The mission had gone to hell, and Robin was loving every second of it.

He ducked lower behind the crate, wincing as bullets crashed through the wall overhead. The crate thrummed against his back with each hit. Whatever was inside must've been sturdy, to keep taking bullets for him. Thank god.

'Stop, stop!' The voice echoed through the warehouse, low but obviously female, with a thick Russian accent. 'You're wasting bullets!'

Gradually, the gunfire ceased. Robin let out a breath, skimming over his utility belt, searching …

'I'm sorry, little boy,' the woman called. 'My men, they have happy triggers. But you can come out now, I tell them don't shoot.'

'Who are you?' Robin called over the crate. He hadn't missed the 'little boy'.

A moment's silence. Then: 'I would be a fool to give my name to a superhero. Even a little one.'

Robin's eye twitched. It didn't matter anyway. He read up on Anna Petrov before he left the Tower. She had a pretty impressive résumé—at least for a certain clientele. Smuggling, fraud, trafficking everything from drugs to guns to people. In her photograph she had platinum blonde hair and a soft, rosy-cheeked smile, which seemed to say, 'Me, officer? I've never seen that sack of cocaine in my life …'

And right now she was barking in Russian at her eight lackeys, all of whom had their handguns trained on Robin's crate. Robin's Russian extended about as far as 'Yes,' and 'No,' with a bonus, 'Do you speak English?' Still, he gathered she wasn't ordering him a coffee and a cupcake.

He dug in his utility belt and drew out what looked like a glass marble, its surface glossy-black.

'You know,' Anna Petrov called, her voice once again soft and sweet, 'I met the other Robin in Gotham last year. He was a good boy.'

Robin went cold.

Jason.

In an instant, the strength drained from his muscles. His mind went to static. He tried to take a breath, and choked. He couldn't move—something was crushing his chest.

A dark figure moved somewhere above him, barely visible in the rafters.

Like the snap of an elastic band, his strength returned. And now it was hot and sharp and furious. Teeth gritted, Robin tossed the marble out the side of the crate.

As it rolled, a hologram shimmered into life—a recorded image of Robin running, his black cape swirling behind him.

'Shoot!' Anna Petrov screamed. 'Shoot him!'

The gunfire drowned her out. Robin heard the first shot, leaped round the other side of the crate, and lunged for Anna. Swinging his fist up, he caught her hard across one rosy cheek, and Anna fell back with a scream.

Spinning on his toes, Robin faced the gunmen—some still shooting where the decoy vanished behind another crate, some just turning to face the real Robin.

The dark figure dropped down among them.

There was a moment of stillness, as if the room as whole were taking a deep breath.

Then the figure snatched a pistol from one of the turning gunmen, and shot him in the foot. The gunman collapsed with a shriek. Then the next and the next, dropping like stones with each clean shot.

The dark figure turned.

Robin met Slade's single, cool grey eye.

He frowned. 'You could've dropped in sooner.'

Slade's eye narrowed behind his mask—not in irritation, but as if he were smirking. He stepped out, setting his foot on one of the gunmen's dropped pistols. The gunman reaching for it sagged, cursing in Russian as Slade casually kicked the gun away. 'But you were doing so well.'

Rolling his eyes, Robin turned to Anna Petrov—

Who rolled to her feet, scooping up the pistol Slade kicked aside. She staggered back, shoulders hunched, gripping the gun in both hands. It wavered from Slade to Robin.

'How inconsiderate,' Slade murmured. 'And after you promised not to shoot him.'

A crackle went down Robin's spine, like a warning flare, and he knew without needing to look when Slade was going to move. He leaped at the same time and they separated, each diving around Anna in opposite directions.

A gunshot burst through the warehouse, but Anna's hands shook and she staggered at the recoil, missing both of them wildly.

She's not used to firearms, Robin thought. She has lackeys for that.

Anna stumbled, turning, head whipping back and forth in the instant she had to decide where to shoot next—Robin or Slade?

Too slow. Robin got up behind her, crouched and swung his leg out low to take out her feet, just as Slade sent a punch that could crack concrete into her sternum.

For a moment, Anna sailed up, and seemed to dangle like a puppet on thin air. Then she fell back with a crash. She lay on her back, eyes wide, wheezing. She dropped the pistol to clutch at her chest.

Robin winced. Broken ribs hurt.

As Slade advanced on Anna, Robin whipped out his communicator. At a touch, it dialled a familiar signal. A tiny red light flashed on screen, and he snapped it shut. 'Cops'll be here any minute.'

Slade dropped into a crouch beside Anna, who stared up at him with huge eyes. The rosy pink was gone from her cheeks. As Slade reached out, she lifted a shaking hand to feebly swat him away. Slade ignored her. He dug in her coat pocket, and pulled out a tiny black square of plastic.

'That's fine,' Slade murmured. 'I've got what I came for.'

Sirens wailed nearby, growing louder, and Robin watched as Slade straightened, tucking square of plastic in his belt. Why doesn't he run already? Robin fidgeted from foot-to-foot, chewing the inside of his cheek.

But Slade walked calmly to Robin's side, and set a hand on his shoulder. Robin suppressed a shiver, and put the sudden rush of heat down to a late adrenaline rush. He kept his eyes on the warehouse door.

'In a moment then, Robin,' Slade murmured.

Robin nodded tersely. Go already. If they see …

Slade lingered, hand still on Robin's shoulder, even as the red and blue lights flickered through the bullet holes in the wall. Robin could feel every thump of his heart in his throat. But when he finally glanced up, Slade dropped his hand.

