AN) HEY! I got a sequel, thanks for the help guys! I'm using bits and pieces from every review I think. Enjoy!

The early morning air was almost chilly, that weird mix of the two. Not exactly cold, but it wasn't nice and warm either. He glanced at the sun peeking through the darkness for a second—before he hit the man sneaking up on him with a swift blow. He didn't even have to look, one of his many talents, along with finding the perfect song for the moment.

"Another one bites the dust, and another one go— oh for crying out loud Jason! Shut up!" He whined. He blamed Jason whenever a freaking song got stuck in his head. He might not remember much about the boy—but he was the one to give him music. Sometimes a blessing and a curse.

He looked around at the bodies—they weren't dead—he didn't really like to kill. Unconscious, every one of them.

"Well thanks for the challenge guys." He scoffed, climbing over the nearest form. "Same time next week? I can do Thursday if that works for you."

He chuckled under his breath—fingers smoothly flying over the keys. Eyes glancing from the ceiling to the high tech safe he was hacking into. The ceiling because he didn't know if a hero would show up, or if not. He hadn't seen one for a while, so it would be interesting to run into one. But he'd rather not—he really didn't want to run into a hero today. He needed to get in and get out, without getting any scrapes. He told Scott that they could Skype after he got home from 'Cross Country conditioning'.

A small chirp lifted a grin to his lips. The safe was open now he could take whatever he had been sent to get and get out. He liked this early morning mission—it gave him the rest of the day to train, or watch a movie with Will or even go on a second mission. The first and third possibility more likely than the second—but it had happened before. He smiled to himself as he pulled the wicked cool looking weapon from its casing and securing it in his belt. He had no clue what this thing was-only that it was expensive, powerful, and don't you dare drop it Richard that thing would kill you and destroy the city. So yeah, no dropsy.

He carefully maneuvered over the guards—whistling under his breath as he fired the grappling hook against the building across the way, tucking into a flip as he flew through the air.

"Ta-da!" He landed, throwing his hands up in the air as he stuck the landing. "And the judges have their score—10 points from all!" He gathered the rope up, replacing it in his belt, triple checking on the weapon. "That'll put Romanian ahead for these Olympic games." He may be an American citizen, he may be living in Oldham, England—and he might be close to become a citizen here, but he was Romanian. Any shame he had about being a 'gypsy' had faded after Scott had begged and pleaded to learn Romanian. It had been cool. Really cool.

"Diiiick—Dickie please!" Scott sank down to his knees, Dick still leaning against his headboard, sitting up on his bed. He looked down from his book. Scott pulling his biggest pair of puppy dog eyes. "Pleease, man come on!"

"Scott no!" He sighed, Scott groaning and face planting in the bed. "I can't."

"Why not?" His voice was muffled by the bedding. "We could use it as a code so we can send private messages to each other and our parents wouldn't know! Wouldn't that be brilliant?"

He chewed his lip nervously. He was only nine—still not sure what was happening. He was surprised—terrified as three people were in the house. They were neighbors, he had seen them outside before. But…but why were they here? He knew Master was downstairs—talking to the parents. But he was stuck with Scott Daniels. Scott was energetic, he moved around Richard's room—while Richard simply read—praying a beating wasn't coming after. That he behaved as he was supposed to so he could please Master.

But he liked Scott. Scott was friendly, but this—Master didn't like it when he spoke Romanian—but he was supposed to do as people asked of him and Scott was a superior and wanted to learn. And he was supposed to…..but Master…..a-and it—

"Dick? You okay?" He saw Scott's bright green eyes peeking in-between the folds of his arms. He had pulled his knees to his chest. But Scott was kneeling next to him. "Hey, mate what's wrong?"

"I d-don't want to."

"Oh." His face fell for a second, and Dick was ready to apologize, and Scott calmly spoke. "Why?"

He couldn't say Master didn't like it.

"….bad memories. My m-mom."

"Where is your mum?"

A sob caught in his throat, Scott backing up slightly. Images of his mother dancing in his eyes—her beautiful eyes her blinding smile.

"S-She's g-gone."

"…."

"…"

"I'm really sorry mate, really am." An arm draped around his shoulder. He could feel Scott sitting next to him now. "You don't have to teach me anything."

They sat in silence. Scott would sometimes shift his weight or pat him on the back.

"Sorry, I'm really bad at this stuff."

"Y-You're the first prieten I-I'v had."

"Prienten?" Scott butchered the word.

"It means fr-friend."

Dick looked over at him, Scot was beaming! He looked delighted!

"Wicked! So, you'll teach me?"

"Yeah, s-sure."

"I'll teach you how to talk right, American." He nudged Richard slightly, the younger boy laughing.

He grinned at the thought of his first friend. Well—he had been 'friends' with Kid Flash in a brainwashed state—but did that really count? Nah, he didn't think it did.

Right now, Richard was no more than a shadow. He slunk through the slowly disappaering shadows of rooftops until he reached a check point. And old restaurant, slipping into the rundown store, he hurried to the back. A rucksack has filled for him—civilian clothes. He shed his uniform, pulling the navy blue hoodie over his mussy hair. Jumping into the cargo shorts that would fit the early summer look. A baseball cap or headphones, he debated—choosing the headphones. Teenagers listened to music a lot—and people might start to leave him alone.

