Chapter Text
Robin comes to with a voice in his ears—literally, in his ears. It’s soft, feminine, and ringing, bouncing against the insides of his skull.
Robin, the voice murmurs. You have to wake up.
And despite the gentle tone, each word sounds with an urgency. They’re firm, tinged with desperation. And maybe that’s why Robin doesn’t recognize her at first. He’s used to this voice being bubbly, excited. Offering baked goods and laughter. Not…not like this.
Robin.
The dark tendrils of unconsciousness start to recede. He blinks. Opening his eyes is a monumental task, and it’s almost as difficult to keep them that way. But Robin manages. He scans the room through slivered, blurry vision. The available light is dim, coming from overhead bulbs that flicker unpredictably. He can barely make out his surroundings. And what he can identify, makes him wish he kept his eyes closed.
The floors are concrete, flooded with puddles of nondescript liquid. More rains down from overhead. Plink! Plink! Plink! The drops coming unevenly, teetering and running over each other. Plink!
There are no windows or doors, that he can see. But the edges of the room are ringed in darkness, outside the limited lighting. When Robin glances down, fighting to keep his head upright, he sees that his hands are bound, as are his feet, which are numb where he’s been sitting propped against them.
And most worryingly of all, he sees the cage.
The bars are metal and firm where they surround him, the gaps between them just a few inches each. Maybe enough for him to thrust an arm through—if his arms weren’t bound. The cage itself is tall enough for him to kneel in, barely, and is square. Too short on each side for him to sit with his legs outstretched. He keeps them curled up at his side instead. Glaring at the cage, the shoddy lighting, the damp confines of the space, Robin comes to the conclusion.
He’s been kidnapped.
He tries to think back, tries to remember what led him here. He’s wearing the Robin uniform—this is connected to hero business. So who was it who got the drop on him? Robin can’t remember any specific fight with any villain. He can’t even remember what patrol or mission he was on that led up to his present circumstances. Every thought feels fuzzy, ungrounded. He can’t make sense of any of it, and the train of questioning slips away.
With it, he can feel the threat of his fading consciousness. Which is not a good idea.
Quickly, Robin shakes his head, trying to break free of a lingering, groggy tug. It’s not easy, and he almost doesn’t succeed. Wouldn’t have, had it not been for the sudden exclamation. The loudest interaction yet.
Wake up! the voice insists. It shoots through him. His eyes fly open, his brain is stimulated, his skin crawls. Suddenly his thoughts snap into place, drawing free meaning and recollection.
M’Gann, his mind offers.
His teammate.
Robin focuses on the exchange. He can still feel the familiar surge of nerves, the itch, of mental communication. There’s a kind of pressure, a weight, enshrouding his head. Sinking and swimming along his thoughts. He recognizes the link for what it is. And that’s all it takes for Robin to also feel that the source of the voice is in the same room.
The thought of M’Gann—gentle, sweet, M’Gann—in this darkened, dank place is what gives Robin the strength. He manages to turn his head, knowing even as he twists to examine the space next to him that he’ll find her.
And sure enough.
Robin clenches his teeth and takes in the green skin, darkened by shadow. He takes in the auburn hair, hanging in whisps before her face. And he takes in the cage. He takes in the cage that holds M’Gann prisoner, only to glance beyond it, feeling the frown on his face deepen. Darken.
Because there. Beyond the cage holding one of his friends captive, is another. This one filled with a yellow figure, unconscious and splayed awkwardly in too-small confines.
Robin’s gaze, hardened and aching, flicks back to M’Gann.
“M’Gann,” he says aloud. His throat is scratchy, and each word tastes like copper. When he licks his lips, a cut on his lip burns, fresh blood leaking down his chin, oozing against his mouth.
Robin, she answers, and the message thrums in relief. He can see her shift in the shadows, pulling herself closer to the bars, where he can make out her features better in the scant lighting. Are you okay?
Fine, Robin says. Even though his head feels like submerged and a ringing sounds in his ears—one that has nothing to do with their link. You?
M’Gann nods. I came to a few minutes ago, she murmurs mentally. I was the only one—I’ve tried to reach out to the others. So far, you are the only one to respond.
The others? Initially, Robin is reminded of the cage on M’Gann’s other side. He looks past her, at the glint of yellow uniform. Wally. But then, Robin’s hit by a sudden realization.
He twists, ignoring the way his muscles strain, his skin throbs. And then, he sees them.
On his other side are three more cages. Each with their own occupants, similarly unconscious and carelessly sprawled.
Artemis. Superboy. Aqualad.
A jolt of panic courses through Robin’s nerves, burrowing between bones and lingering there, tense and tender.
None of them have woken up? It’s a thought half for Robin to rue over, half a question for M’Gann.
She shakes her head. I’ve been calling. Aqualad is close to waking. Kid Flash is not far himself. But Superboy and Artemis are still deep within their minds—I cannot reach them yet.