He fixed his gaze back on the door, and forced himself not to turn. But he listened—to the echo of Slade's footsteps behind him, and the whoosh of the grappling hook, and the muffled down of someone clambering up onto the roof.

Outside, tires screeched and voices barked, and a dozen men and women in blue uniforms burst through the door. While they scrambled to Anna Petrov and her bleeding lackeys, a grey-haired policeman approached Robin.

'Standard fare?' His voice had the low, creaky growl of a three-packs-a-day man.

'Pretty much.' Robin shrugged.

'Well,' he nodded as two cops hauled Anna up, 'we can take it from here.'

Robin smiled faintly, and snuck away. The cops never kept him around for long. They were well used to answering the Titans' emergency signal after Clayface smashed up a street, or Mad Mod left a handful of civilians gibbering by the roadside. Catching the bad guys was the Titans' job. Patching them up and shipping them to Belle Reve, Robin gladly left to the authorities.

When Robin got up on the roof, he wasn't surprised to find Slade lingering there. One leg stretched out, the other curled up with his elbow resting on it, he watched the scene below with what Robin imagined was a smirk. The red and blue lights flashed off the copper half of his mask.

'I must say, I'm impressed.' He turned the square of black plastic he'd taken from Anna between his thumb and forefinger as Robin crouched beside him. 'Then again, I usually am.'

Robin waited for him to mention Anna's taunt, and let out a breath when he didn't. 'What is it?' He nodded at the plastic.

'A memory card.'

'What's on it?'

'That's my business.' Slade tucked the memory back in his utility belt—fast enough that Robin didn't catch which pocket he'd put it in. Noticing Robin's scowl, Slade added, 'This was the agreement.'

Robin grunted. It was the agreement. Slade helped take down the bad guys, and he got to steal whatever he wanted from them.

At least it was a memory card, he thought, and not a gun.

A smarter part of him knew Slade could do way more damage with a memory card than a gun.

'Why?' Slade said, low and quiet. 'Can you think of a better way of compensating me?'

That crackle went down Robin's spine again. He closed his fists. Clenched his teeth. 'I'm not gonna be your apprentice.'

Robin shot him a sharp look. Sure you wouldn't. Because there's some other way you want me to 'compensate' you. His stomach squirmed, and his face was burning, and he swallowed hard and told himself it meant nothing.

He spent every night with Slade in secret, and it meant nothing. Slade was useful. He was fast, and smart, and he fought like a lion on steroids. Slade got jobs done.

And the fact Robin hadn't told the Titans also meant nothing. They'd freak. And they didn't need anything else to freak out over these days.

And the way Robin's head cleared when he was with Slade—the way the clouds of fog and shadow and muck seemed to just blow away and he could finally, finally focus and feel his heart beat and his muscles ache and his lungs burst for oxygen—that meant nothing either. Slade was a villain. What Robin was doing was dangerous. It was bound to wake him up.

Slade rose smoothly to his feet. 'Tomorrow night, then?'

Robin swallowed down a hard lump in his throat. 'No. This was the last night.'

'You say that every night.'

'I mean it. I shouldn't be working with you.'

'If not for me,' Slade said with soft coldness, 'you'd be dead in that alley.'

Bile rose in Robin's throat. Tarmac pressing against his face—black boots stamping on his fingers—smacking into his ribs—blood in his mouth—

With a shudder, Robin folded his arms. 'I know. But this is the last night.'

Slade stared at him—a stare that went right through him like he was made of glass. 'In case you change your mind, I left you a gift. It's on your motorcycle.'

Robin narrowed his eyes. 'What—'

'I'm not asking anything in return,' Slade said over him, as if reading his mind. 'It's body armour. If you're going to keep getting shot at, you ought to wear some.' He smirked—Robin couldn't see it, but he felt it. 'And take off that cape. They only get in your way.'

Hunching, Robin let his cape slip forward over his shoulders, hiding his body. 'I like my cape.'

Slade didn't argue—in a few short steps, he slipped into the darker shadows and the end of the roof, then disappeared over the edge. Robin waited, watching the sirens light up the street like fireworks. He wasn't allowed to chase Slade. That was also part of the agreement.

When Slade was definitely gone, he slipped over the roof, and ducked through the shadows back to the alley where he'd stashed his motorcycle. The metal glinted faintly—the sun was coming up, grey light pooling between the buildings.

As promised, a package was balanced on the seat. Robin opened it warily, and picked out the contents. He raised his eyebrows. Not bad. Batman wore armour like this: lightweight and not too thick, moving easily as Robin twisted it. When he pressed his gloved fingers in, they made soft indents. But when he struck it with his knuckles, they cracked against the material—suddenly hard as steel.

It was a pricey gift. Whatever Slade had said, he obviously wanted something in return. A favour or a promise or a quiet word …

Or else it was a trap. Robin remembered Terra's armour, welded to her skin, controlling her every move. His skin crawled.

He should just throw it away. Give it back. Not risk it.

He thought of Slade's hand on his shoulder. He'd almost felt warmth through his glove.

Taking a slow breath, Robin wrapped the armour back up, swung his leg over his motorcycle, and set the package on his lap. He'd test it thoroughly at the Tower before he put it on—or even touched it with bare skin. But he'd keep it. One way or another.

The sun crept higher, and he tried to ignore his dry mouth.

It meant nothing. It was just a gift. Or a trick. Or a trap.

And the fact Robin spent last night with his face buried in his pillow, voice muffled as he let his hands trail down below his stomach, murmuring Slade's name behind a locked door—that didn't mean anything, either.