Stepping into the back alley, he chanted the cover story of why a 12 year old was on the metro at 8:30 in the morning without an adult.

"I stayed the night at my cousin Peter's house and Mum didn't want me riding a cab all the way out to the suburbs. Costs to much. I stayed the night at my cou—"

It became a mantra as he rode the metro away. He got a few glances, but kept his eyes down and focused on his sketchbook. Finishing up what people call fanart. He stuck his tongue out slightly, carefully erasing the edge of one man's beard—but he left Jefferson's hair alone—it needed the afro style.

He liked to watch people. It was one of his favorite things about the new haunt. There were people above it. Down in the basement, under a trapdoor—was a secrete room. In said room was an elevator shaft running to the real complex. It was miles under the surface—so when Mr. Cobb put in a swimming pool last year, the pool was still 26 miles above the base. That was were he trained, where he got mission assignments and where—where he was punished. Things were better, but Richard had failed before—Oliver Queen was still alive for one thing. Blast the man, and blast Bruce Wayne and his security measures of having police on hand—police with connections to Batman.

That had been strange, but the bats were the bats—they knew every waking movement of their city. Another reason to hate the heroes—they added fifteen lashes to his back and a week under his master's disapproving eye.

He shook the memory away—turning to a new page in his sketchbook. Staring at the blank white for a moment—trying to think of what to draw. A hand gently tapped Richard's shoulder. He turned, removing his headphones. An older woman had turned scooting in the empty seat next to him. She wore a soft cream dress and a light blue skirt with a white purse clutched in her hands. She looked like she was around Will's age. A small graced her weathered face, and Richard couldn't help but to offer one back.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt you, but I couldn't help but wonder what you were drawing?"

He turned the page back—tilting it for her to see, a blush growing against his cheeks. "I-It's uhm...Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton at a cabinet meeting. I r-really like Hamilton so I tried to draw it."

"Well I think you did a fantastic job." His spirits soar, he loves praise—every word of it.

"T-Thank you."

"You're welcome." She pressed a small hard candy into his hand. "Do you mind if I stay here dearie?"

"Oh...sure."

"My name's Mrs. Newly. But you can call me Mary."

H-his mami, his mami's name. It wasn't anything special—Mary was a common name. But he couldn't ignore the warm feeling it gave him.

"I'm Dick...er...Richard." He stammered, Mary laughing softly. "Richard Wilson." Long ago, he had adopted Master's last name—he was posing as his son.

Mary nodded, smiling happily at him. So, he returned to his work—deciding on drawing the man sitting across from him—his eyes never opened, and while he was dressed nicely he looked rumpled. A business man returning home from a long weekend.

Richard felt his gut tingle—the weapon. He closed his sketchbook, sneaking a peek in his rucksack—Mary paid him no mind. Yeah, still safe in the bottom his his black bag. Beginning to suck on the candy...mmmhh, carmel he settled in for the 40 minutes he had left.

This would be one more thing to add to his list. Richard visualized what to write.

'Even though I'm a criminal—I take candies from grandma's on metro's.'

Breakline

Her watchful eye never left the boy. He was an odd one. He carried himself with a forced air, like he was trying to be a normal child. A boy who didn't have a care in the world outside his own fancies. But the truth was plain, for those who looked. This child had been raised to be meek, raised to obey authority. He had grown around a figure who held a refined air—they were proper. He was neat, even though he tried to look disheveled.

And as she looked into his eyes, Mary Newly could hardly breathe. They were captivating. A swirl of every shade of blue imaginable. They held a storm of emotion to them. Carried so much knowledge, the child looked as if they had seen much—like they had endured both nightmares and daydreams. And had some to accept that both can and will happen in a person's life.

Mary was intrigued. She had never, never seen such eyes on such a small person. His smile was the same—sweet and innocent to another person, but a person who paid attention as she did would see the suffering behind it. But yet his lips curled upward with hope.

So Mary watched. She watched him study the people around him, and draw what he saw. She watched in peace until he lurched forward. A hand clenched against his head. A groan leaking out of his lips.

Her hands were on his back immediately.

"Richard, are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine." He lied through gritted teeth, smiling weakly. "I get headaches a lot. Still don't feel too great though."

"Do you need anything?" She didn't want such a special child to be in pain.

"My dad as medicine at h-home. I'll be fine t-till then."

She nodded, she could hear truth in his words, and see it in his eyes.

What she really didn't see was the longing. This happened if he hadn't taken the medicine in a long time. His head felt like it was splitting open—he learned to hide it well enough. But he needed the meds. He needed the soothing numbness they brought.

He was almost to the stop. Then—it was a quick brisk walk or jog home. To the meds, and a call with Scott from his vacation to America.

AN) You like? Will Scott discover his friend's secret? Will Mary see this child again? Will Richard every see Hal again? Some questions—hey….could someone do something? Art? I'd really like to see Dick in his civilian outfit with his sketchbook or him in his uniform. Selfish, I know—but I'm sorry. I hope this story is as good as the last—though I doubt it. The original is always the best.