"Lift your arms."
Robin stares distrustfully at Slade, every muscle tense—the ones that don't ache painfully, that is. He raises them, slowly. Slade moves over to the table that he sits at, towering over him. Robin grits his teeth in his shadow. The side of his face aches at the memory of pain. Slade still stands with the corded danger he always does, but for once in the time that Robin has seen him he isn't attacking, planning to attack, or even lurking in the shadows. He simply seems intent on his business.
Slade's fingers grip the bottom of his shirt. Robin has to hold back a flinch, but Slade only pulls it over his head with a swift movement, stinging the wounds. He hates the feeling of Slade's gloved hands brushing over his skin. Robin is too exhausted to shy away from the feeling, from Slade's eye taking in everything about him. The shirt goes on the table. Slade's fingers prod roughly at Robin's stomach and ribs, hitting sensitive areas that Robin can't help but make small noises of pain at.
Slade hums thoughtfully. Bandages wind around Robin's chest, taped and tied, cementing his fractured bones in place. He tries to ignore the casual intimacy of it, the thing that he and Babs would do before she got shot, or the kind of taking-care-of that Alfred does.
There's no chance of that relationship here. Robin knows better than to think that after Slade beat him into submission. His cheek still aches. No, Slade just wants to make sure he doesn't heal so badly, his body that Slade "owns" isn't marred by crooked ribs. The man wants to keep him a perfect apprentice.
Robin seethes, silently, privately, and thinks of revenge.
/
Slade shoves him back in his room without—notably—feeding him. Robin tries not to aggravate his wounds as he collapses into bed—not tired, but exhausted bone-deep and aching. He knows it'll hurt more tomorrow, because these things always do. Robin can't help but try and begin to comb the walls for bugs, but he's left in the piercing darkness after five minutes and has to fumble his way awkwardly back to the hard cot. Slade is good at hiding whatever it is he uses to keep track of Robin—he always has been. Robin simply doesn't have the energy to find it tonight, even if the idea of Slade watching his every move keeps him up much longer than he should be and makes him more tired when Slade rudely wakes him up for training the next morning.
/
His face swells where Slade hit him—where Slade continues to hit him when he mouths off or doesn't do something fast enough or forgets the master. It makes him look deformed, he thinks, bruises standing out against the paling skin. Robin does his best to clean himself throughout the days, but there's only much he can do with the dirty water in the sink—though he didn't last before he gave in and drank it. His hair gel washes out soon enough, leaving the dark strands hanging down his face and making him look like a greasy ghoul. Dark circles form under his eyes from the sleep he isn't getting. Robin checks every day to see if he's getting noticeable skinnier, but his muscle mass seems stable so far, even if he's only fed intermittently.
He doesn't look the same, doesn't look like Robin, the Boy Wonder, the leader of the Teen Titans, Dick Grayson. Robin tries to shake off the feeling, a small thread in the back of his mind, but it refuses to go away and he's forced to simply shove it down and ignore it as best he can. Slade never calls him by his name, not Robin, just boy, as in come here, boy, listen to me, boy, correct your stance, it's pathetic, boy, are you stupid, boy.
"I am Robin," he says into the mirror, almost unfamiliar lips moving. The words come out small and tinny, but they make him feel better.
That is one thing Slade will never be able to take away from him.
/
Robin loses track of time painfully quickly after the first day. He tries his best to mark the days that pass in the darkness and piercing light of his room, but there's nothing at all to use. On the days when his training with Slade leaves him with open wounds, he uses them to make a mark. They're always gone when he comes back in the evening. Slade has a vested interest in keeping him off his balance and unsure, and Robin knows it all too well. A half-remembered segment on interrogation tactics crops up in his mind and he shudders at the other methods. Hopefully Slade won't—or the situation won't progress long enough—for the rest of them to be useful.
He heals quickly, he thinks. Some days he wakes up feeling rested but most he doesn't, others he stumbles out in a haze of tiredness and Slade calls him weak so many more times during training, taunting and hurting him.
/
Robin never does Slade's bidding happily, always glares and grunts and snarls, and he's pleased with the small bit of resistance. Slade is always keen to pull out the trigger and remind him of their deal when he gets too cocky, and all of Robin's resistance fades instantly. He tries not to think about his friends if only because he spirals into worry and fear because if there is one thing that he cannot, will not, will never abide it's the deaths of his friends. Slade doesn't feed him regularly and Robin doesn't get enough sleep—he can't figure out the schedule that Slade's keeping him on—and the constant exhaustion just makes it too easy to fall into line when Slade commands something. Robin fights back viciously in his mind whenever he feels himself slipping into apathy, letting his gaze flare up at Slade's or scowling at him.