Keep trying, Robin orders immediately. We need to get out of here.
How? M’Gann asks.
And Robin pauses.
How? He doesn’t know how. He’s woken up captured, surrounded by similarly imprisoned friends, most of them unconscious. He’s lethargic, he’s in pain, and he’s thrumming with nerves, bristling at the surrounding unsurety. But Robin can’t say that. He can’t scare M’Gann like that. Not when she’s looking at him with furrowed eyebrowed and wide eyes.
So he swallows. He licks his bloody lips. He lies. I’m working on that. First, we need the others—hopefully, Superboy can just bust us out, once he comes to.
He’s not expecting their exchange to be comforting—under the circumstances, little could be. But he’s also not anticipating the sudden worry that floods M’Gann’s features. She looks away from him, towards the concrete floor, and Robin feels his panic spike.
What is it? he demands.
Um, M’Gann says. I don’t think Superboy’s going to be able to ‘bust us out.’
And then M’Gann shifts, pulling herself almost flush against the bars, and points towards her own neck. Finally, Robin sees it. The inhibitor collar that, until now, had been hidden by her shoulder-length hair and shadows.
Superboy has one too, she says.
Robin turns back to his other side, searching past Artemis, focusing on where Superboy lays still in his own metal hold. The look confirms it. A band wraps around his neck, three pin-points shining a faint red.
But before Robin can focus on how absolutely fantastic that development is, a low groan rings out.
Aqualad! M’Gann thinks, and Robin can feel her twisting their link, strengthening the ties between the three of them, while still leaving the rest of the team connected, but muffled. Aqualad, you have to wake up!
C’mon Kaldur, Robin puts in. He finds himself crawling closer to the side of his cage facing their leader, peering out at the divide between them hopefully. He eyes the motionless lump of the other teen, a sharp constraint on his own chest lessening when he sees Aqualad finally shift.
Hmm? is the first stirrings of Aqualad’s mental state.
It’s us! M’Gann, and Robin, the girl says. The team is trapped, we need your help!
A moment later, Robin feels the probing of Aqualad’s mental presence again. This time, it’s stronger, clearer. M’Gann? Robin?
Welcome back, man, Robin says.
Aqualad’s thoughts bustle dangerously, bumping against the shield separating them. Finally, he asks, Where are we?
Robin shrugs. Your guess is as good as mine.
I just woke up here, M’Gann agrees apologetically.
Robin feels the weight of Aqualad’s mental struggle. What about the others? he asks next. Are they alright?
But before anyone can answer, there comes a new sound. This one beyond the confines of their link. This one, physical. The scraping of an opening door.
Robin’s head jerks in the direction of the noise. He squints, scanning the shadows even as a figure steps free of them.
It’s a man. He wears jeans, a dark vest, and a green undershirt, which, despite being torn and tattered, are normal enough. It’s the other clothing that draws Robin’s attention, causing his throat to stick and a sudden weight to plunge through his stomach.
There are gloves, fingertips tapered to claws. There’s a hat, sitting over stringy, straw hair. And there’s a mask—gnarled and twisted, with a jagged slash for a mouth and two holes for wide, bloodshot eyes to peer through.
Robin swallows, all agitated blood and thick saliva. His throat feels thinned, his insides roiling.
The man takes a step closer, then another.
Robin feels his fingers begin to shake. Then, his hands. His nerves chatter within his cold, sweat-damp skin.
Jonathan Crane. Gotham City’s Scarecrow.
The man steps closer, each footfall a slap that echoes, intermingling with the uncertain beat of dripping liquid.
Plink! Slap. Plink!
Robin tenses.
Who…who is that? M’Gann asks.
It’s Aqualad who answers. Aloud, this time. “The Scarecrow,” he says. Then, bolder, “What do you want with us?”
Scarecrow pauses where he stands. He spreads his hands, clawed fingers twisting. When he speaks, his voice is guttural, twisted, broken.
“I just came to watch the show.”
A cold feeling slides down Robin’s spine and he freezes. Scarecrow turns, and they lock eyes. Robin is pinned beneath his gaze, a sick, nauseous feeling surging in his gut.
I just came to watch the show.
But what show? Robin thinks, and that’s the question. The pieces click. His eyes go wide, the chains wrapped around his arms, his legs, clink and rattle as he jerks.
What does he mean by that? M’Gann asks. What does he mean?!
Robin doesn’t answer. He can’t. His only focus is to get the thought out in time, to prevent what is about to happen.
M’gann! he cries. Cut the link!
But he’s too late.
A latch falls loose on his cage, and everyone else’s, revealing vents. Green, noxious, gas begins to slip free from the cracks. In whisps at first, but growing. In strength, in size, in potency. And before long, Robin, and the rest of the team, is engulfed.
Plink! Plink! Plink!
Slap.
And then, it begins.