and offered a huge paycheck. Already he was interested. These types weren't the typical ones. Maybe it might be interesting and he could get paid while doing so. Then he learned about the target, or targets in this case, and he had changed his mind.

He was a killer. No ifs, no ands, no buts. That did not mean he didn't have standards. Killing kids were beneath him. It didn't matter if they had superpowers. No dice. Find somebody else.

There had been multiple contacts after that refusal. The pay had been raised many times. You might even say he was crazy to turn it all down. Those idiots would not take no for an answer. One day, after the latest no, the contacts stopped, and for a moment he had thought that they had gotten the hint.

Count on Wintergreen to keep an eye on Grant. Turns out this H.I.V.E. was not done with him, and if they couldn't have him, they would have his son. Imagine what their faces looked like when they realized that the son was not a chip off the old block. Not even a pale imitation.

H.I.V.E. had gotten desperate, and that was where Slade began to take note. As smart as those secret society types liked to think of themselves as, they were not as impenetrable as they thought. Wintergreen managed to turn one of them and kept an eye on Grant all the same. From that spy, his oldest friend had caught wind of what H.I.V.E.'s latest, desperate ploy was.

They had thought to give Grant a supersoldier serum. Not just any serum either. It was one they had freed from the vaults of the Pentagon and tried to recreate. It wasn't exactly well known that while he had been in the military, he had agreed to participate in a trial run of a supersoldier serum himself. He had been dumb back then, wanting to do everything in service of his country. Even subject himself to an experimental procedure to get that much more of an edge.

Looking at him now, you would say he was quite a success.

On the contrary, he had been a failure. If you wanted to count success as in he survived, that wasn't saying a lot. There had been more than him who had been given this experimental serum; all of them had died. He himself had had a bad reaction to it, and had nearly torn into the medical staff as he was practically driven mad. They had to put him into a medically-induced coma until the serum burned itself out of his system.

Uncle Sam deemed the project a failure and did what it did best. Buried. He went on to be a valuable asset until discharge, and from there freelance. Uncle Sam still wasn't done with him, and preferred the freelance label, especially so that it could claim plausible deniability. He still received work from Washington to this day.

And so H.I.V.E. went about poisoning his son with a failed supersoldier serum, never realizing that they had the serum right when they recreated it.

Only now Grant was dead.

Now Slade discovered just what that meant.

He may have been one of the deadliest killers on Earth, but he was a shit parent. The military only prepared you for the battlefield, how to kill, and how to make it from extreme situations. None of it meant anything when it came to raising a kid.

When Grant had been born, he had been in Algeria. First time taking a step? Cold as hell in Siberia. First word. Venezuela. Work had kept him away from all of the milestones…no, he had chosen to miss all of the milestones. Wintergreen had tried to warn him, and it had been warnings back then, warnings he hadn't heeded. Uncle Sam wanted bodies and so heads he would roll.

In and out, here for a few days, gone for a few months, and a head doctor would say that that wasn't a good thing for a kid. His father had been an abusive drunk, but he wasn't whining and complaining about it.

There was a reason he had put up with the whining. With how weak Grant had been. It figured that it would finally mean something after the boy had died. Slade felt like shit. Had felt that way ever since. He understood now why it was said a parent should never have to bury their kid.

Out from the shit came the need to make it right.

Everyone who had a hand in this, they had a bill to pay and he was the collector. H.I.V.E. was the one to start this all, so they got the first serving. From compound to compound, sometimes with the Justice League hot on his tail, he tore this secret organization apart. It had taken the better part of a year, but he had done it.

The offer he gave was always the same: their lives or their blood. They get to choose. Once enough blood was paid, more than a few were willing to work under him to pay off the debt. Some would never get to make the choice. He had already decided on their blood.

One such was a researcher, female, you wouldn't think much about her, except his memory was exceptional and he recognized her. The same driver of the car that Grant had escaped into all those years ago; before he had thought it had been an incredible stroke of luck. Not now, not anymore. Must have been watching him for years, probably thought to use his son against him as leverage for some future job. More than likely figured out how much of a waste that was and instead tried to train him.

Whatever the intent had been, it had all fallen through. He killed the bitch and her boss, Immortus. The League had their Queen. The rest of the colony had fallen to either his sword or into the sanctuary the League offered. For all intents and purposes, H.I.V.E. was dead.

That just left the other party.

