He's in pain. I can see it in his expression. The lines of his back, the way he holds his shoulders… everything's wrong. I don't know what to do.

He says he's okay. Every time I ask, he insists that everything's fine, that he's just thinking about something or he has a headache or he's worried about this or that. But the way he shifts his eyes, the way he twists his hands… it all tells me that he's lying to my face. And it hurts a little to realize that he's not being honest with me. Honest the way best friends are with each other. Honest the way we'd always been with each other.

I wish I could help him. I wish I could see inside that brilliant, extraordinary head of his and know what it is that's plaguing him… that's carving that horrible expression into his features. That's making him lie to me.

"You okay, Rich?" I ask for the hundredth time that day as the cool night wind whooshes in my ears. I watch him from the corner of my eye, careful to maintain my footing on the electrified disc.

"Mmm-hmm," he responds immediately, looking away from me like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I'm fine."

"You're quiet."

"Nothing to say," he shrugs, scanning the cityscape a hundred feet below us. I can see his hands roll into fists at his sides as he readjusts his direction, blazing rocket 'blades shifting around behind him. "No sign of anything weird. I think we're in for a calm night."

I nod, sighing. I guess I can ignore the blatant change of subject for now. I don't know what to say anyway, if I were to persist.

"We could probably have an early night tonight," I respond, eying the calm streets that sparkle below. Like, two o'clock, maybe."

"Ah," Richie quips, "Luxurious. A full four and a half hours of sleep before we have to be up for school."

It's my turn to shrug, grinning. "Hey man, it's not my fault you can't function on less than a solid eight hours. I can just handle things on my own if you'd like to toddle off to bed, Gramps."

"Ha ha." He rolls his eyes. "The hilarity is slaying me."

"I'm just saying," I continue loftily, "You do get a little cranky without your regular naps, Wee Richie. Perhaps we should start scheduling them in before patrols. What do you think?"

Richie responds with a fairly rude gesture and a yawn.

"I…" he breaths, stifling the yawn, "… would like to see you operate at full capacity with as many all-nighters as I've been pulling. And anyway, who are you to judge anyone, Mr. Energizer Battery?"

"Hey, I will not be associated with that creepy pink rabbit…" I respond sharply. Ugh. I really hate that bunny.

Richie laughs a little, but it sounds pretty feeble. I direct my disk around to face him, forcing him to pull up vertically. We hover there in the air, illuminated by my electricity, and I scrutinize the face beneath the green-tinted visor.

"What?" he demands, flushing. He won't meet my eyes.

Though he turns his face away, I see him anyway. His blue eyes seem a little duller than usual… a little sadder. They're underscored with heavy purple shadows and hooded in a way that reminds me of the time he had pneumonia, when we were little… a memory I don't particularly appreciate being prompted to recall.

"Seriously, Gear, you look beat." I try to sound casual, but I can hear the concern in my voice. "Maybe you really should take tonight off, try and catch up on the Z's."

He rolls his eyes again, sighing heavily. "I'm fine, Static," he states in his most rational voice. Which is infuriatingly rational. "No more or less exhausted than you are. I've simply been working on some new programs that take a lot of time and concentration. I upgraded my 'blades," he performed a cool little flip with a complicated twist of his rocket 'blades, "and Backpack's got some improvements as well. I'm fine."

I cock my eyebrow, fixing him with my best skeptical scowl. He folds his arms across his chest, draws his ankles together in a rather impressive display of mid-air balance, and matches my stare, frown for frown.

After a lengthy glaring contest, I cave. "I just don't want you overdoing it, bro," I say. "I don't want you to get hurt. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you're too smart for your own good, Gear."

For a moment he watches me with an unreadable, unnerving, almost dangerous expression, and I'm afraid he's going to blow. But finally he releases me from his gaze and chuckles. I breathe a relieved sigh. I never know how Richie is going to react anymore… he's unpredictable. I'm thankful he's behaving like himself tonight.

