The clock beeped 3 am at Titans Tower.

The moon was an inch away from full, waning gibbous. It hung amidst a curtain of starry twinkles that reflected blurrily upon the black waves below. Across from the island on which the Tower sat was Jump City, a coastal town that had the unfortunate propensity of attracting the worst of the worst.

During daylight hours, it was hard to believe that such a sun-bathed metropolis could ever be a hive for, well, the villainous Hive Academy and the oddball, super criminals like Doctor Light, Mad Mod, Killer Moth, and a host of others. It was sunny three hundred days out of the year and the less exciting crimes—such as robbery, assault, drug dealing, etc.—were at a record low and had been for a few years now. Kids played obliviously in the parks; packs of peaceful people swarmed around food trucks on their way to work; dogs yapped playfully on every street corner; and the buildings appeared surprisingly unblemished.

Unfortunately this was only a happy veneer, for beneath the smiling faces was a flicker of fear and a readiness to scatter at the first hint of trouble.

On bad days, the people of Jump City could expect to see buses flying through the air or hear a rush of screams when something exploded down the street. They knew what to do when a building collapsed and an avalanche of stone fell upon them, just as they knew where to go when things got out of control.

Houses were usually equipped with a fire extinguisher, a bunker, a reinforced steel door, and an up-to-date alarm system. Those who apartment searched—and had the money for it—wouldn't look twice at a complex that didn't come with such non-negotiable amenities. For the less fortunate, there was a special fund built into the budget of the city to pay for at least a fire extinguisher. Government funded bunkers and aid stations cropped up every few blocks, their Red Cross flags fluttering high in the air.

The citizens took no risk when it came to their safety and Jump City was happier for it.

Indeed, the residents knew better than to punch in for work or go outside at all when a villain came to town. Schools closed, CEOs declared a spontaneous holiday, and yellow 'DO NOT CROSS' police tape wrapped around the tristate area like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

Needless to say, the construction industry was busy and booming—orange safety cones seemed to outnumber the people—but for most of the year, despite the occasional flamboyancy, Jump City was perfectly normal and law-abiding…or as much as it could be with superheroes and villains roaming about.

Of course, times would have been much tougher if the Titans had not set up shop on the small island just offshore. Without them, Jump City would never have had a chance at normalcy. Semblance or no, an unspoken contract existed between the Titans and the people they protected: the team would do their best to beat the baddies and the citizens would do their best to stay out of the way.

On this particular night, the Tower monitors were blissfully quiet. There was not a hint of trouble on the radar. No reported break ins and no maniacal laughter to be heard.

It was rare that the team got a full eight hours of rest, but tonight seemed to be promising just that. Soft snores could be heard through the steel walls. The air was cold and static and an aura of deep slumber hung about, shushing any would-be noise.

Still, one small and blaring light remained stubbornly on. Only four of the five beds were filled with cozied, dozing teens.

A single black-feathered, red-chested bird remained vigilantly awake in spite of the rare, unobtrusive night—Robin.

He sat stock-still at his disheveled desk, his fingers flying on the keyboard with the noiseless grace of a panther. The computer monitor flared brightly back at him in the darkness of his bedroom like a single, fluorescent ray of silver sun. It illuminated his masked, concentrated expression yet left the rest of his figure in deep shadow making him appear bodiless.

Three empty mugs smelling of old coffee sat neatly stacked upon his paper-clogged desk in addition to a speckled plate and warped fork. Bite mark indentations could be seen upon the utensil's prongs, practically chewed through.

Files and files of casework piled up all around him as he worked—an impressive nest. Newspaper clippings decorated the gray walls haphazardly, a thousand different headlines.

"BREAK IN AT WAYNE ENTERPRISES"

"SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING CHIMPS"

"HOMELESS RATES AT NEW TIME LOW"

"TEEN TITANS THWART THIEVERY, FAIL TO CATCH PERPETRATOR"

"SCIENTISTS BAFFLED BY POWER OUTAGES"

"JULY 4TH CELEBRATION CUT SHORT BY ELECTRICAL SHORTAGE"

"NEW VILLAIN ON THE BLOCK"

"WHO IS SLADE?"

This group of headlines hung the closest to Robin's desk. Certain words were circled in red within the respective articles, a jumbled puzzle.

An untouched bed waited patiently against the eastern wall while an inventor's table stood stoically in the center of the room under a spotlight, a pile of dissected gadgets covering it. A shelf hung over it, containing a variety of ready-to-go weapons and tools: Robin's birdarangs, collapsible bo-staffs, explosives, and grappling hooks.

The computer Robin sat in front of leaned against the back wall, facing the doorway. A sparse closet was built into the western wall. Seven sets of identical tops and bottoms hung inside along with two leather jackets, two black shirts, and two ragged pairs of jeans.

Despite the lackluster supply of shirts and pants, there was a healthy stock of shoes: Vans, Converses, Skaters, Air Jordans, and a host of other brands all colored black or dark gray with little pops of color. They sat neatly beside each other on the closet floor.

Finally, a small, waist-high dresser squatted beside the bed with a small mirror situated above it. Although the drawers were shut, they were filled with socks, underwear, and, of course, black masks. Teenage knickknacks filled up the remaining space in the room: band posters, a small stereo system, a bundle of headphones, an MP3 player, comic books, and few bottles of cologne.

Robin smashed a few more keys before a yawn broke free from his mouth. He sighed and stretched, rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, frustrated. No matter how many times he studied the cases, he was no closer to pinpointing the link between them. He glanced sharply at the newspaper that hung nearest to him.

"WHO IS SLADE?"

Reaching upward, he snagged it off the wall. The top was ripped in several places, splintering into the headline. Each time Robin pinned it back up he promised he would leave it alone this time. He had to stop obsessing. There were a thousand other cases to worry about. He couldn't fixate. He had to keep his head in the game, he told himself sternly.

Yet, the clipping always seemed to end up in his palms with another snag at the top from where he tore it down.

He squinted at the article for the millionth time, forcing his tired brain into overdrive.

He found himself wishing more and more for another breadcrumb that would lead him to Slade—a lucky photo, a soundbite, a blip on a security camera, a rumor, a whisper, anything that would help. For months now, Robin had searched painstakingly for a single break but it eluded him.

Night after night he eschewed sleep and instead took up the chase after a ghost and for what? All he found was frustration.

Sometimes he wondered if the man he had so briefly fought was real. The bruises he had obtained from the encounter certainly felt real. He rubbed his collarbone absentmindedly. Slade had kicked him so fiercely there that Robin thought he had broken it. The echo of it still rang—a taunting reminder.

"Patience, Robin. We'll meet face to face some other time." Slade's voice jeered inside his head.

Robin's lip curled into a sneer.

"What are you planning?" he whispered at the clipping with a scowl.

As if in answer to his question, the sirens of the Tower began to shriek.

Jumping out of his skin and his chair, Robin threw the crumpled newspaper to the floor and quickly strapped on his belt and snatched a bo-staff. He was out the door in seconds, leaving the mystery of Slade for another day.

As Robin was about to find out, he had not been the only insomniac that night. Slade awaited the team in the lounge.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The clock chimed 5 am.