Author's Note: I decided to re-upload this story after nearly four months. Don't even know why I deleted it in the first place - other than to say I got too insecure. Whatever. Damn my insecurities! I had a couple people who really seemed to like it too, so I apologize for the abrupt deletion. And for y'all who have just stumbled upon it, please let me know what y'all think, and I hope you like it! :D

Soundtrack: "Learn The Hard Way" by Nickelback

"He made his way across the alley toward his would-be foe, this arrogant, caustic kid that he had seen beaten and battered right in front of him: the kind of kid that he normally stepped in to save, a lamb making himself out to be a lion. . ."

There was a definite sense of security in anonymity.

It seemed obvious to anyone with common sense; and to Red X, it was a literal matter of life and death. There have been too many times he was almost caught, too many close calls, too many nights spent curled up in a fetal ball of pain, popping Vicodin and Percocet pills like M&Ms. . .

Not too many nights when his identity was in danger of being exposed.

Unfortunately, tonight had been one of those nights.

Stealing from an armored car was, in theory, nothing out of the ordinary; for a seasoned crook like him, it was almost like a milk run.

In practice, however, it was a fool's errand ― a feat pretty damn near impossible. Especially considering that the armored car in question turned out to belong to Wayne Enterprises, and was manned by the meanest, most brutal lackeys in the GPD.

He ought to know; he himself had often been subjected to their draconian brand of justice.

And so it went: what should have been a typical heist turned into a beating the likes of which he had never taken before, rendering him unconscious in a matter of minutes. His senselessness was relatively brief, and he woke to find that one overly cocky officer was trying to pull off his mask.

Oh, hell no!

X pulled back and smashed his head against that of his would-be captor, who yelped like a dog being stepped on before sinking to the ground.

Having alerted the rest of the fuzz, X leaped to his feet, straining against the cuffs until they snapped.

Little pinpricks of pain shot up his arms, but he grit his teeth and pushed on. His chances of success were next to nil, and he was in no position to try putting up a fight at this point. With a dozen or more cops on his tail, he had to book it. Problem was, he didn't have the energy to outrun the bastards either. Dammit, I think I'm screwed!

It took a little time for X to remember that he had the full capability of teleportation.

By that point, he was surrounded and every feasible escape route was cut off. There was just one, simple stipulation to his teleportation technique: he had to be able to clearly visualize the place where he wanted to go. In his barely conscious state, his mind hazed, he could not even focus, couldn't picture any particular place to escape to. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he noticed a fire escape set against a dilapidated old building. It wasn't ideal, but it was all he had.

Okay, alright, that's where I need to go. I just gotta ―

His line of thought was literally broken ― and probably his skull, too ― as he felt something heavy and blunt crack him on the side of his head, the force so powerful that his head jerked to the side, almost giving him whiplash. X sank to his knees, stunned, unable to fully grasp what had just happened. For a few merciful seconds he was numb, and then he was seized by an agonizing, red hot pain as if he had been seared through with a fire poker.

Tinges of darkness hovered at the edges of his vision, enticing him with the promise of blissful oblivion. X could hear people talking above and around him, loudly and excitedly, almost shouting, but he could not make out what they were saying.

It hurts. And I'm so tired . . . I just want to go to sleep.

No, I can't do that. If I pass out again I'm done for. Hell, I can't go to jail ― I'd look terrible in orange.

In spite of the gravity of his situation he laughed, jarring his fractured ribs and descending into a fit of coughing; he turned his head to the side and spit up great gobs of saliva mixed with blood, and a couple of small white pebbles. Wait.

When had he taken his mask off? Or better yet, who? He also couldn't understand why none of the cops around had tried to pull him up and cuff him again.

Or called a damn ambulance.

At that point he didn't care how much trouble he was in or who had seen his face. He just wanted someone or something to

"Make it stop . . ."

He moaned and rolled onto his side, pressing his cheek against the pavement; it was smooth and blessedly cool against his bruised skin.

It was then that he noticed that he was alone. Besides him there was not a single person left on the street.

Weird. What in the name of –

"Make what stop?"

That voice, he would know it anywhere. Deep, raspy — like a habitual chainsmoker.

"Y― you."

"Me." The voice had taken on a mocking, sarcastic note, which X did not really appreciate.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped, slowly easing himself into a crouching position, leaning shakily on his hands and knees.

"Where did they go?"

"I had them called off. Let's just say I have friends in high places."

"Or low places. Where are you? I can't even see you."

"That's the idea. I'm close ― closer than you think. But don't worry; I'm not here to take you in."

"Oh, really?"

Red X groaned, lowering his head to the ground. He felt dizzy, but forced himself to swallow the wave of nausea in his throat. Vomiting in front of this guy, who was among the most powerful men in the world, would do nothing to further his standing in the man's estimation.

And the asshole already held him in pretty low esteem.

"Really."

X could have sworn that the man actually chuckled as he answered.

He lifted his head gingerly, eyeing the corner where the 'hero' was probably lurking.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time you let me off the hook. Why so lenient? I am a thief, after all."

"True. But there's more to it than that. You steal, but you're not a crook. Not really. You have made some very bad decisions, but you're still just a kid."