"You worry too much, Static," he declares, waving a hand dismissively. "I promise I'll sleep this weekend. I'll lie in bed day and night until my mother positively drags me into the daylight, how's that?"

I pretend to consider for a moment, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "Throw in a couple movies and some burgers with your best friend and it's a deal."

He nods, smiling, and extends a hand for me to shake. For a moment, it feels just like normal. Like Richie isn't hiding anything from me and I'm not smoldering with worry over him. Like we're just us: Static and Gear, shaking hands in the sky. A surge of exhilaration floods my veins, and I can see the violet glow around me ignite into sparks. I smirk at Richie.

"So… how 'bout a race? Test out those upgrades on the 'blades?"

"Well…"

He leans back in the air a little, the picture of cool relaxation. His arms fold up behind his head, and his eyes drift to the starry sky above. He looks completely at rest…

Then, he's gone.

"Cheater!" I cry, rocketing after his retreating figure. "Get back here and race me like a man!"

His laughter fills the quiet sky.

He leans over his desk, eyes fixed on the test over which his pencil is poised, but I can see that they're glazed and distant. His left hand is twisted in his bright hair and his glasses have slid down to the very tip of his nose, but he doesn't bother to push them back up in that distinctively geeky, index-finger way I've always made fun of. In fact, he hardly seems to notice. His number two hasn't moved in at least ten minutes. His brow is furrowed.

I swallow a couple times, trying to focus on my own test. I read question eighteen for the tenth time and once again forget the words before I even register them. I fill in bubble C, just so it looks like I'm doing something.

Whatever's been eating at Richie is back with a vengeance. He's distant and quiet, barely having said a word to me since we met to walk to school this morning. In this fluorescent light, his face looks paler and thinner than ever. I don't bother hiding the anxiety I know is displayed on my face.

I pinch the pink eraser from the end of my pencil. Glancing to make sure Miss Peters' eyes are otherwise occupied, I quickly and deftly flick it at the side of Richie's face, two rows over.

He doesn't react in the slightest as the eraser bounces off his left ear. I frown.

Stuffing my hand into my pocket, I fish around for the paperclip I know I dropped in there when I found it in my locker this morning. I like to keep things that I know will keep my restless hands engaged during seventh period History. Glancing to my left and my right, I make sure my fellow students are either concentrating on their tests or, in the case of Douglas O'Hara to my left, slumbering peacefully on blank answer sheets. Everyone seems suitably occupied…

I zap the little paperclip. It glows violet in my electrified hand, and, aiming carefully, I send it sailing at my best friend before it can lose its charge.

It hits him on the cheek. He jolts out of his stupor at the impact, hand flying to a clearly stinging cheek. He looks around with sort of wild eyes, like he's completely forgotten he's in the middle of class and finally meets my eyes.

Wake up, man, I mouth, pointing at the space above the door. He follows my gesture to the clock, and his eyes widen when he sees the time there. Three minutes left in class. I watch him scramble for his dropped pencil, poke his glasses back up his nose (with his index finger, I note with a smirk) and examine the test before him. I see him fill in first bubble on the answer sheet. Question one. I flip to the back of my test. There are twenty-three questions. He'll never finish in time, I think as I hurry to complete my own.

As we follow a very well-rested Douglas O'Hara out of Miss Peters' classroom, I draw level with Richie.

"What happened to you, man?" I ask as he carelessly slaps his test onto to stack. "You looked like you were a million miles away!"

Richie shakes his head, blinking in a disoriented way. "I dunno, I guess I drifted off."

"Well you're lucky I dragged you back! You hadn't answered a single question, had you?"

He lets loose a strained laugh. "Nope, not one. Thanks, bro."

I pat his slumped shoulder as we head toward his locker. "No prob. How far did you get before the end of class?"

"Hmm?" he asks distractedly, shifting his chemistry book to the top of the stack in his arms.

"How far did you get?" I repeat, "On the test? Just now?"

"Oh that. I finished."

I stop dead. "You finished?"

"Mmm-hmm," he mumbles, oblivious to my shock.

