Jason ran. The fear the Anathema evoked in him was something he hadn't experienced before – he didn't want to die but he was less afraid of death than of being taken again. Of Dick being taken. Around him the Eastsiders were in a panic, screaming and attempting to flee into the woods. The Anathema were weeding out the ones they wanted, young men and women for the most part, and shooting the rest like rats.

Jason had no problem with taking the weapons of the dead, and he was now well armed, but although it made him feel more secure, he knew it was also pointless. The Anathema's armor was made of some impenetrable materiel and bullets just ricocheted right off them.

He crouched behind the remains of a tent and looked desperately for any sign of Dick or Fahim. He saw a grey armored figure drag Lucy across the camp by the hair before bundling her in to a vehicle. Jason didn't move. Despite the shame he felt at not helping her, his priority was Dick. And Dick was obviously no longer in the camp.

Gathering his nerve, Jason made a break for the trees, but they seemed much farther away when you were expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. When he reached their relative safety he found Amir – dirty and terrified, his handsome face smeared with sweat and tears. He looked at Jason like he was his savior and reached for him with bloody hands.

"Where's Dick?" Jason asked, as Amir grabbed hold of him. "Have you seen him?"

Amir nodded, still too terrified to speak. Jason shook him a bit. He didn't want to hurt him, but time was running out – a feeling of dread was battling with the fear in his gut. "Where is he, Amir?"

"We were in the woods, he was holding the horse's reins, he was going to bring it back after the fighting. But then he fell down and started screaming." Amir's eyes were wide with remembered terror. "He wouldn't stop screaming! And then he started bleeding from his ears and nose." He shuddered.

"So what, you just left him there?" Jason demanded, but then he thought of Lucy and the other Eastsiders he had abandoned. The feeling of shame was momentarily overwhelming.

"I was going to get help. But then this started. I don't know what to do!" Amir's voice rose to a strained wail. "The raids aren't usually this bad, I don't know what's going on!"

"Cut it out!" Jason shook him again. "I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to live and you're going to be free, understand?"

Amir nodded. His relief at someone taking charge was palpable.

"You're going to turn around and run. If you want to live you have to run."

"But Lucy –"

"Has already been taken, you can't beat them with guns." He paused, looking at the sudden stubborn set of Amir's jaw. "But if you want to try…" Jason handed him one of the three weapons he had on him. If Amir was going to be brave and stupid enough to try to save his friend, then he deserved all the help he could get.

"If you helped me, I might stand a chance!" Amir said desperately.

Jason shook his head. "I have to find Dick – you understand?"

All sorts of expressions flickered across Amir's face: anger, fear, determination, and finally, understanding. He held out a bloody hand and Jason grasped it in his own. Shaking hands was something so strangely civil in the middle of all this chaos.

"Good luck Jason."

"You too." Of course now Jason liked him, now he was heading for his death.

But there was no time for regret, and he started running again in the direction Amir had pointed.

He didn't get far. A stunning, agonizing blast of blue fire knocked him off his feet. After a confused moment when he struggled to move though the pain and disorientation, he discovered to his surprise that he was still in one piece. The blast had been set to stun, not to kill or maim.

There was only one soldier, tall and imposing in his gray armor. The figure watched as Jason climbed painfully to his feet.

"1678"

Jason's blood ran cold – this was most definitely a targeted attack, not just random chance. Despite, or perhaps because of it, Jason found himself mouthing off. Which never went well for him when talking to the Anathema. But sass was always his first line of defense. "Took your time didn't you? Thought we would have seen you guys weeks ago."

"We have been watching, waiting for you to intersect with a mission," the soldier said, and Jason recognized that chilly voice – Cold Eyes.

"Long time no see." He was aiming for casual but he missed by several miles. "You watched us traipse across the country but had to wait to take us down?" he asked. His mind was starting to actually work rather than just jibber in fear.

"We watched you and your pathetic pet," Cold Eyes sneered. "You are like –" he seemed to be searching for the appropriately scathing word. "–like rodents, running in your cage. 1002 is disabled and ready to collect. It is just you that needs to be subdued."

A few things clicked together in Jason's head. "They didn't report the escape did they? That's why you had to wait to come get us. Bit embarrassing to tell the higher ups was it?"

"I'm going to give your old dog to my unit for sport. Then I'm going to give them 1002 and make you watch."

That was an outright lie – there was no way Steve would allow Dick to be harmed – not unless he was the one doing it. "Why all this anger? Get a smacked wrist did you?"

"You lost me my position! You ruined me!"

"Stop, you're breaking my heart."

Cold Eyes roared in anger and shot at him again. This time though, Jason saw it coming and hit the dirt. He was desperately looking for an opening, some weakness to exploit. So far he could only see two positives: one, Cold Eyes seemed to be operating alone and away from the rest of his unit, and two, he was spitting mad – and that increased the chances he would make a mistake.

So Jason did what he did best. He pissed him off even more.

"You lost your position because you let us slip away? Can't say I'm sorry, you fucker!"

"You destroyed me!"

"Cry me a river then go drown in it," Jason sneered.

