Chapter Text
A dull pain ached across Robin’s forehead before his eyes had even opened. When they did, buzzing fluorescent lights filled his vision. He groaned, squinting through harsh lights as his headache sharpened into a rhythmic throb behind his temples.
Instinctively, he tried to raise his left hand to block the light, yet it felt like lead. That’s when he noticed the cold, snaking up his forearm, like ice water flowing beneath his skin. When he tried forcing his fingers against the chill, a sharp pinch bit into his skin, accompanied by a tight, heavy tug.
A peripheral IV, delivering some unknown substance into his bloodstream. He had to remove it. But not now, as he had to be sure no one was around to stop him.
Where am I? Who brought me here?
He couldn’t remember a single detail of the incident, and the blank space in his memory sent a spike of panic through his chest. Worse, his usual gear was completely gone, leaving him in nothing but his bare spandex suit and domino mask.
Still lying flat, he turned his head from side to side, only to be hit by a crushing wave of pressure that made the room appear to tilt. He could hardly make out what he saw, some sort of medical bay, with various machines all around.
No indication of anyone, but he couldn’t be entirely sure.
The world spun, blurred, and threatened to go black again. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting sudden nausea and forced himself to remain still.
He didn’t like being compromised like this, not like anyone would, but especially because he couldn’t look around for any means of escape, or trace of what brought him there.
Leaving him with any mobility was a massive risk, and his captor had to know it. Robin was too smart. He had been trained by the world’s greatest detective; if left to his own devices, he would engineer an escape.
If it was that easy, anyway.
Yet the real question weighing Robin’s already aching mind, was why would his captor leave him alive?
Then came the chilling realization. This had to be Slade. Who else would keep him alive, yet intentionally weakened by sedatives to suppress his training?
The memories of their forced mentorship flooded back, the threats, extortion, and the Titans' lives endangered. He couldn't let Slade win again. Not when he had pushed himself to the absolute limit to stop him.
He forced all strength in his eyes to not succumb to the bright lights that made him drowsy and worsened his headache. He couldn’t fall asleep; he had to think of a plan to escape.
“Good. You’re awake.”
The familiar, cold voice cut through as the heavy door slid open. Robin’s stomach dropped. He was right after all; it was Slade.
“Why… how did you bring me here?” Robin choked out, speaking through aches.
“You shouldn’t speak, my dear apprentice, it will do you no favors.” Slade replied, now standing over his body.
“I’m not working for yo-” Robin started, only to cut his own sentence short.
Slade’s face was in view, and shockingly, unsheathed from his usual mask.
Slade didn’t cover his face; he didn’t have to. He was certain that he would have Robin by his side eventually, whether it took weeks or a single day. He just had to wait for Robin to stand up and be shown the consequences of disobeying.
Robin’s eyes widened a bit in shock, taking in the mercenary’s real appearance. An eyepatch obscuring his right eye, with short white hair and a well-groomed stubble. He looked middle aged, maybe a bit older.
Maybe a bit like a father.
But he pushed the thought down. He only had one father, and Slade could never replace that, no matter what had happened between them.
“Surprised to see me?” Slade chuckled in amusement. “I figured you would be.”
Robin ground his teeth in pure frustration. He was already entirely overwhelmed by the haze of his head injury, and now Slade was just casually dancing around his questions. Not that he ever expected the man to answer truthfully, anyway.
“Well, I’ll leave you to rest,” Slade said, backing toward the exit. “You’re of no use to me injured.”
He then reached out, dimming the harsh overhead lights of the medical room before stepping into the corridor. The heavy door clicked, but the latch didn't engage; he left it unlocked.
As the blinding glare faded into a dim orange glow, the throbbing behind Robin's eyes eased slightly. The darkness was a relief, bringing with it a desperate return of control over his limbs. Sure, his head still ached and felt heavy from the sedatives, but being able to finally move felt freeing. At this point, he was for sure alone.
Now would have to be his best chance to escape.
He sat up on the bed, the world spinning once more, and stabilized himself, arms lunging forcefully to his front, catching his weight.
Then he looked down. As expected, a thick strip of medical tape was anchoring a thin, plastic tube that snaked up to a tall, metal IV pole. At the top was a plastic bag dripping a clear, sedating fluid into the line, and into his left arm.
He used his right hand to dig under the medical tape, ripping it off. He muffled a sharp gasp as the sticky adhesive tore at his skin. Then, he grabbed the plastic hub where the tube entered his flesh, giving it a hard, desperate pull straight back, flat against his arm.
A sharp, white-hot scrape flared inside his forearm as the long tube dragged backward from his vein. He bit down hard on his lower lip to contain his screams, staying silent. The moment the tube lost contact with his arm, a dark stream of blood welled up from the hole, running down his wrist and staining the white sheets.
His head spun from the flash of pain, as adrenaline fought lingering dizziness from the drugs. He needed to stop the bleeding, fast.