"The test we took just now?"

"Yep."

"The one you started three minutes before the bell rang?"

"Uh… yeah," he answers, finally realizing that he's left me standing stationary in the hall. He backtracks, frowning at my expression. "You okay, V?"

I shake my head, staring unabashedly at my brilliant best friend. "That test was hard, Rich. It took me all of the double period to get to question twenty of twenty-three."

"Calculus comes easy for me, V," Richie's blushing now, shifting the books in his arms. "You know that."

I shake my head again, trying to clear it of my astonishment. I really shouldn't be surprised. Richie's solved problems NASA scientists couldn't fathom. A little high school math wouldn't hold him up, even under a time constraint that would make most brains explode. I clap him on the shoulder trying to behave normally, but my voice is still a little breathy.

"Sometimes I forget just how smart you are, is all," I explain loudly, laughing at the embarrassed flush I've dragged to his cheeks. "It does a number on the ego, having a super-genius for a best friend."

"Well," he responds, waving his hand at my compliments, "It's not like it's the first time I've done something like that. And hey!" He rams his shoulder into mine, knocking me into the lockers that line the walls. "Why the heck did you have to zap me, right there in class? I almost jumped out of my seat!"

I hold up my free hand. "Hey, I tried to catch you with a plain old non-conductive eraser, you didn't even blink! Desperate times, bro! Did you take something this morning, Rich? 'Cause whatever it is, it gotta be some heavy stuff; you were like, out. Come on, man, you can tell me!"

"No, I am not on drugs," he replies haughtily, swiftly spinning his combination into his lock. "And I resent that insinuation, thank you very much. I was just… thinking."

"Thinking about drugs?"

"Shut up, you!" he tosses his books unceremoniously into his locker, where they land with a crash and the crunch of something breaking. He looks for a moment like he might try to locate the damaged item, them shrugs, tugs a binder loose from the pile, and slams the whole thing shut. "Drugs are not a factor here!"

I swing my backpack onto my other shoulder and we set off toward my locker. "There's no need to go all defensive, bro. You just looked… really out of it."

Richie shrugs, clearly at a loss for an explanation. I steel my nerves for the inevitable backlash and ask my habitual question.

"You okay?"

He sighs, annoyed. "Yes, Virgil, I'm fine. Just like I was fine this morning and last night and the day before. I've been fine, I'm still fine and I'm fairly certain I will remain fine in the foreseeable future. So if you don't mind… enough with the question."

"Alright, alright," I defend, expertly masking the hurt and concern his remark has evoked in me. I ignore the stinging in my chest. "Just askin'."

I maintain the cool composure I'm so good at for the rest of the day. I fake smiles and joke with Daisy and compare notes with Jonathan Spencer in seventh period History. I pretend that it's done; that Richie's irritability hasn't affected me and I've forgotten all about his little outburst.

But I haven't. I know something is wrong with him, and it's more than teenage mood swings. I know that it's important, and I'm not letting it go. I resolve, by the end of school, that I'm going to confront Richie about it, and there's nothing he can do about it. I'll get it out of him or I'll die trying. And that's that.

I'm feeling rather empowered by the time I drop my skateboard to the cement in front of the school, waiting for Rich to come out and meet me. I wheel around a little, pop a few tricks while the school empties past me, and catch Patrick Jensen and Omar Green in high fives as I grind down the school handrail. Frieda waves at me as she rolls down the window in her mother's car. Mr. French, the Spanish teacher, yells at me for skateboarding on school property and I manage to look meek and ashamed enough to escape punishment. By the time he leaves me with a stern look and reenters the school, almost everyone is gone. And Richie hasn't joined me yet.

"Where is that boy?" I ask myself, peeking around a corner of the building. No one.

I scuff my shoes against the cement, wondering what to do. Richie's never stood me up before. We've walked home from school every day since fifth grade, barring the occasional sick day. I wait for a few minutes longer, hoping that he was held up by a teacher or the contents of his explosively messy locker finally collapsed on him or something, but no dice. No sign of the boy. So, with a sigh and one last look around the corner, I step onto my skateboard and head for home.

