AN: I know I promised that this entire chapter was going to be Robin-centric, but I lied. I know that you guys are going to develop trust issues if I keep at this, so I apologize. But, there are two Robin-related paragraphs out of four so...yes.

Also, usually I'm really good at causing characters emotional pain, but, for some reason, when it comes to what's actually happening at the compound, I'm drawing a blank so, help on that front would be much appreciated. It's been a while since I've written a story so diligently, I'm out of practice.

Alright, READ AND REVIEW POR FAVOR.


Chapter 8: Out of Luck.

Awake, but immobile, seeing, hearing, feeling everything around him, trapped in his mind as his body was carried deeper and deeper into the compound. Slung over one of the guard's shoulders, Dick could only catch glimpses of the concrete floor below him, the blood rushing to his head, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. At least, if he passed out, he wouldn't have to think about this anymore. He could drift off into his mind, instead of being a prisoner in his own skin.

The guard stopped, and Dick heard a door whoosh open. Everything suddenly smelled too sterile and clean. It burned his nostrils and seared his throat.

Then, he was being dumped unceremoniously onto a thin cot, his face buried in the stiff white sheets. He felt fingers at the back of his neck, pulling on the chip imbedded into the tender skin there. A few tugs was all it took, and the thing was free. Movement and speech came back to Dick in a wave, and he groaned, hands grasping at the sheets as he attempted to push himself up.

The solider behind him began reciting the rules, but he'd heard them all before. He knew not to make noise, he knew when to turn off the lights at night, he knew to eat all of the food offered to him. Dick leaned against the maddeningly white wall behind him, skull hitting the concrete with a dull thunk. This cell was the same as his last, 5x8 feet, with a toilet and a shower crammed into the back corners. Beside him, on the small cot, there were plain white clothes sealed in plastic rap. Numbly, the boy reached for them, pulling them from their confines, tossing the packaging aside. The fabric was cheap, scratchy. It didn't feel like cotton, and it was stiff.

Same as last time.

The soldier finished listing the rules, and ordered him to strip out of his now rumpled suit, turning away as he did so, at least showing him a little decency. Dick pulled at the bow-tie around his neck, unfastening it before moving on to his jacket and shirt, chucking each piece of the ensemble to the floor in a heap. It was hard to believe that, only a few hours before, he had been back at the mansion, listening to Bruce's speech, listening to the man find some of his old strength again.

I'm not going to leave you Bruce.

Dick didn't realize that he was crying at first. He pulled on his new clothes with quaking hands, feeling his face grow hot as he watched the soldier carelessly scoop up his suit in his arms.

"Looks like you've gone through another growth spurt. It's been a while since we've gone shopping, hasn't it?"

Bruce.

He had to hope that he would get out of this. He'd been lucky before...so lucky before. He just had to keep his head up. They'd find out that he wasn't guilty. They would.

Wouldn't they?


"Hey. Look who's up and moving."

Wally turned to the door, a small smile curling his lips as he saw Artemis there, holding two styrofoam cups in her hands.

"Yeah. You know me." The former speedster said. "Can't stay still for long. Also, Alfred made me take a shower."

"You were starting to reek."

Wally laughed, but then grimaced, drawing a hand to his bruised ribs. It'd been a long time since he'd felt pain like this, a lingering, constant pain that only got better bit by bit. He looked up, seeing worry on Artemis' face.

"Is that getting any better?" She asked.

"Yeah. Yeah it is." Wally replied, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, exhausted. "I'm just not used to this."

Artemis frowned, taking a few steps into the room, holding out one of the styrofoam cups. Wally stared at it for a moment, the aroma of bitter coffee reaching his nostrils, his stomach curling in on itself with distaste.

"I thought you might like some of this." The girl continued. "It's loaded with caffeine. It'll make you jittery."

Wally took the cup–relishing the warmth in his hands–but found himself unable to take a sip. He'd been trying to eat more–really, he had–but his stomach still soured at the thought of anything more flavorful than oatmeal or bread. But, he really appreciated the gesture.

He really appreciated her.


"Now, you're going to feel a big pinch..."

Dick thrashed as two burly orderlies pushed him against his cell wall, beefy hands holding onto his arms in bruising grips. The boy felt a cool cloth rub against his forearm, followed by fingers gently tapping against the skin there, trying to coax a vein to the surface. Dick tried to yank his arm away, panicked eyes watching as the doc squeezed air bubbles from the chamber of a liquid-filled syringe, sickly yellow ooze rolling down the needle's side, before dropping to the floor with a soft "plop".

"Stop." The boy pleaded, shaking his head. "Please–"

"Begging will get you nowhere, Mr. Grayson, so please, holdstill."

The doc brought the needle closer, its sharp tip pressing into soft, yielding skin. Then, he pushed down on the plunger, expelling the yellow liquid from the chamber and into his unwilling patient's outstretched arm.

Dick thrashed, trying to shy away from the cold feeling that rushed through his veins, pulsing through his arms, his legs, his brain. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest as the effects set in, anxiety washing over him, his head swimming.

"You can let him go now."

Dick collapsed to the floor, quickly drawing his limbs together, trying to make himself as small as possible. He'd forgotten the feeling; the terror suddenly gripping him by the throat, choking all the courage and bravery from his lungs.

Fear was a powerful weapon.

He huddled against the wall of his cell, holding his knees close to his chest as the drug seized control of his mind. He blinked, and suddenly they were there; his family, broken and crumpled on the ground, right before his eyes. Blood ran along the floor, seeping closer and closer, slowly forming into macabre hands with grasping fingers.