He clamped his right thumb against the wound, the pressure throbbing against his bone, successfully slowing the rush of blood. Using his left fingers, the hand of the injured arm, he hunched over and gathered a fistful of the bed sheets beneath him up to his face. With a desperate, shaky tug, he caught the fabric with his teeth.
Holding the thick cloth as tightly as he could with limited strength, weakened from the lingering sedatives, he yanked his head back violently. The linen ripped with a loud snap, yielding a long, jagged strip. He dropped it down onto his lap.
Lifting his right thumb from the puncture, he quickly grabbed the strip, pressing it over the bleeding hole. He used his teeth to pin one end of the cloth against his arm while his right hand wrapped the makeshift bandage tight, locking it in place.
With his arm finally secured, Robin swung his legs over the edge of the high medical bed. The moment his feet touched the freezing metal floor, his head spun violently. He had to grip the edge of the mattress, knuckles turning white as he waited for the room to stop tilting.
The air in the room was entirely still, smelling faintly of chemicals and cold iron. Slade was gone, but the ghost of his unmasked face still lingered.
“Focus," he muttered to himself, shaking his head to clear his blurry vision.
He looked down again at his bare spandex, feeling completely exposed without his heavy body armor, boots, and utility belt. But he couldn't stay here. Slade was playing some kind of sick game, and Robin refused to be his pawn.
He stumbled toward the heavy steel door. Standing in front of it, the reality of the situation hit him. Slade hadn’t bothered to secure it. Leaving it couldn’t be an accident, rather a direct invitation.
Was it pure arrogance, or a trap? Robin didn't care. He pushed the door open and slipped out into the hallway.
The corridor outside was a desolate grid of dark gray concrete and heavily riveted steel. There were no windows, no signs of life, and no sound except for the rhythmic slap of his bare feet against the freezing floor. The air out here was colder, biting sharply at his exposed arms and legs.
The only illumination came from low, dim orange beams built into the baseboards, casting long shadows up the walls. The orange glow pulsed slightly, a constant reminder of Slade’s presence. Robin swallowed hard, his throat dry. Every step required a monumental effort of will. His knees wobbled beneath the weight of the lingering sedatives, forcing him to press his right shoulder flat against the concrete just to stay upright.
He dragged himself forward, leaving a faint, intermittent smudge of dust and sweat along the wall. His vision swam, turning the riveted steel plates into a blurry, distorted maze. He felt entirely small, stripped of his weapons and his cape, navigating the quiet corridors while defenseless.
Up ahead, the darkness of the hallway was broken by a sliver of flickering white light. It leaked out from a half-open door at the very end of the corridor. Robin paused, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence in the hideout was deafening, making the rhythmic click of the flickering overhead light sound like a countdown. Bracing his hand against the doorframe, he exhaled a shaky breath and pushed the heavy metal door open, stepping inside.
He expected another sterile medical lab, or perhaps an interrogation room. Instead, the weight of what he saw made his breath catch in his throat. The room was massive, cast in near-total darkness, save for a spotlight cutting through the center of the space. The corners of the room were dark, and difficult to see what could be in them.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Robin felt a cold sweat break out across his neck. The walls weren't bare concrete. They were plastered, top to bottom, in hundreds of photographs. He took a hesitant step forward as he stared at the display. Every single picture was of him.
There were grainy, long-distance shots of him patrolling the dark rooftops of Jump City.
Close-up photographs of him laughing with Cyborg, racing Beast Boy, and sitting in silent meditation beside Raven. There was even a shot of him sitting on the roof next to Starfire.
There were detailed maps of his exact patrol routes, highlighted in red ink, and live video feeds flickering silently on a massive grid of monitors.
One of the screens showed the main terminal of Titans Tower, completely quiet and empty.
The realization hit him like a physical blow, sharper than any headache. Slade had been living in his shadow for months, knowing his habits, schedules, weaknesses, and the whereabouts of the teammates he cared for.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed behind him. Robin spun around, limbs weak from the sedatives and mind scrambled by the sudden realization, but his training forced him into motion.
Robin wasn't supposed to be here, not yet.
Well, Slade was sure his plan would work out anyway.
Slade stepped into the dim light, a small, sleek remote control resting in his palm. Without a word, his thumb pressed down on the center button.
From a corner of the room, a figure whirred to life. Masked eyes snapped open in the dark. It came running.
Robin didn't think. He just lunged. He threw a punch, but his sedated, weakened body made his movements too slow.
The clone anticipated the move instantly. It moved with blinding speed; a heavy, metallic fist slamming right into Robin’s ribs. The force of the blow knocked him down, sending him crashing backward into the wall of photographs.
Pictures rained around him like snow. He gasped for air, his vision swimming. Before he could recover, the clone snatched a handful of his slick spandex suit, lifting him effortlessly by the fabric and throwing him violently across the room.