Maybe he's still mad at me, I think. I really got on his nerves with the questions and he ditched me. I don't like thinking about Richie being that angry with me. He's not the type to get pissed off over something so trivial. In fact, Richie's not really the type to get pissed off at all. He's a pretty agreeable kid. Well, he usually is. Lately, he's been acting more like a certain fire-tossing tantrum thrower we fight on a woefully regular basis.

I pinwheel my arms, narrowly avoiding a long stretch of epically broken sidewalk.

The funny thing is, Richie's usually a pretty open guy. When there's something wrong, I'm the first person he tells. A call to my house when I'm Virgil, a buzz on the Shock Vox when I'm Static; either way, he locates me and tells me the deal. Just like I find him when I've got a crisis to slog through. That's the way we are, the way we've always been: we tell each other everything, then plow through our problems together. Why else would I have told him about the whole controlling electricity conundrum, first thing?

I flap my hands as I board through a flock of disturbed pigeons.

I can't begin to guess what it is that's got him so… distracted. Why would he lie to me? Why does he think he needs to insist he's okay, when he's clearly not? There's no precedence for his conduct. It's like there's a whole new person in Richie's clothes; a grumpy, jumpy, space-case who thinks I'm out to get him or something equally stupid.

I instinctively duck a little as I hear rocket-powered 'blades soar past overhead.

I can't wait until I find that kid. He's going to get it, no doubt about it. He'll answer my questions, oh yes, and if he doesn't he can expect a king-sized…

Wait.

'Blades?

I turn my face upward, shading my eyes with my hand, and search the skies…

There, darting over the buildings like a greenish missile, is my absentee best friend. He blew me off to go be Gear. Without even a Shock Vox call. I grind my teeth, glaring up at the boy in the sky.

A small, middle-aged woman near me looks up, wondering what I'm staring at I guess. She laughs cheerfully as she sees Gear, rocketing across the sky like a scrawny Superman.

"That's Gear!" she cries, pointing. "That's Gear, do you see him?"

"Yeah, I see him," I hiss venomously.

"He's wonderful," the woman gushes, obviously oblivious to my aggravation. "I do admire that boy, don't you? Saved my son, just a few months ago! A man was going to shoot him, right there on Center Street. For no reason at all; he was going to kill my baby. And that boy," she jabs her finger skyward, "stepped right in front of him, right in front of the gun! Freddy thought Gear had been shot, but he said he had an armored breastplate or something… oh dear, if I could only meet that boy, he and that Static fellow! What a town this would be without them, what a town…"

The woman totters away, glancing up every other step to watch Gear diminish into to distance. I think about her story, about Freddy… Yeah, I remember Freddy. I remember the gunman, too, caught like a rat in a trap by Gear by the time I got there. But most of all, I remember trying to convince Richie to let me take him to the hospital for the great, black bruise on his chest that even an armored breastplate couldn't prevent. He was reckless that day. I thought he was a goner, when I heard that gunshot over the Shock Vox… boy, that was unpleasant. I almost lost it, I came pretty close.

Man, I hate guns.

I turn into the alleyway behind me, trying to shake the latent memories that suddenly flash before my eyes. I try to focus on the fact that I'm still angry at Richie. I remind myself (repeatedly) that he's not dead and that that bullet did not do any lasting damage.

As I slide my Static mask over my hair and adjust my lightning logoed shirt, I blink away the images of Richie's battered chest and flick my disc into the air. Leaping aboard and hiding my skateboard behind the dumpster, I launch myself into the skies.

The wind is cool against my face; autumn's coming on fast. I relish the feel of the breeze on my skin, spreading my arms wide and breathing the crisp air deeply. But my quarry is in the forefront of my mind, and I can't waste any time if I want to catch Gear. So I summon my considerable power around me, plant my feet firmly on my disc, and burst forward in a flash of light.