He thinks about the anything I want, the sheer power that Slade has over him, and digging in too deep makes him shudder. It gives him motivation to try and plan a way out, at least, but—
-but Slade is insistent on stripping him of his free will and has all the tools he needs to functionally do it and no concept put into practice has ever really horrified Robin this much. It's a sick thing to do, Slade's sick—but Robin knew that.
Now he's just so much more devoted to bringing him down.
/
What if you never—
Robin shoves the thought to the bottom of his soul with such force that he almost feels sick.
/
Robin heals quick enough, even if he still can't really keep track of the days. Slade still doesn't go easy on him, even if he avoids the points where he could do the most damage to the cracked ribs.
Robin still doesn't win, can't even score hits some days as the hunger and isolation and sleeplessness bear down on him.
I was going easy on you.
The patronizing words ring in his head, bounce back and forth in his brain. Slade is so much more impossible to win against than he ever was, and . . .
And.
Have Robin's attempts up until now been a joke? Slade, watching from behind the scenes, chuckling at Robin's audacity believing he could challenge Slade, physically or mentally?
He always has been one step ahead. But this is something else, something crueler, like a cat playing with a mouse before snapping its neck. Now, he's telling Robin that his accomplishments—his only real accomplishments, the only ones he had to work for, to stay up nights for, to think and pace and hope for—came from nothing? Were given to him like Slade deigning in his oh-so-powerful state to throw Robin a bone? Robin doesn't want to believe it. The instance with Red X: he tricked Slade some, long enough, he's stopped Slade from his objectives before, beat the people that he sent after them. No, Slade can be beaten, beaten by Robin, because he has before. Before Slade knew him, before he was invested enough in their rivalry to bother to play with him.
The stakes now are just so, so much higher, and the odds are even less in his favor.
That's what heroes do.
They beat the odds.
/
"Again. This time, try and put some effort into it."
Robin spins his staff to his other hand, stretching out reddened fingers. He's lucky that he has more energy today—he got a decent night's sleep and the more than usual of the flavorless mush Slade feeds him, or else he'd be keeling over from exhaustion: their usual end to the sparring sessions.
He takes several steps back, cocking back his foot to push off. Robin accelerates in two long strides, planting his staff on the padded floor. Seconds later he's flying through the air, over Slade's head. He lands with a shock, turning—slammed into the wall with a force to rattle bones. Shit.
Slade's body presses in on him, hand braced against the side of his neck. Robin winces as the side of his face digs into the wall. One arm is trapped between him and Slade's bulk, the other unable to find an angle to fight back.
"Too slow," Slade says contemptuously near his ear. Robin grimaces as the angle on his shoulder starts to smart. He can feel Slade's body heat—not covered in armor but for the mask, in a training outfit like his. It's sweaty and too-warm. "On your feet sooner. More momentum."
Robin sighs irritably.
He's pressed painfully into the stone, exhalation cut off with a grunt. Slade does so hate backtalk. Robin suffers every time, his shoulder angling uncomfortably—reminiscent of the time Slade twisted it two—three? days ago. He hisses through his teeth. "Do I need to repeat our earlier lesson?" he asks softly.
Robin grinds his teeth. Slade rubs his face in every single second of his forced servitude, a solid wall of muscle and danger pressing him down. Slade's fingers press against the back of his neck, rough callouses against the sensitive skin, surprisingly warm. His other hand presses into Robin's wrist, right on the pulse of his veins.
It's too close, too intimate, skin on skin, Slade pressing on him as if he wants swallow him up. Robin shudders and tries futilely to twist away before giving up and leaning against the cold wall, so different from Slade's heat.
"No, Master," Robin grinds out.
"Good," Slade says, right in his ear. Robin flinches, going tense, still unable to move, Slade's hand splays on his neck, palm pressing near his ear and pinkie spreading into his hair. Robin stays stock still at the movement and the contact and feels like a deer in the headlights. Something about this is . . . not right.
The second lingers.
Robin loses his patience, trying again to jerk away from Slade's hands. "I get it, okay? Now just—move away."
"No."
"Slade!" Robin shimmies his shoulders and tries to move his neck to get away from the now burning body heat. He can feel Slade's breath on his ear, rasping sharply, every inch of the man against him but especially his hands, all sending itches under his skin. He struggles more desperately this time before going limp. What the hell?