Jason dodged another blast, pulled his gun and emptied his clip at the hand holding the weapon. Cold Eyes lost his grip and his gun spun away from him. For one amazing moment they were almost on even ground and Jason saw his opportunity. He dived for the gun. He had seen those things blast through solid metal, and he was betting they could do some damage even to the Anathema's freaky armor.

Cold Eyes made a snarling noise like a cornered animal and launched himself at the weapon as well. Jason got his hands on it first, but he was still at a major disadvantage – he was wearing jeans and a hoodie, not alien armor. And when Cold Eyes' boot connected with his solar plexus, it sent the world spinning. The next hit was a punch to the head, and he teetered on the edge of collapse. Cold Eyes yanked the gun away from him like he was a child. It had been a valiant effort, but ultimately a pointless one. The bastards just seemed unbeatable.

Cold Eyes leveled the gun at him. He flicked the setting and Jason suspected it had just been changed to 'deep fry.'

"If you kill me your boss is going to be pissed," Jason pointed out. He was still on his knees, the dizziness making it impossible to rise.

"I have been disgraced. I will bear that shame even if I deliver you. I can regain some honor if I kill you." He was suddenly cold and hard, his rage pulled back under control now he had apparently made a decision.

It felt to Jason like he pulled the trigger in slow motion and a whirl of thoughts and regrets rushed though his mind. Would Dick be okay without him? Would they kill him too? Or take him back to Steve? He wished fleetingly that he had given in to Dick's advances – if they were both going to die anyway, they might as well have consummated their mutual attraction, affection. He found that dying with his integrity intact wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and he kind of wished he had thrown it to the wind and got his rocks off. Hell, who was he kidding, he wished he had been able to show Dick how he felt in a way he couldn't bring himself to do with words.

Of course after all of those painful truths and sappy thoughts the gun stalled. It seemed that although Jason's bullets had not penetrated the armor, they had totally fucked the gun.

Jason laughed one of those whooping maniacal laughs he was always trying to train himself out of – now they only escaped when he had just seriously beaten the odds. Strangely, it was a laugh he had picked up from Dick, who had whooped and cackled as he did death-defying stunts over the streets of Gotham, just for the pure joy of it.

"You think that will stop me?" Cold Eyes said. The rage bubbled back into his voice. "I can still beat you to death, you scum!"

Jason staggered to his feet as the man approached. He was going to take his own advice and run away, just as soon as his legs started working again. "You're going to risk your boss's wrath just to even up some personal score? Seems a bit stupid to me."

"Score? You have brought shame to me. I can never recover what I have lost. Regaining my honor is impossible unless I kill you."

"And then what? They kill you anyway? Or are you going to put a bullet in your brain after?" Jason edged sideways; if he saw a chance he was hightailing it out of there. Hopefully. "If you're just going to blow yourself away, can't you just let us go instead?"

Cold Eyes stalked towards him, every step a threat. "And my honor?"

"Honor be damned, the only honor worth its salt is your own personal integrity." Jason chose to ignore the brief, imagined lapse in his own integrity, in which his last thoughts were of regret for not fucking his brother. He plowed on regardless. "That's all that matters. You can't face up to your people? Go start again somewhere fresh."

"Start again? There is no starting again for me!" Cold Eyes unhooked his helmet, revealing his sweaty hair and face. There were vicious red lines burnt into his cheeks – his punishment clear for anyone to see.

It was at this point Jason realized three important things.

1. The Anathema were cruel assholes even to each other .

2. The Anathema were no more immune to dramatic gestures than humans were.

3. Cold Eyes had just provided him with a massive head-sized chink in his armor.

"I can only wear my shame!" Cold Eyes was shouting. "I must –"

Jason didn't hesitate. He drew his last stolen knife from his boot and flung it as hard and true as he could towards Cold Eyes' face. In the movies people politely waited until the antagonist had finished speaking before attempting to shoot them. Jason felt that limited his chances; he preferred to shoot as soon as the opportunity arouse. Or in this case, throw a knife.

His aim was good– the blade struck Cold Eyes in the throat, and he went down with a gurgle of surprise. There was a moment in which Jason couldn't actually believe his luck, and then adrenaline shot though him like a drug, and he ran.

There was no pursuit, and it was more luck than judgment that Jason found Dick at all. He was lying in the damp grass of a small clearing. The horse was hovering on the edge of the trees, but she spooked as Jason approached and crashed away through the forest.

Dick's face was bloody and he was shuddering, his eyes rolled up into his head. It reminded Jason of the fits he'd had before. They presence of the Anathema had certainly triggered it, although he hadn't seen Steve.

And Jason suspected Fahim had been right all along. They had been tracked, and the Anathema still had some control over Dick. That was a serious concern he would address as soon as they were as far away as they could get from here.

The problem was, Dick was unresponsive. Jason shook him and slapped him lightly to no avail. "Dick! Dick, goddammit, don't do this, come on, we have to move — oh, fuck it. . ."