The 'kid' laughed, clutching his side with a free hand to minimize the pain in his ribs. "Gee, you're right. I should really try to be a better person! You gonna give me a lecture now?" Bitterness seeped with every word.

He tried to push himself up to stand, but his legs were shaky and he fell back down to his knees. He was sure that beneath the black spandex his skin was black and blue. He felt something hot and wet against one knee and idly wondered if the skin there had been scraped to the bone. It seemed likely.

"No," the chainsmoker voice said, "I'm not going to lecture you. I just came to make sure they hadn't killed you."

"So, you came to save me then."

"Something like that."

"My hero! What the hell did you do with my mask?"

There was a long, awkward silence. Then, from out of the shadows, the ragged piece of black and white cloth was tossed at his feet.

"I don't recommend putting it on. Your nose is broken; I took it off so you wouldn't suffocate on your own blood."

X picked it up, turning it over so that the hollow eyes leered out at him. He snorted, crumpling the mask up in a ball.

"Thanks for that, but at this point I might as well already be dead."

"You don't mean that."

It was stated as a simple fact. The man was so sure of himself that it pissed him off.

"Don't tell me what I do or don't mean! I've had enough people in my life trying to tell me what I think, what I believe, what I have to do and what I can and can't do. I'm sick of it!"

He knew he sounded like an idiot, like a spoiled, stupid child, but he didn't care. He was long past the point of caring. He leaned forward again on his hands and knees, feeling the urge to puke again. He did not see how he would be able to hold it back this time.

He couldn't.

He heaved and moaned, coughing up a disgusting mass of blood and whatever food he had managed to swipe that day. What was it again? Oh yeah: a couple Big Macs. . .

So much for holding it together in front of The Great One. The sight of his own vomit made him gag, and he would've vomited again had he not crawled backward from it.

He scooted back until his back came to rest against the wall. He leaned his head back and stared up at the sky. It was one of those rare nights that a person could see the stars, despite the city lights. X looked at the clusters of stars and found Cassiopeia.

"Hey look up there. Can you see it? That group of stars that looks sort of like a W? That's Cassiopeia, my favorite." X spoke very slowly, his words beginning to slur together. "She was this smart, beautiful Queen, and for some reason she pissed off the Sea God. He tied her to a chair."

X felt something wet trickled from his hairline down to his jaw. Blood or sweat, he couldn't tell. His body ached all over. It was becoming increasingly hard for him to stay awake. It even hurt to breathe; he panted, taking in stuttering, discordant breaths. Death didn't seem like such a distant possibility anymore.

"Sorry . . . it's rude of me I know, but ―" Since when do you care what people think?

"I don't . . . no, I don't!" So why are you apologizing?

"No. I'm not sorry, but I'm . . . so tired. . ."

He slumped against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Please."

His last words before he slipped into unconsciousness were a harsh whisper, a desperate plea:

"Help me, please. . . You were right; I don't want to die."

His heretofore unseen companion leaped off of the fire escape and out of the shadows.

He landed on his feet with a stealthy, almost feline grace. Not what you'd expect from a crimefighting heavyweight like him. He made his way across the alley toward his would-be foe, this arrogant, caustic kid that he had seen beaten and battered right in front of him: the kind of kid that he normally stepped in to save, a lamb making himself out to be a lion. Well, not to say that he is a weakling; just not a major threat. Not a 'villain.'

When he reached X, he knelt in front of him. He reached a hand forward, one black gloved finger tracing the bruises and gashes along the boy's forehead, many of which would require stitches. The worst laceration was on the left side of his head, a bloody trail leading from his temple down to his cheekbone, his black hair matted with blood.

The man removed his hand from X's head, holding his fingers under the boy's nose. A few faint puffs of air brushed against his fingers. Every breath hitched, respiration a severe struggle. He opened his mouth and coughed weakly, emitting a soft, alarming rattling sound. He was alive, just barely.

"Hold on kid, I'm calling for help. You're not going to die. I promise."

X's eyes abruptly opened, glazed and feverish, shaking his head fretfully in all directions.

The man placed a hand on either side of his head, holding him immobile. He looked directly into his eyes as he spoke. "Be still. If you jostle your head too much, you'll only make your injuries worse. I told you, I am going to call for help. You are not going to die."

X's eyes drifted closed, as abruptly as they had opened.

The stranger pushed a button on his belt, briefly hearing crackling static before the airwaves cleared.

"Are you alright? Do you need any help?"

"Yes, I'm fine. But I'm here with someone who's been ― please, just bring the car. It's bad."

"Should you not call for an ambulance instead, Sir?"

"No, I can't. The one who needs help is . . . a friend of Dick's. He can't afford to be in hospital and have people asking him questions. Please come as soon as you can."

"Right away, Sir."

The call disconnected, Bruce Wayne peeled off his cowl, his skin and scalp beginning to sweat. The cool night breeze was a godsend. He stood up, crossing his arms, leaning his head back against the opposite wall.

"You better make it through this, kid. It doesn't matter what you've done, or what anybody has told you. You didn't deserve this."

Red X's hand that had been clutching mask loosened its grip, his fingers splaying open.

A strong gust suddenly tore through the alleyway, the wind carrying the tattered cloth away.