Just when he thinks he can't take it anymore, Slade moves away. Robin's shoulder moves back into place instantly, burning with pain, but the relief of getting Slade off of him outweighs it by much. Robin can't see the expression on Slade's face at all. What is he thinking?
Robin scratches and rubs at the back of his neck and his sore wrist. He wants to get Slade's sickly warm touch off of his skin but it lingers despite his best efforts. Robin can still feel the fingers on the back of his neck as he scratches viciously, unsure quite what urge he's fulfilling but recognizing its sheer intensity all the same. Slade still regards him with one eye, emotion inscrutable. Robin moves to a defensive posture on instinct, but the man turns.
"We're finished," he says, and that's the end of that.
/
Robin dreams of Slade holding him down in the darkness while he thrashes. He wakes up with his fists in the sheets, shuddering and sweat through. He doesn't remember in the morning.
/
Robin knows that the day is different when Slade throws a skintight black bodysuit down instead of the regular white training clothes. It's one day he's actually managed to rest, and he wakes up feeling less fatigued than he has previously. He still goes to the bathroom to change, still staring at Slade as he gathers up the sheets. Slade just keeps an eye on him as usual as he trails into the bathroom. Robin slips easily into the—spandex? Probably a spandex-kevlar weave, high grade. It's just his size, and he shudders again at how much Slade seems to know, at Slade's fingers on his skin so he can learn.
More pressingly, he wants to know what Slade is going to have him do that requires such protective gear. It can't bode well. Slade has been known to hurt him badly without bothering with protective gear, so whatever inspires him can't be good.
Robin feels exposed in the tight material, but he always feels exposed when it comes to Slade and his gaze. The path they follow isn't the normal one to either the dining room or the training room. It's much longer, more winding and changing. Robin hears the deep whirring, the small background of the complex becoming louder and louder as they approach. The walls change from white to shallow grey before turning dark as they approach. Robin takes specific note of the path.
Slade taps in a longer code than usual before opening the huge steel door and passing through. Robin is lead into the biggest place he's seen in weeks, towering so far above he can't see the top. The cracks and edges hide in the darkness, overcast by the whirring, working gears. Some of them are larger than Robin, or even than Slade, casting monstrous shadows as they slowly spin. Robin stares around in something like awe. It's reminiscent of the Batcave, dark and dangerous, the edges blurring and falling away into nothing. He can feel the gears vibrating up through his feet and working through the bones in his chest.
Slade moves as if he's been here a thousand times and Robin moves absently in his footsteps, still dwarfed by the machinery. It's meant to intimidate, he assumes, as if Slade's figure, mask, and danger weren't enough. Robin wonders if it's for his benefit.
Then he sees the chair—the throne on the dais—and he can't help his eyebrows shooting up. It's intimidating, lurking high above them—and yet. Slade thinks he's some kind of king of his own complex. It would almost be a joke, if he didn't hold the lives of Robin's friends in his hands.
"See something you like?" Slade says, noticing his expression.
"All I see is pride," Robin tells him.
Slade laughs. "A bold sentiment for a small boy." Robin glares, almost turning red.
"I'm not a boy."
Slade hums. "We'll see, won't we?" He takes the steps to the throne, pulling something out of his black outfit. It's a small remote, not unlike the trigger he likes to pull out to threaten Robin with at every turn. At his behest, a large screen flickers on across from them. Blue light shines across the dark room, lighting up a smaller chair sitting at the row of screens. Robin stands trapped between them, looking at the bright blue.
"You've performed poorly in training so far," Slade says smoothly, voice just loud enough to be heard over the soft gears. "I think something else might be good for you." With a flick of his wrist, blueprints light up the screen in front of Robin. Robin stares, feeling small under the light, taking in every aspect anyways. Strangely . . . something about it looks familiar? Is it the plan to Slade's—no, he wouldn't show that to Robin.
"What's that?"
"That's the floorplan for the building that you're going to steal from," Slade says. Robin starts back, staring from the screen to Slade, features twisting into something ugly.
"Steal it yourself, Slade," is out of his mouth before he knows what he's saying as anger sets in. Slade's sinking low enough to force him into breaking the law for his own gain? No dice, as the Penguin is fond of saying.
"Boy," Slade says, perfectly dangerous, "come here."
