It was the same every day: his uncle would somehow fit the subject of Dick's lack of super powers into the conversation, trying to persuade his hopeless nephew into "at least trying" to run, that "maybe this time would be different". But Dick knew better. Nothing would ever change: his uncle would keep trying to jump-start his powers, and Dick would just continue to, well, be absolutely normal. Which, in case you were wondering, was considered a bad thing.

"Barry, I'm telling you, I can't do it. I just can't." Dick repeated to his uncle for about the 10th time that morning.

"You're powers just haven't kicked in yet, mine didn't appear until I was at least your age. Just try. Come on, just run up the stairs. It's not hard. You just have to concentrate and focus all your-"

Dick had gotten used to tuning out his uncle by now. Barry tried so hard. It wasn't his fault; Dick just hadn't inherited the family "Flash gene". He had always known he was different from the rest of his family. He had accepted that long ago, but Barry wasn't going to give up so easily.

Dick had grown up with the Allens, and in that family, being fast was a given, but for some reason, he had just never been able to move like his uncle and his grandfather. Everybody kept telling him that his powers would come soon enough, that any day now he would be wearing the Kid Flash costume, and zooming around town with his uncle. His whole family seemed to be desperately holding on to that hope: he was the only heir the "great Flash legacy", that's what grandpa Jay always said. So he wasn't going to disappoint them by telling them the truth: that he just didn't have it in him, he just wasn't fast. He didn't belong.

"Do it again."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"So what?"

"So, if you want to keep staying here, as Robin, then you have to take this training seriously."

"Can I take a sandwich break?"

"NO, keep going."

"I think I'd rather be eating a sandwich."

"Well that's too bad, isn't it?

"Come ON Bruce, don't you EVER get tired of being 'big, scary BATMAN'? Just CHILL for a minute. How does that sound, mister 'dark knight'?"

"It sounds like you need to do another 100 push-ups."

"WHAT?"

"I said do another 100 push-ups, and, while you're at it, you may as well throw in a couple dozen laps."

"ARE YOU SERIOUS? We've been training all day! Can't I take a brake? Back me up here Alfred."

"Oh, and don't forget to do your homework. Goodnight Wally."

God, sometimes Bruce just got all… BATMAN sometimes.

Did being good at sports automatically mean that you weren't allowed to get good grades too? I mean, he wasn't a model student, but he wasn't a cheater either. It seemed like, no matter what he did, someone was mad at him. If he got a bad grade, his teachers, not to mention Bruce, were disappointed, but whenever he did well, they accused him of cheating! It was unreal. He must have been in the principal's office for over an hour, just waiting for Bruce to show up. Meanwhile, he was probably out somewhere in the city doing "Batman stuff". And there Wally was, sitting in a dusty old office, waiting to be chewed out for something he hadn't even done. He should have been out there, with Bruce, fighting crime. As Bruce always said: he could use some practice. It wasn't that he was bad at the while Robin thing, he just wasn't... to put it delicately: good. Bruce had adopted him because he thought he was smart, and well, mostly, because he was just fast. He had thought that Wally had the makings of a good Robin. Bruce said he just needed more training, but Wally knew that wasn't the case. No matter how hard he tried, he would just never be Robin.

The principal sighed, walking into the damp office (which couldn't have been good for all the heavy wooden furniture and books that were stored in there. Wally made a mental note to mention that to the principal later, he was sure the comment would be much appreciated) and looked at the teenager sitting at his desk from under a mountain of bushy eyebrows. With a scowl that conveyed all his dismay at not being able to strike Wally down with a thunderbolt like he was Zeus, he clasped the boy on the shoulder and murmured: "I guess you're free to go." Wally leapt out of the decrepit old leather chair he had been sitting in and rushed past the tweed-clad principal and out into the hallway, colliding with a moving tower of books. Looking up from his new seat on the floor, Wally realized that his mobile book-tower was, in reality, a thin, black haired boy. Just as he was about to yell out for this nerd to watch where he was going, the two identical pools of blue staring down at him rendered him speechless. He looked into the boy's eyes, and for a moment, lost himself. The other boy cleared his throat, waking Wally from his trance. The redhead stood, still tingling from the feeling of the other boy's eyes on him. How could eyes be so beautiful? What now? Nervous, Wally managed to croak out a single, stupid syllable as he half stumbled, half jogged away: "Nerd."

Stupid, stupid, STUPID!