Dick was not cooperating with his plans no matter what Jason tried. His options were not good. He could carry Dick to safety (assuming they didn't run into any Anathema, and assuming Cold Eyes was the only one tracking them.) But that would abandon Fahim. He could hide Dick and go back for Fahim. He could hide with Dick and hope Fahim found them. None were good options, and he was worried Dick might never recover – what if he did have another microchip in his body and Cold Eyes had activated it somehow? Would the effects fade with distance, or would Dick just fall into a coma?

Jason made his decision. He carried Dick to an area of dense foliage and concealed him as best he could. Then he carefully started to make his way back to Cold Eyes' corpse. At least he hoped it was his corpse.

There were still distant screams and gunfire echoing though the forest. The sounds were eerie and broken by the trees, creating a feeling they were coming from all directions.

But despite the chaos and the carnage befalling the Eastsiders, lady luck seemed to be smiling on him – for the second time she gave him the gift of opportunity. As he pulled himself over an incline, directly below him, like an offering from the heavens, was Fahim, huddled behind a fallen log clutching his ratty backpack.

"Old man!" Jason called quietly. And Fahim spun round and launched himself at him.

"Jase! Am I glad to see you! I thought it was over for us – truly I did!"

Jason hugged him, and the old man patted his back awkwardly.

"Listen Fahim, I think you were right about them tracking Dick–" he held up a hand to forestall Fahim's comment, "– and you can give me all the 'I told you so's' later. I'm going to see if I can disable it."

"Where's your boy?"

"About fifteen minutes due north, walk slow and careful and follow the game trail – there's a clearing. Take care of him, and if I'm not back in two hours, move on without me."

Fahim looked torn, but then he clutched Jason's hand in his own. "Take care Jase, come back to us."

"You betcha."

Fahim grunted and gave him a shrewd look, he reached into the backpack, drawing out Jason's gun – the one that had been taken from him by the Eastsiders. "For luck," he said.

"You are awesome," Jason told him. Just being armed again made him feel better about his mission.

Fahim waved him away and turned to follow the trail Jason had directed him down.

Jason didn't look back. It wasn't a hard journey, but it was a cautious one. Eventually he reached Cold Eyes – and he was indeed a corpse, much to Jason's relief. He inspected the armor, and found several interesting objects squirreled away. One, the size of a cell phone, was his best guess for a controller. There were lots of buttons and squiggly lines that he assumed were letters or words in the Anathema's real language. He hesitated. He couldn't read the damn thing – what if he killed Dick by pressing the wrong button?

He was so distracted thinking about it he failed to realize he was no longer alone until a bolt of blue struck the device in his hand. It exploded, shards of plastic tearing into his hand. He cried out in shock and pain and only had a split second to process the armor-clad figure charging him. His evasive maneuvers failed him, and the soldier struck him full force, dropping him to the ground. He struggled uselessly, distantly glad that he hadn't just been shot, and equally distant was the dull fear that the controller exploding might have harmed Dick. Much more vivid was a more personal terror, and he wondered if Bruce had often been afraid like this, whether he had to fight so hard against himself even as he fought against his enemies.

It didn't matter. The soldier was bigger than Jason, even without that damn armor and though Jason drew his gun, there was little chance of escape. His enemy slammed him down and pinned him like he was a bug - all the time silent and inhuman.

Jason panicked, and waves of dark fear and anger rolled through him, clouding his senses.

When he came to, he was running. He had lost a boot and his hoodie and there was blood in his eyes. His right hand was a throbbing mess and he was still clutching his gun in his left. He had no idea how he had escaped or if he was going in the right direction, but he couldn't make himself stop.

A gunshot and a cry of pain brought him to a staggering halt. The sound had come from somewhere behind him, and the cry had definitely been Dick. The boiling panic/rage/fear/dark started to descend on him again as all the possible horrors that could have caused that scream tore though his mind. He started to run back towards the sound, and his vision blacked out at the edges, although he fought against it.

Of all the things he had been expecting, the sight that greeted him wasn't one of them.

Dick was kneeling in the clearing clutching a bloody wound in his shoulder and Fahim was standing ten feet away, holding a shaking gun on him. The old man's face was screwed up in sorrow and pain, and his hand shook. "I'm sorry boy," he said as he tried to steady his weapon.

"Don't!" Jason yelled.

Fahim turned to him, looking even more distressed.

"Jay!" Dick called; his voice was thick with pain and confusion. His nose was still sluggishly bleeding from his earlier fits and Jason could see the slow trail of blood in a bright, bright red, and in treacle-thick slow motion.

"I'm sorry Jase," Fahim told him. "I know you'll hate me, but he'll kill you."

"He won't! Neither of you will, you fucking idiot!" Jason's head was pounding. This was not happening. He was wobbly from shock and pain.

"He will, I've seen it. I had a vision. They still have him and they'll never let go."

"It's not him they fucked with Fahim, it's you! Can't you see that? You never had visions or saw goddamn souls before they messed with you!"

Fahim shook his head. "You'll hate me and curse my name. But your life is more important to me than mine."

"No!" Jason pointed his gun at Fahim. "I won't let you do this! Not to him and not to yourself!" His vision wavered and the dark was twisting around his chest, stifling his breath.

"I'm sorry, Jase. Dick."

Time slowed and sped up, Dick cried out again, and the angry dark took Jason away for the second time that day.