There was some irony here. H.I.V.E. had wanted to contract him to kill a bunch of kids, the Teen Titans. After all this time they were getting their wish for all the good it would do them.

The Justice League had expanded their T.I.T.A.N. Initiative. Four locations in total and probably more to follow if the ranks of teenaged metahumans increased in numbers. It made sense, get all that firepower into one place, train and teach them your values, and let them pick up when you inevitably had to step down. The Initiative was the Justice League's future.

Too bad for them they had played a part in Grant's death.

This was where gathering the few survivors of his rampage was going to come into handy. People who thought themselves the smartest needed only a little incentive to back it up. His plan of attack was almost ready. When it all began, it would need to be quick and efficient.

Resistance was expected. There always was resistance. That brought a little challenge to this hunt. The targets had power, had unpredictability and surprise on their side, and more than likely never knew when to quit. They had the backing of the Justice League, some of the most powerful individuals on the planet. They were full of youth and vigor, possessing that sense of invincibility that kids had at that age.

He was an assassin with a high body count, fighting skills perfected to near superhuman levels, managed to get some enhanced reflexes from that failed serum, and possessed a tactical mind that few would be able to predict.

Let the hunt begin.

The Jump City Ferry Building had a clocktower connected to it. White in color were the bricks, arched windows lined the lower levels, and a yellow steeple on top could trick the eye that it was gold in color made the complex stand out a bit. It was nothing that would really stick out on the Jump City skyline, but it was a bit of a sight to see if you took the time to look.

If you took that time today, you might find that the clock face was a little past three o'clock. Dreary gray clouds hovered overhead, perhaps a storm in the making, but nevertheless you knew it was the afternoon. Take a closer look at the clock hands and if you focused long enough, you'd find a man tied to the hour hand.

Rope tightly bound this man, his back pressed into the clock hand. Right now, the exact time was 3:02, and in the next fifty seconds, it would be 3:03. The long minute hand would slowly, but reliably move along the clockface, and once it was 3:15, the restrained man may not have any more concerns.

This particular man was not your average citizen. Perhaps the suit and tie gave that away. If you kept your eye on the local news, maybe even statewide news, then you might recognize him. He was George Wolfman, mayor of Jump City, and his life was on the line.

There was a second man there, one in a suit ensemble himself. His coloring was brown, though, and in one hand he held a cane that was shaped much like a clock hand. Atop his head was a bowler hat, brown in color as with the suitjacket. He wore glasses, one that might appear like bifocals, a clear horizontal line emphasizing half of each lens. There was a vertical line that divided the lens as well, longer in length compared to the horizontal one. If you thought the glasses themselves were clocks, devoid of any numbers, you might say the lines were like clock hands themselves, ones that spelled the time on each lens as 3:15.

"Fugate, please!" Mayor Wolfman begged. "It was an honest mistake! I was only trying to help!"

"Help?" Fugate retorted. "I suppose you were, if helping the firm you were employed with at the time was who you were really helping." The reedy voice was sharp, each word short and to the point and leaving no room for any pause.

"I didn't know anything about that! It was one of the partners!" Wolfman protested. "I had nothing to do with it!"

"And I suppose your little advice was suppose to help me?" Fugate snarled, his voice slowly rising in volume with each word he spoke. "Leave the office, take your coffee to go, three-fifteen! You ruined my life, everything I had ever built, and it was all gone because I took your advice and took my regularly scheduled break at three-fifteen!"

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen! I'm sorry!" the mayor cried out.

"You made me late!" the infuriated Fugate roared, then abruptly calming down. "That will be rectified soon enough. Once this clock reads three-fifteen, on the dot, you will be relieved of the burden of your office, George. As they say in Japan, Sayonara. Happy trails."

Fugate stood tall, taking in the scene and committing it to memory. The terror in Mayor Wolfman's face, the delicious righteousness of his death precisely timed to 3:15, mere minutes away, and the vengeance he craved. But he could not dally. It was best to leave now while he could.

Turning around, Fugate was stopped short as a teenaged boy landed on the clock hand, balancing on two feet and blocking the vengeful man's way.

"Time to clean your clock, Fugate," Red Robin, leader of the Teen Titans stated and quipped. He took a step forward and another, backing Fugate closer to the bound mayor.

"Don't count on it, Titan," the would-be murderer replied, showing no sign of being intimidated or alarmed. Coming to a stop, Fugate remarked, "When it comes to clocks," the cane he held was brought up, less a walking instrument and more a weapon, "I am king." Reversing course, the man lunged forward, thrusting with the surprisingly sharp tip of the cane aimed for the masked teen's chest. "En garde!"