"Are you crazy?" Robin asks. "You expect me to—"
He cuts off as he sees Slade dip into his belt, gloved hands coming out and caressing the trigger meant to kill his friends. Slade's eye gleams. Robin freezes, going stiff at the unspoken threat
"Come here."
Robin does, eyes trained fearfully on the trigger the whole time. Slade's fingers grip it in a vice, but as Robin comes to stand before the man—climbing his ostentatious but strangely intimidating dais in the process—he wonders how hard it would be to distract him and snatch it. His eyes linger, though he snaps them back to Slade.
It's not fast enough to see the vicious punch that knocks the wind out of him. Robin is left coughing on his knees on the dais, embarrassingly close to Slade's steel-toed leather boots. He's glad he can't see blood this time.
"I think you should have learned by now that you don't get to say no to me," Slade says calmly. "You always seem to forget about your friends. Do you need a—"
"No!" Robin says desperately, not even thinking of the consequences. "No, no—"
Slade kicks him with the disturbingly close steel-toed boots. Pain explodes in Robin's face. This time, blood from his nose spills down his upper lip as he barely manages to avoid bouncing down the dais steps.
"Do not interrupt me again," Slade warns. Robin grits his teeth, now pink with blood. He pinches his nose shut—thankfully, not broken. Robin is painfully aware that Slade could easily have kicked him harder. "If you disobey me, or fail to get this device, I will kill your so-called friends. And to be honest"—here, Robin can sense the cruel smile—"I can't say I wouldn't enjoy it. So don't temp me, hm?"
It begins to sink in that Robin doesn't have a choice here—shocking—and that what Slade is insistent on him doing is stealing. It's just like Slade to flex his power like this, ironic and cruel. A hero protects his friends, Robin tells himself. It's still heroism. It's not like I'm killing anyone. The thought of Slade forcing him to kill someone is shoved to the very bottom of his mind the instant it appears.
It won't come to that.
Robin stands up, still holding onto his nose.
"Answer me."
"No," Robin says, teeth grinding in defeat. "Master." The humiliating words come out tinny from his pinched nose, something that would be perhaps funny in other circumstances.
"I'm glad we understand each other," Slade sneers. He passes Robin, going down the steps. Robin follows. He wipes blood on his thin suit, and it blends in with barely a gleam.
Slade pulls out a sheaf of papers from what seems to be his desk at the bottom of the bank of computers. Robin notes the pocked that he slips the controller into for further reference, right before he's looking down at the papers Slade hands him.
Wayne Enterprises.
Robin can't help but choke when he sees the name, blood bubbling up in his throat. Some of it drips right onto the AY of WAYNE, smearing it slightly.
"Something the matter?" Slade asks casually.
Robin shakes his head instantly. "N-no. Just. Just that's a—pretty big company."
"Have you ever known me to think small?" Slade asks. Rhetorical, or at least Robin's going to pretend it is, lest the hated admittance of 'master' slip past his lips once again.
Does he know? Is all Robin can think. He can't. There's no way. Bruce—Bruce keeps it all so . . . so secret. Robin's heart pounds in his ears anyways and he tries to take deep breaths to calm himself, hoping Slade doesn't notice. Coincidence. It's a coincidence. Don't react. Thankfully, Slade seems intent on something else as Robin carefully turns the page.
What he sees are blueprints to the upper floors of the Wayne Industries towers—a little familiar, but something Robin hasn't actually memorized.
"Memorize it," Slade says. "I'll quiz you." The glint in his eye promises, as always, punishment for failure. Robin turns the page. On it is a real blueprint, this time of a gun based in—red Kryptonite? Robin isn't much of an engineer, but he'll know what to look for. "It's in a safe here." Slade takes a pen, roughly marking one of the sides of the map. "Hidden behind a painting." Not good, Robin thinks. One of the worst things. Something capable of destruction in the wrong hands. And no hands are more wrong than Slade's. "I expect you to retrieve it." A pause. "Or you can expect your ex-team to be down another member."
The paper in Robin's hand crumples halfway at the threat. He doesn't notice. "They're still my team, Sl—" He turns red as he realizes he's not willing to risk further punishment. "No matter what happens," he mutters.
"Really?" Slade asks. He looms over Robin. "You may think so, but how long will they? Will they keep their faith in their great leader mission after mission in my name? After years of criminal activity?" Robin pales. A year. "How long will your friends keep faith in their former leader? Even the most loyal have to give in sometime, hmm?"