Letting out a strangled sob, Dick pulled himself onto the cot, covering his ears as he started to hear their screams, the gasps of the crowd, the sick 'crunch' of flesh and bone meeting the earth.

"What do you think he's seeing?"

Dick barely registered the voice of one of the compound's orderlies right next to him; reality suddenly seemed so far away.

He stayed like that until the drug wore off several hours later...until their cries died down, and their bodies slowly faded away. By that time, he was out of tears, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, silently begging for it to end.

He'd been so lucky before...


There was something calming about the moon; its constant light, its soft glow. Connor wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was mesmerized by its presence, finding himself drawn out of his room time and time again, simply to stare at its pock-marked surface in the chilled night. He'd spent his entire short life in Happy Harbor, where the sky was blotted out by light pollution and smog. But, in rural Smallville, the sky was brilliant; awash with thousands and thousands of stars, all hovering in the endless vacuum of space, lifetimes away from Earth.

Not long after the Purge, Clark had taught him about constellations; the patterns that early humans had created to tell stories, and help them find their way. Those designs took the forms of animals, important objects, and the superheroes of their time; deities, demigods, legends. Sometimes–sitting bathed in the moon's glow–Connor would make up his own constellations, overwriting the old and replacing them with modern heroes...

...replacing them with his fallen friends.

*ring* *ring* *ring*

Connor sighed, absently reaching a hand into his pocket to fish out his blaring cellphone. Clark still hadn't come back from Gotham, but he called every hour to make sure that everything in Smallville was alright, worrying like an overprotective mother hen.

"We don't know what Eclipse might do right now. We need to be careful."

The clone frowned when he saw the number on the l.e.d screen. It wasn't Clark...it wasn't anyone he knew. Suddenly on alert, the boy answered, holding the phone up to his ear, waiting to see who his mysterious caller was.

"Hello, Kon-El."

Luthor.

When news had reached the Kent home that Lex Luthor had walked out of the compound, unharmed, unscathed save for a metal shock collar around his neck, Clark had thrown a dinner plate through the small tube television in the living room, uncharacteristic rage bubbling to the surface. He then took Connor aside, still fuming, and told him never to talk to that man; to never let Lex Luthor into his life.

"He'll only hurt you, Connor. You're an investment to him, even without your powers."

So, naturally, when Luthor called the first time–somehow finding his private cell number–Connor promptly told him to "fuck off" and hung up.

But, Luthor was nothing if not persistent. He started calling from a series of different numbers–so Connor had no way of ignoring him–always when he least expected it.

Like now.

"Fuck off."

"Is that any way to speak to your father?"

"What the hell do you want, Luthor?" The clone demanded, his voice dripping with venom.

"I heard what happened to your friend. How unfortunate. Do you know what they do to repeat offenders?"

Connor knew he should hang up; that he shouldn't even humor this man...but he refused to let anyone badmouth his friend. Not while he was around.

"He didn't do it. He was with me the entire time."

"Do you really think Eclipse cares? All they have to do is make an example of him, and no one will try to be a hero ever again. You won't be seeing that little bird any time soon."

"Shut up." Connor hissed, seeing red...but he knew Luthor was right.

Dammit.

"What if I told you that I have a way to save him?"

"I'd say you were a liar." The clone growled. "I don't even now why I'm still talking to you."

"Because, deep down, you want my help." Luthor replied with a dark chuckle "You know that I'm the only person out there with any chance of saving your friend. I've got connections, Kon-El."

"You never give anything for free."

"You know me too well." The other man continued. "I can help get Mr. Grayson out of Eclipse's hands...and all I ask, is that, in return, you leave Smallville, and come live with me."

Connor hung up, throwing the cellphone as far as he could, watching it disappear into the tall grass with a dull *wuff*.

"You can't keep breaking those. We don't make a lot of money here."

The boy whipped around, finding Ma Kent standing behind him on the steps, her arms crossed over her chest. His face flushed with shame.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough." Mrs. Kent replied, sitting beside him on the steps, her movements slow and labored. "Was that Luthor again?"

The boy nodded.

"I don't know what I should do." Connor whispered. "I know that I can't trust him, but he said he could save my friend."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know...but the compound is worse than hell." The clone continued, running a hand absent-mindedly over his arms. All of the bruises were gone–had been for a long time–but he still couldn't forget...he'd never forget. "If there's something that I can do, anything, so he doesn't have to suffer, I know I should. He saved me from Cadmus. If he hadn't...where would I be now?"

Martha took his hand in hers; calloused skin rough against his own. But, her grip was warm and comforting, her presence beside him reassuring.. Now, he knew why Clark had decided to come home instead of returning to Metropolis.

"There's no easy answer, Connor." She said. "Life is full of tough decisions. If you really think that Luthor can help your friend, you need to go to him."

Connor scoffed.

"Clark wouldn't agree with that."

"But, you're not Clark." Martha replied, her voice ernest. "You're Connor, as different as any son is from their father. You make your own decisions, forge your own path. Only you can decide what needs to be done."

After that, they sat in silence, staring up at the moon and the stars. Connor briefly wondered if the old woman found as much beauty in them as he did, before tightening his grip on her hand, and helping her to her feet.

"It's getting cold...Ma." He said, trying to force a smile.

And like that, everything was back to the way it should be...save for Luthor's words rattling around in his skull.

"I can help get Mr. Grayson out of Eclipse's hands...and all I ask, is that, in return, you leave Smallville, and come live with me."

Leave Smallville, and come live with me...

With me...