Red Robin jerked to his left, then his right, avoiding the cane as he took his turn to back up. As the third thrust came, he brought up an arm, holding onto his cape. With electric current running through it, the normally flimsy material was hardened, making it a makeshift shield.

The cane's tip struck the cape, the edge screeching against the cape's hardened surface. The cane's end grinded against the cape until it emerged over the makeshift shield's edge. Triangular in shape, there were two pointed flourishes that gave the cane the resemblance of a clock hand. One of these pointed edges hooked around and snagged Red Robin's arm.

With a pull, Fugate threw off the teen vigilante's balance, causing him to fall off of the large clock hand in which they stood. Without thinking, Red Robin reached out and managed to grasp onto the large clock hand's side, swinging himself to, into, and through the clock face, entering the tower with a shattering of glass.

There was a brief fall, but it was stopped with him landing on top of a large gear. Glass fell around him, some landing on the gear while others scattered around, falling down into the depths of the tower. A few pieces got caught in the gears and crushed into tiny particles.

From behind his domino mask, Red Robin's eyes searched for something a bit more stable than the turning gear and a catwalk. There were a network of them crisscrossing throughout the interior of the clock tower, all the easier to allow maintenance crews to do upkeep. Still, what was the thinking with this kind of set up? Why such large gears?

Questions for later. The Teen Titan pulled himself onto the catwalk, quickly taking stock of his surroundings to get a lay of it. As he looked up, he found Fugate's silhouette darkening the tower's interior. The Titan leader held up his arms, hands balled into fists as he took on a defensive stance.

Taking that for a cue, the well-dressed Fugate stepped out into the clock's inner workings, slipping around and weaving his way through the gears, taking hold of chains, almost casually dropping through the air before finally coming a stop on the very catwalk that Red Robin waited on.

Sliding a foot back, Red Robin spat out, "Give it up Fugate, the Mayor committed no crime against you."

A vicious slash nearly sliced into his throat. From a stern face, Fugate glowered at the teen. With the tone of voice that indicated great offense, he retorted, "He did worse. He made me late!"

Up came the cape, blocking the thrusts and slashes that came his way. As the clock hand cane slashed downward, Red Robin backed off, taking the chance to slip out two birdarangs. With a practiced flick of his wrists, he threw the throwing projectiles with his aim on the cane. Surprisingly, Fugate turned his body, making himself a small target and avoiding the birdarangs as they flew past him harmlessly. Compared to other opponents, this was a man in a suit and tie, how had he dodged?

An arm clad in a brown sleeved whipped out, and so too did that cane. Fugate was closing in quickly, pushing his advantage. For the time being, Red Robin would have to let this play out. Hopefully everything was going well on Wonder Girl's end.

Crashing through the face of a clock. At least that was a new one. Definitely not anything cliche like a stained glass window. Alright, head in the game. The latest pain in the ass for Jump was distracted.

It was just her and Red right now. You would be surprised how much damage a man who for whatever reason called himself the Clock King could do. The rest of the team was handling that. Right now, tied to the minute hand of a giant clock was the mayor. To be honest, she hadn't even known what he had looked like until all of the recent trouble had started.

At the very least, the man wasn't screaming and crying while he was tied there. He was staring at the large minute hand that was getting closer and closer to him with each minute—oh, now she got it.

Flying out from cover, the armor-wearing blonde flew up to the clock itself, reaching the mayor with ease. As if sensing she was there, the old man turned his head towards her, eyes widen with fear which then had relief filling them. Then confusion as he looked down and found that nothing was holding her up.

It was as if he was seeing someone fly for the first time.

"How are you…?"

Doing her best to not roll her eyes, because hey, setting a good impression here, she gave an answer to that question. "Don't worry about it. Hold still and I'll get you out of this."

Then she winced. Okay, bad choice of words there. The man was tied to a freaking clock hand. He wasn't going to be doing anything but holding still. Well, let's see what they were working with here. Alright, that just looked like your basic rope, something you could get at any store that sold them.

There was temptation to just grab and rip, but if done the wrong way then someone would be losing an arm. No, if the mayor wanted to keep all of his limbs, she would need to be a bit more delicate.

By that, it meant using both of her hands, wedging her fingers between the rope and the clock hand, and then pulling with a sharp jerk. What people would call superstrength made quick work of that.

