His eyes snapped open as soon as the door closed and the IV was thrown onto the floor, crushed moments later beneath his foot as he hopped out of the hospital bed. Careful not to make much noise, the light clinks of his boots the only thing he heard as he slunk over to the window, opened it in one smooth motion and launched himself out.

The wind blew his hair back as he twirled in a spiraling freefall for the ground, and although any other regular person would be scared out of their wits, it's safe to say that Robin wasn't that typically regular person in the slightest.

He let himself fall-- faster, faster, closer to the ground, until he was so near that even a second wasted would lead him to his doom. And yet, Robin did nothing.

There was the same clinkity-clack of iron heels on the rooftop moments later. His cape swept the ground like a broom, carrying up dust and debris that he would have been eager to clean before but now.. He didn't really care in the slightest.

What an odd feeling it was, not to care at all.

He almost couldn't bear the thought of running away, although he had done it before with no problem. He was actually still running away, even. Away from him, where he was constantly controlled and useless.

Batman only gave him slight opportunities to show the world that he was great. He wasn't just the little orphaned circus boy with "no bones", or the amazing boy wonder sidekick.

But instead of getting the spotlight he deserved, Bruce got all of the pride, the praise, the recognition. And he was sick of it. That's when he had started to run away.

How many years now?

...

Too many. Keep going.

Robin walked along the rooftop, scanning the area below where the big city was visible just beside the bridge. He could go and save the town without them. He knew that. He was more than strong enough.

But this damned arm would slow him down. He needed a plan. Cut it off? ...Probably a very, very bad idea. Actually let it heal? Nah. Too long. He had already run away, he wasn't going to go back now. Live with it?

Seems like the best choice.

With a flick of his grappling hook he was soaring for the ground again, swinging from a tree before landing gently outside the garage. The door was open. How unusual-- Cyborg usually sealed the place from head to toe.

And then it hit him. Something.. something was wrong. He had to get out. He had to-- he flung himself onto the R-cycle and then he was gone with a screech of tires against grass and concrete. And just on time, too, because when he glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, a group of wild Teen Titans were dilly-dallying around the garage.

How..

His head swirled, lips twitching into a crooked grin as he turned back and increased his speed. How what? He could use so many different words to describe his team, from comical to foolish to incredibly skilled and right now, he could only think of one word.

One perfect word that described everything he felt about the Titans in a gorgeous roll of the tongue. Robin gripped the bar ends tighter, knuckles turning white underneath his gloves as he turned acutely to the left.

Pathetic.

His team was the most pathetic, useless, misunderstanding, overbearing, controlling group that he had ever encountered, and how he had not seen this earlier, he had no idea. He was standing-- or riding-- in a new light, filled with realization and brutal truths as he pressed harder on the accelerator.

The screeching of rubber against asphalt alerted him to the lanky man in front of him, of whom Robin had just found the right reflexes to avoid running the man over. He didn't.. did he recognize this man? With the one icy-blue eye and the clothing made of orange and black..

Deathstroke, he realized, otherwise known as Slade, just as he leaped out of his stupor. He wasn't fast enough, however, as seconds later a steel-toed boot came flying towards his face and he was out cold.