"You're a fool if—"
Robin is on the floor coughing blood before he knows what hit him. God, Slade is fast. He can't get up before he feels a gloved hand yank on his hair, pulling his neck back painfully. Robin grits his teeth in anger. "I don't tolerate disrespect, boy. You should know that by now. Any longer and I may have to teach a more permanent lesson."
Robin doesn't want to know what that means and he hopes to god he never finds out as he gasps in Slade's hold. He could get out of it—has to resist the urge when it comes to Slade's fury. "Do you understand?" Slade says, fingers closing dangerously tight on Robin's throat. Robin coughs—
"Yes. Master."
"Good." Slade lets him go, leaving Robin gagging on the floor. "Pick up the papers." Robin fumbles around obediently near Slade's boots, face burning from the frustration, humiliation, and anger of it all. Slade is vicious and cruel—Robin's always known that—but here and now it's on a more personal level, one that stings more than ever.
You're learning about him, a deep part of Robin whispers, the one borne from Bruce's teaching, the one that stays up late nights with Slade plastered on the wall in front of him. Slade is brutal, but not unfair: he won't attack without the provocation of Robin's disobedience. While Robin has little hope for his friends' safety in the long term, he has some that if he cooperates, he won't get hurt.
It stings him on a level he never knew imaginable that he has to quite literally bow to Slade and call him "master" and obey his wishes. Some effing hero you are. It is, however, manageable, especially if he imagines all the things he's going to do to Slade: lock him up and never let him see the light of day for his crimes. For threatening his friends.
Robin holds onto the papers as Slade pulls up a diagram on the screen, much easier to see. He walks back to the dais, Robin trailing behind him as Slade sits—lounges—on the chair as if it were a throne.
"Sit," Slade says. There's not room on the chair, and Robin's expression must show confusion. Slade lets out a small laugh, so normal that it jars Robin for a moment to hear it coming out of the mouth of his worst enemy. "On the floor, boy. At my feet."
Robin's jaw works as he stands, face aching, in front of Slade. His eyes narrow.
His feet fold underneath him, face burning.
Trying to quell the feeling of being a child in kindergarten. As he stares at the information in front of him, he almost wishes he was.
"What am I stealing?" he can't resist asking.
"Look at the blueprint," Slade replies from so far above him. It's a power play, Robin reminds himself. Don't let it get to you. He's doing it on purpose. He does everything on purpose. "It's a laser gun powered by red kryptonite developed by Wayne Industries' Special Research division." Robin does. It's informative so far as he can understand it, sure, but it doesn't give him the information he really needs to know.
"What are we going to do with it?"
That strange, almost sincere laugh again. "You, boy, aren't doing anything but stealing it for me. The rest is none of your concern."
Robin frowns.
Kryptonite. Does Slade think he can take on Clark? Is he running a job for Luthor? Either way is bad news, nothing Robin wants to help with.
He doesn't have a choice. Robin will just have to pray that whatever harm he does will be mitigated by other, more successful heroes.
Bruce will understand.
Please understand.
/
Hours later, it blurs in his mind as Robin leans dejectedly against Slade's chair. Slade's solemn voice never lets up as he presses Robin relentlessly on every aspect of the information until Robin can see the floors in his mind and imagine the gun in his hand. Some small part of him wants to cry in frustration. It's easy enough to ignore.
Robin will never give Slade the satisfaction of seeing him cry. That's one thing he's sure about. Especially not over some stupid diagram.
He's actually relieved when Slade stands up and declares them finished, taking the papers from Robin's hands. He flips through them, making sure they're all there before pressing them into his belt—some of them still spotted with Robin's blood. Robin stretches, bending back as far as he can go and then forward to touch his toes. Halfway through he notices Slade regarding him silently with that one eye of his. Robin feels something crawl over his skin and he stops, suddenly feeling small.
Slade moves, and he follows. He's fed well today, swallowing down the flavorless food as best he can. Beggars can't be choosers—even when his eyes ache with lack of sleep.
Robin collapses into bed without even bothering to check for cameras, but anxiety keeps him awake. He has to find a way to get his friends away from Slade's clutches, considering that Slade intends to use his influence to the greatest effect. This just ups the ante more—but it gives Robin a chance to do something. He doesn't know quite what it will be, but—
He can feel the starvation and the fatigue eating away at his mind, even after such a short time. The exhaustion that comes from constant training isn't good either. Robin is young, but not so stupid that he doesn't notice Slade's attempts to break him down. Fear curls in him, ignored completely. This is a chance I can't afford to waste.