I can sort of feel the little electric trail Richie's new 'blades leave behind; I don't quite realize it until I've crossed the odd signature a few times in the air. I follow the vibrations. It's not easy; it takes a lot of focus to zone in on that little wisp of residual energy, all the while ignoring the deluge of power I'm emitting, simply by remaining aloft. Like trying to see a firefly past a bonfire. But I think I've got the hang of it. I've followed it for miles; like a weird sci-fi bloodhound.

The trail spirals downward, swirling around a warehouse near the docks on the West Side. The building is old, probably left over from the Dakota's crazy industrial period about a thousand years ago. It's still standing, but even from the air, I can see how decrepit it is. Clearly, not a soul comes here regularly.

Gear's seeking solitude, I deduce.

Well, I'm going to ruin his little lonely sulk-fest, to hell with the consequences, I resolve doggedly. Riding on waves of anger, I descend in a streak of indigo and alight on the rooftop, careful to place my feet gingerly on the rickety metal roofing. With an unnecessary but still awesome flourish, I dismount and fold my disc in a single, twirly move.

Gotta remember that one for when someone's around to see it.

The rooftop is quiet. I can hear the river churning below, a few sirens echoing in the distance, a dog barking somewhere south of here. Some pigeons fuss on the unstable edging.

Where is he?

I peer around me, seeking my wayward friend. The roof has caved in here and there, leaving gaping black holes in the sheeting. Richie's too smart and coordinated to accidentally fall into one, but I peer into the depths of the closest chasm anyway. Can't hurt to check…

I skirt around the edges, trying to see down into the darkness. As I reach the farthest edge of the gap, I round the corner of a bulky air duct, and there, crouched at its base, is Richie.

He doesn't notice me, and I slink backward behind an upturned oil canister (don't ask me why it's on an abandoned rooftop, but I'll use what I've got). I don't know why I hide from Richie; I followed him here with the express intention of confronting him, face-to-face… but something about the way he's slouched there makes me hesitate.

Something's not right with him.

He's slumped against the air duct, elbows propped up on his knees, with his head clutched between his hands... he looks like he's deep in thought.

Or, judging by the apparent tension of his shoulders, in a great deal of pain. His helmet lays discarded at his side. Backpack hums and clicks softly at his elbow.

I watch him for a moment, an inexplicable sense of foreboding building in my chest. I don't know what I'm waiting for, but I can't seem to make myself call out to him, say his name, or even step out from behind this stupid barrel. I just observe him, trying to see…

And with a shock that feels like a punch to the chest, I do see.

There, between his shoes, is a bright puddle of crimson.

I leap out from behind my barrel, released from my reluctance.

"Richie!"

He looks up, and in that split second my heart is seized by an iron fist… my head swims…

His face is set in an expression of utter astonishment. Eyes wide, more vividly blue than ever without glasses to obscure them, mouth open in bewildered silence. His face is pale, paler than I've ever seen, and from his nose, glistening like a ruby ribbon, spills a scarlet stream of blood.

"V-V-Virgil!" he stammers, stumbling to his feet. "Wh… what are y-you doing here?"

It the space of a breath, I'm there beside him. I take his arm, which trembles beneath my grasp, and lower him back to the rooftop as carefully as I can. My heart feels like it's relocated to my throat.

"What happened to you, Richie?" I demand. He looks sicker than I've ever seen him…

"Oh, nothing… nothing happened…"

"That's bullshit, Rich!" I cry, taking his head between my hands. He winces at my touch. "Tell me the truth! Tell me what you've been hiding from me!"

His eyelids are fluttering with each word I bellow, and I realize belatedly that screaming at him is probably not helping whatever pain he's currently enduring. I lower my voice to a hiss.

"Tell me, now, Richie. Or I swear I'll… I'll…"

A faint smirk traces his pale lips. "You'll what?"

Inspiration strikes me. "I'll tell my dad you're behaving strangely… sort of like you're on drugs."

His eyes widen in horror. "You wouldn't…"

"I will! So tell me what's going on, Rich."