Already feeling that one arm, then two, weren't being pulled back, the mayor began his groveling. "Oh, oh thank you, thank you, you have no idea—"

"Don't get overly happy yet. Keep still so I can get your legs," she interrupted, moving towards where said legs were pulled back, rope gripping ankles and wrapping around both clock hand and legs. She already knew what she was going to do here, but it seemed the baddie of the day was going all out to keep their traumatized mayor still.

The minute hand moved closer, still far enough away that she could take her time, but she figured that the man threatened by it would disagree with that kind of thinking. Really couldn't blame him with that. So she made quick work of the rope restraining his legs, then elevated upwards to press a hand against his torso, pinning him to the clock hand while she did her best to untangle the rest of the rope with her other hand.

"Don't fidget. You don't want to fall, do you?' she asked, not looking at the older man. There, one leg fully free and now for the other.

The mayor swallowed but was keeping still by choice this time. Taking a risk, she used the hand pinning him down to help with the rest of the rope. As the ligature was finally removed, the armored blonde reached to grab the man and heft him up.

"I've got you, try to hold on," she instructed, and the next thing she knew, a man that was probably three times her age was koala gripping her, arms and legs wrapping around desperately.

Okay, right, so long as there was no groping, she'd take the descent slow. Once back on ground, she'd let Red know the mayor was safe and that it was time to bring Clock King in there down.

Grabbing onto the end of a gear, Red Robin allowed it to pull him up into the air and out of Fugate's reach. Pulling with his arms, the teen vigilante lifted his body further up, planting a foot within the teeth of the large gear and using that to steady himself. He was reaching the apex of his gear's rotation when he caught sight of Fugate rising up on a connecting gear, gradually making his way to him.

The guy looked like he was in his late fifties, yet he was standing there, spine ramrod straight, and holding himself as if he was in a clock tower running along the gears like some cartoon mice.

Up came that cane, and the slashing swipe that followed up had Red Robin jumping off of his gear, snagging onto a chain that clanked upwards merrily. Another catwalk was approaching, and he began to swing his body to get ready to jump for it.

Count on Fugate to screw that up. It was as if he knew every single gear in this place because he came out of nowhere, jumping off a gear with his cane thrusting forth. Swinging turned into twisting, Red Robin turning out of the way and allowing Fugate to pass him. The man in the brown suit just as quickly vanished into the clockwork which was already raising the teen's paranoia.

The catwalk was approaching—now it was passing him. He had to let the chain carry him up a bit before letting go of it. Without the momentum that his earlier swinging would allow, he wouldn't be able to make the proverbial leap to safety. Well, as safe as it could get in this place.

Landing, the masked teen spun around, his cape ready to block any strikes, but found nothing. Fugate was nowhere to be seen, but he had to be here.

For a moment, he regretted volunteering himself for this. Wonder Girl would have been a better choice, magical armor and all that responding to protect her. On the other hand, she was more likely to start tearing this place apart, not a good thing when everything was placed exactly where it needed to be, carefully orchestrated order.

Hairs on the back of his head stood up, honed senses picking up on…up! Red Robin snapped his head upwards then stumbled out of the way as Fugate came down, nearly impaling him with that cane. The pointed end stabbed into the catwalk, and with ease Fugate pulled it out.

"I could do this all day, Titan," Fugate stated as he stalked after the teen, "but your time is up."

No, tell him something he didn't know why don't you? Snark from the teen was starting to color his thoughts there. Keep calm and try to figure a way out of this. This old man was moving like he was twenty years younger, and that included any and all evasion. There was a sense of embarrassment he felt, after all of the training with Starfire and the misadventures, and still he could not measure up.

"I've studied footage of you Titans, each and every one," Fugate stated as he stalked his way after the masked teen. "You in particular. I know it takes you exactly a tenth of a second to throw a punch."

Something about that was off. Being surprisingly fit and able to keep up for his age, Fugate hadn't yet bragged about any fighting skills he had. It seemed like the man had rudimentary skills in fencing, but other than that there was nothing else.

But time. So far all of their encounters with him involved something involving time. What had he been again? Naturally, when Fugate began terrorizing the city, the Titans investigated. So what had been the profession of choice? Oh right, efficiency expert. Fugate had made a living with improving efficiency whether it was machines or workplace performance.