Robin crashed against the opposite wall and slid to the floor, coughing. The fight had beaten his body completely. He stared helplessly as the clone stepped forward to deliver a knockout blow, only to freeze perfectly still; its fist stopping inches from his face.
For a long, agonizing second, the room fell into stasis. The robotic replica hung suspended over him, its fist hovering directly in his field of vision. The whirring of its internal gears died down, replaced by the heavy, trembling sound of Robin's own breathing.
A click echoed through the dark as Slade materialized from the shadows, a handheld remote in his grip. Refusing to be looked down on, Robin pushed himself off the floor. Pressing his right palm flat against the wall beside him for leverage, he dragged himself up to steady his unstable frame.
He managed to stand on his own two feet, leaning back against the wall for support, but the defiance was purely mental; physically, he was spent. His fingers curled, then uncurled, slowly dropping his guard until his arms hung limp at his sides. His chest heaved, ragged breathing being the only sound breaking the heavy silence.
He looked at his captor, shoulders dropping in surrender. “How long...?” He breathed. The words splintered into a quiet, ragged exhale, stripped of anger, and everything else he was feeling.
“Do you see now, Robin? Watch closely.” Slade murmured.
Slade stepped into Robin’s space, his hand coming up to lock onto his jaw in a harsh chin-grab. Then, his thumb hooked under the edge of the domino mask. With a slow, deliberate peel, Slade ripped the black fabric away from his skin. Robin flinched as cool air hit his bare, exposed face. His biggest secret and final boundary were completely gone.
Before he could even process the shock of his unmasking, Slade forcefully directed his chin toward the replica he’d just fought.
With another click of the remote, the clone buzzed back into a standing posture, identical to him.
The same dark, spiky hair. The same height, physique, and the exact same stance stood directly in front of each other.
Slade hadn’t necessarily planned for their meeting to happen like this. But as he looked down at the unmasked, shivering boy, he realized this deviation adhered to his plans perfectly.
Breaking Robin's body before breaking his mind was a welcome bonus.
Instinctively, Robin reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing the clone's face. The freezing, plastic-coated steel skin bit into his fingers, but he didn't pull back. His eyes stared blankly into his own artificial reflection.
“Am I.. still here?” he asked, his voice unnervingly soft with defeat.
Slade observed this with clinical precision. If everything went the way it was supposed to, he’d have the real Robin as a compliant, loyal apprentice in the near future. Slade leaned over his shoulder, his gloved hand coming down to affectionately massage the clone's face right over Robin’s hand.
“He is the perfect replacement, Robin,” Slade said, his voice smooth and calculating. “He will take your place the very second you fail to please me. Your absolute obedience is the only thing keeping him in the dark as you stand by my side.”
No one would be able to tell the difference between them.
Not even the Teen Titans.
Not even Batman.
Robin knew this. After all, how many times had Slade tricked him with robot clones before? Every time he thought he had gotten close to discovering Slade’s true face, he had only been met with a mechanical duplicate.
How cruel, that the day he finally saw Slade's real face was the same day he lost his own.
Slade had stepped out from behind his decoys because he didn't need them anymore; he had built a perfect replacement. Just thinking about what Slade could do with this new robot, armed with all the detailed surveillance data plastered across these walls, made Robin feel violently nauseous.
Slade’s casual delivery made the threat feel simple, carrying an easy solution. The ultimatum hung in the air, heavy and absolute, and the last shred of fight inside Robin completely dissolved.
He didn't pull away from the fingers still gripping his jaw. Instead, he let his head sink heavily into Slade’s hand, giving up the weight of his own neck as his shoulders slouched into surrender.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was dull, stripped of any rising inflection, carrying no anger or fear, just the empty cadence of a boy who had already been replaced.
He wasn’t sorry for Slade or for himself. He was sorry for his teammates, friends, and father. He didn’t know what he could be, or what he would become, under Slade’s full control. Especially when they’d previously proved to be so similar.
A few heavy tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down his bare cheeks. He closed his eyes, letting his hand drop from the replica's face to hang limp at his side. As his arm fell, the makeshift linen bandage around his forearm brushed against the wall behind him. A stark, stinging reminder of his failed escape. The fabric was already stiffened with dried blood, proving that no matter how hard he had fought to tear himself away, he had only run straight back into the mercenary's trap.
A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across Slade’s face. The harsh grip on Robin’s chin dissolved, turning into a gentle, almost proud thumb that wiped wetness from his cheek.
"Good boy," Slade whispered, his voice suddenly warm, tender, and dripping with praise. "See? We don't ever have to wake him up. As long as you listen to me, he stays right here in the dark. It's just you and me."
Those last words felt like a knife twisting through Robin’s guts. Perhaps the final indication swept through him, that he wouldn’t be able to escape. That Slade had him right where he wanted.
Even so, the touch felt both disgusting and strangely calming on his skin. The praise lingered within him, leaving behind reassurance. He felt dirty for liking it. He should have fought back; he should have done something. Yet, he accepted it anyway.
“Anything you want.”