He's silent for a minute, just looking into my eyes with this vulnerable expression on his face that makes me want to kill whoever's done this to him…

"You can tell me, bro," I murmur. "I just want to help you."

He stares for a moment longer, and I can see the decision forming in his eyes. Finally…

"I think I'm losing my mind."

I reel back on my heels.

"What?"

"You heard me," Richie says, gaze falling to his shoes. "I'm losing it… I'm going 'round the proverbial bend."

I have no idea what to say. No idea.

Apparently, he takes that as a bad sign. "I know it's screwed up, V. I'm just like all those geniuses who've gone mad, all the psychos that guys like Superman and The Flash and you fight against… That's why I didn't tell you, I didn't want you to have to deal with all this. It's not your job to try and salvage the dregs of my sanity; you didn't sign up for Operation: Hold Richie's Head Together-"

"Richie," I interrupt, "Shut up."

He obliges.

"Now," I say with a matter-of-fact tone, "tell me what the hell you're talking about."

He blinks. Then, he tentatively meets my gaze. "It's been going on for a while now. At first, I thought I was just going through a period of unusual inspiration, touched by the scientific muses, or something like that. But… it got worse, V. It's getting worse. My head aches, all the time. And my thoughts are… are everywhere; I can't shut my brain off. I have a hundred ideas at once, and they're all ground-breaking and utterly brilliant but there are just so many of them and I can't seem to process them all… it's like someone flipped the overdrive switch and I can't work out how to un-flip it. I can't shut it off long enough to sleep… I can't even finish a stupid math test without getting lost in calculations concerning the exact relative yearly orbital circulation of the sixth moon of a planet six hundred thirty seven thousand nine hundred and fourteen light-years from the Archimedes cluster… Who cares about a moon six hundred thirty seven thousand nine hundred and fourteen light-years from anywhere, I ask you?"

"Ri-"

"It's just too much, V. One person isn't meant to know as much as I do; one brain isn't designed to function on the level mine does. I've calculated it: the odds of a person as intelligent as me ending up cuckoo are fairly substantial… and by 'fairly', I mean 'ludicrously'… And I don't know what to do about it, so I come out here by myself to try and out-shout some of this useless crap, but today… today, my head just hurts so badly…"

I can feel my mouth working, seeking words that my brain refuses to provide. I am simply, outright and wholly blown away.

It never occurred to me… it never would have occurred to me, not in a million years, that he could possibly think he's insane. Sure, I came up with a few bizarre theories as I tracked him here, but this… this is just outrageous. He thinks he's losing his grip. He thinks he's insane.

The sorrow in his tortured eyes breaks me out of my dumbness.

"Richie!" I cry, and I can't quite keep the hysteria out of my voice, "Boy, there is no way you're crazy!"

He only stares at me. I can't read a thing on his slack face.

"Seriously, man!" I continue. "Maybe you're getting smarter… maybe that amazing brain of yours is changing just like it did when this first happened to you… I don't know, but I know you're not crazy!"

"Virgil-" he begins in his uber-sensible voice. I cut him off, before he can common-sense me into submission like he's so damn good at.

"And whydidn't you tell me this was happening you idiot?" I hissed.

"I already explained; I didn't want you to-"

"I don't care, man! I don't care how you thought this would affect me, you should have told me!" I throw my hands up, hearing my voice crack wildly. I can't bring myself to care. "Look at you, Richie! You're hurt, you're bleeding… I could have helped you. I could have helped you!"

"I was protecting you, stupid! I didn't want…" his voice fades a little, and a frown creases his brow. "Wait… I'm… I'm bleeding?" He glances down at himself, lifting elbows away from his torso.

Panic tingles along my spine. He doesn't realize? How can he not realize…?

I try to repress the shaking as I reach out, run my thumb over his upper lip, and hold it before his eyes. To my alarm, his reaction is one of surprise. His hands dance over his face, finding the source of the bleeding (which is worsening by the minute) and I watch his expression as he grimaces at his bloody fingers. There's a little too much confusion in his expression to set me at ease.