Everything was about optimization, how much can you do in as short a time as possible. His firm had been hired to improve how other businesses functioned, that is until one went bankrupt and sued. Judgment had went against Fugate and he was destroyed.

None of that made much of a difference when his birdarangs were swatted out of the air with a clock hand-shaped cane. Said cane then jabbed and stabbed at him, backing the masked teen towards large rotating gears. He could hear the rhythmic clinks and clanks grow louder until he could back up no further.

Time to bluff and see what he could get away with. "Not bad, but it only takes me half of that to do this!" He bent his legs then swung one at Fugate. The suited man leaned back, evading the kick, and then thrusted forward with his cane. Practically crouched, Red Robin jerked to a side, allowing the cane to pass by his head where it then imbedded itself within the teeth of the rotating gears.

Just like that, everything came to a stop.

The thing about gears, there was no room for error. Everything was placed exactly where it needed to be. Turn one and you turned every single one. Put one obstruction in it, that then nothing moved. The silence was deafening, two pairs of eyes watching the trapped gears and waiting to see what happened.

Naturally, when something was designed to keep moving at all times, like a clock, the pressure to keep functioning would only grow and grow and grow. Something had to give, and a loud groan followed by a rapid clicking was the alert that things were about to go very, very wrong.

It started with one gear popping out of place. The large, metal object fell until it collided with other gears, dislodging them and causing a cascading domino effect as the guts of the clock tower began to fall into chaos.

Fugate yanked at his cane, but it was well and truly stuck. From above, a large gear was plummeting towards the two of them, and Red Robin threw himself forward, tackling Fugate out of the way. The gear slammed down on the catwalk, distorting it though the walkway held. Not for much longer as heavy objects continued to rain down.

The self-styled Clock King shoved the Titan leader off of him and scrambled to his feet, attempting to make good on some kind of escape. After everything so far, Red Robin wasn't about to let that happen without a fight. To his belt went one hand, and out from a pocket was a bola.

Holding an arm up and rotating the lower part quickling, he threw the restraint, but it seemed like Fugate was counting on something like this. With a hand grasping the railing of the catwalk, the brown suited man leapt off and onto a horizontally-placed gear, continuing to run while the bola missed by a mile.

Swearing, he ran after the fleeing man, jumping onto the same gear. He followed, jumping from one destabilized gear until he had Fugate cornered. There was still some space between them, but that could be fixed in a few seconds if the adrenaline in his system didn't wear out.

"There's no way out! You can't escape!" Red Robin bellowed.

"Au contraire, Titan," Fugate chastised, body turned just enough that the thin man could face the Titan. A sneering smirk split his face, perhaps the first real emotion that Red Robin had ever seen on the man. "You of all people should know: there's always a way out!"

The cackle that followed was mad, hinting at a breaking of reality, and then reality broke the moment itself as several dislocated gears fell between the two of them, blocking Fugate off from sight, the laughter swallowed up in the cacophony.

Beneath his feet, the very gear he himself stood on began to lean out of its carefully calculated position. There was no sign of Fugate, something that got another swear out of the teen, but now his survival was a priority.

Looking up—damn it, there was too much up above all coming down. Him getting out of this could only be measured in seconds. So he did the only thing he had time for. A hand went to an ear and he said as loudly as he could, "Kid Flash! My location! Now—"

Gear-shaped metal crashed down and continued until it met the floor below, then the floor beneath that floor, and so on. Red Robin didn't see any of it, because by the time he had finished saying "now," help in the form of the fastest teen on Earth was already there. The world around his blurred and by the time it stopped, though nausea always followed, he was in the good hands of a friend and teammate.

Not a perfect ending, a bit par for the course, but all in all just another day as a Teen Titan.

Author's Note: The first scene is taken from a similar one in a storyline called The Lazarus Contract. It's a crossover between the Titans and the Teen Titans in which Deathstroke abducts two Wally Wests, the original and the one from the New 52, and siphons off their speed to go back in time to try and save Grant Wilson, whom you might recognize from Dawn of Generation Lost as Ravager. Quite a bit of Grant's character was taken from The Lazarus Contract.

Could never really figure out a way to use Clock King for his own story, so how about putting the end of it at the beginning of another? Maybe the foreshadowing of time running is a bit on those, hmm. An interesting fact, there was an incarnation of the Temple Fugate version of the Clock King that did have a go at the Teen Titans. If I recall correctly, that story line was called the Terror Titans, and an organization called the Dark Side Club was involved.