“TWIST”

By Remix17

He walked down the hall, his boots ringing dully against the hard floor as he walked through the hallway, heading for the door that waited for him at the end of the long corridor. There was no purpose or strength to his footsteps, and his gaze was pointed slightly downward. His shoulders were not carried with confidence and self-assurance as they had been in the past; now they were slumped, careless and miserable.

As he seemed dispassionate and dead on the outside, he swelled with despair on the inside. How long had it been now since he had been a free man? How long had it been since he hadn’t felt the harsh sting of his master’s control, of the cruel punishments that cut through him physically and mentally? When was the last time he had been free of his master’s cutting voice? That mocking, sadistic voice that relished every second of his servitude? To have slave of a former enemy was his master’s greatest pleasure, his highest amusement, and as the slave in question walked, he squeezed his gaze shut momentarily, as if blinding himself to his prison would make it disappear.

When his eye closed, he encountered memories of a past that was no longer tangible, a past that seemed from another reality. Somehow he recalled a time when he had been the master of himself and of his destiny, a time when he had made his own rules and obeyed no tyrant. The memories were both sweet and torturous—he knew he was not likely to experience such simple contentment again.

He reached the end of the corridor, and the large, heavy double doors loomed in front of him. He opened them with one hand and walked though the threshold, entering an expansive but sparsely decorated throne room. Sitting in a heavy chair, gloved hands resting laconically on the chair’s arms, his master looked upon him. The man who had lived for years in servitude cringed at his master’s evil smirk, at its snakelike quality and subtle sadism. He knew most of the smirk was imagined, but it was still there all the same, hiding beneath the surface, mostly unseen on his master’s masked face.

With a mental cringe, he knelt before the throne, going down on one knee and lowering his head in humiliating obedience.

It was this damn device in the back of his neck. That was what forced him to obey. It was responsible for the punishing waves of electrocuting pain he felt after failing a mission. It was the one that tied into his central nervous system and played with his pain centers, breaking him down into what he was today; it was the one that interfered with his sleep, weakening his will and resolve back in the days when he had most strongly resisted control.

And at his master’s side, as always, was the control to it. And there it would remain until the day he died. Only then would he be free.

“Right on time,” his master said in his usual cool, even tones. “As usual.”

“Yes, master,” he said.

“Do you have what I requested?”

“Yes,” he almost snarled out, “master.” He produced the item he had been ordered to retrieve—a simple data disk, but the information on it was more deadly than any weapon he could have stolen.

His master rose and walked to him. The kneeling servant gave him the disk.

“The Titans have just about reached their end, now. With this, their demise will be imminent.”

“Yes, master.” He hoped the Titans would manage to survive, the way they always escaped destruction even now. He wanted desperately for them to do what he could not: kill this monster, eliminate his perverse dominion over the city and the territories beyond it

“Slave….take off your mask for me,” his master said after a moment, a cruel hint to his voice. “Now.”

He hesitated, but his gloved hands went up to his face and he removed his mask, revealing the worn, lackluster expression that rested beneath it. He stared intently at the floor, not wishing to look up at the face that was smirking down at him.

After a moment his master turned and walked back to his chair, sitting and regarding him. “Very good. You may go, Slade.”

Things had changed much these past fifteen years. Robin had changed. Slade didn’t even recognize him anymore. The boy that had fought for goodness and justice was gone—replaced by a tyrant that had stripped him of everything.

Slade grimaced and stood, returning his mask to his face. Without another word he turned his back and left the room, his boots dully sounding off the floor that he was ground into every day.

END