"Well," he murmurs, mystified, "that's not a good sign."

And his eyes roll upward, and his head falls forward into my chest.

A long time ago, I was entrusted with something I never dreamed of having. A real honor; something a lot of people in the world would kill to have. He pulled me aside, away from Richie and his fellows, and quietly, in that voice of his that rumbled ominously like thunder, murmured to me as he pressed something into my hands.

"Don't lose this," he'd growled, fixing me with an all-seeing stare. "Use it only in the greatest need."

"What constitutes a 'greatest need'?" I had asked him cheekily, inspecting the object in my fingers. "Like, tour-of-the-Watchtower sort of need?"

His response was a smoldering glare.

I've kept this on me since that day, just like he'd told me to. Whether I'm Virgil or I'm Static, I keep it clipped to my shirt or my jacket near my chest, just out of site. And I've never been gladder than I am right now that I followed his advice.

"Batman," I speak into the tiny comlink, "I need your help."

There's a long silence, during which my heart thrums chaotically and my hands flap uselessly over my best friend's still body. I blink past the tears that cloud my vision, checking his fluttering pulse for the twentieth time and watching his chest rise and fall beneath my hands.

Come on, come on, come on, come on…

Finally, mercifully, I hear a response.

"What do you want?"

I giggle a little feverishly, relief flooding every nerve at the sound of that sullen voice, and it takes a minute for me to summon my own.

"Batman!" I gasp at last, "Batman I need help!"

His voice is as cool as ever, calm as a preacher's, but he answers promptly. "You mentioned that. What's the problem?"

"It's Gear!" I all but shout into the receiver. Even to myself, I sound a little crazed. "Something's wrong with him… He's unconscious."

There is a short pause. Then, his irritated voice sounds over the transmitter. "I'm certain you've dealt with this kind of thing before, Static," he rumbles condescendingly. "I would suggest you take him to a hospital, if it's serious-"

"You don't understand!" I bellow, my hand twisting in my hair. "This isn't an ordinary wound. It's got something to do with his mind, with his powers! There's something wrong with his head, Batman, and I don't know how to fix it… his nose is bleeding, and just now he was talking about his head hurting, about his thoughts running out of control...He thinks he's going crazy! A hospital can't help him with this, I can't help him with this; his powers are… are doing something to him… changing…" My voice chokes off behind the lump swelling in my throat.

Batman is silent for an excruciating moment, and I try to keep my mouth shut. I clutch at Richie's limp wrist, counting the pulse beats. Clinging to them. My own heart feels like it's going to beat its way through my sternum; I can feel my ragged breaths growing quicker and shallower… Then…

"He's bleeding?" he asks.

"Yes!" I wail.

"And you're certain that this is related to his mental powers?"

"Yes!"

A pause. My chest threatens to implode.

"I'll have J'onn beam you to the Watchtower." I heave a quaking sigh of relief. "It will take about three minutes to locate your signal; can Gear wait that long?"

I look at my best friend's slack face; at the pallid color of his skin. I feel his shallow breaths beneath my hand and the wavering heartbeat trembling at his throat. I take a deep breath.

"I don't know."

Batman seems to accept that. "He's breathing? His heartbeat is steady?"

"Yeah… yeah he's breathing. But his pulse feels sort of weak…"

"He's alive," he assures. And to my astonishment, I hear in his voice something unexpected and a little bewildering: compassion. I don't know how to react to something as atypical as sympathy from dark, stoic, emotionless Batman. It's too weird. Everything is too weird.

Richie's eyes are roving around beneath his eyelids. I take his hand in mine and squeeze it tightly. He's not going to die, I tell myself firmly. There's no reason to even think that.

I don't convince myself.

"Static," Batman murmurs from my hand, "J'onn's locked onto your signal. I'll see you and Gear at the Watchtower as soon as I arrive, alright?"

"O-okay," I stammer.

"Prepare for transport."

I close my eyes as a flare of white light envelopes us.