AN) HEY! Sorry for the delay, but I wasn't in a writing mood very much. Oh! A special shout out to A MARVELous DC Time Lord for become my editor on this story. Give them a hand folks! Seriously thanks. Anyways-on with the show!

The tension in the air could've been cut with a butter knife. Wally was pacing wildly, his hands wringing together. Megan was, stress eating? Well—stress cooking. She churned out batches of brownies and cookies, then yelled at Wally to eat a salad. Connor was trying to watch the static, but his eyes kept wandering back over to the abandoned racetrack and race cars scattered about the floor.

Dickie had moved the racetrack into the living room so he could play with them while Megan cooked. Kaldur was in swim training and Connor, Wally and Artemis had been out of the cave for school events. So they had set up some toys near the kitchen, and there they had stayed. He missed the kid, it felt emptier somehow, the Cave. Without his heartbeat and laughter. An emptiness Connor hoped they would soon fill.

The Bats said they found something. They said they could rescue him. So, they and Green Lantern were meeting. To set distractions and plan. Plan on how to save their brother.

Roy was drumming out a beat on his cast—bobbing his head carefully. A song he and Dickie had danced to on Just Dance. He couldn't do anything to help physically, but he figured he would be the one to distract the League, and let the others sneak off. Sure, the League would be mad, but once they saw their prince safe in Hal's arms they wouldn't care. Then Dickie could sign his cast.

And they would laugh together. And Dickie could try to hobble around in his crutches, while Roy cried tears of laughter from his seat. For a few seconds a small grin plastered across his face. The kid was adorable, he was Roy's little brother. Waves of guilt crashed over his heart, if he had protected him better—if Roy had fought harder, trained more—Dickie would be safe. Here. With him. With Hal. Roy had failed Hal. Hal had relied on him to keep his future son safe, and Roy had let him get kidnapped.

Roy ran both hands down his face, rubbing his eyes slightly. Kaldur sent him a gentle look.

"It is not your fault my friend."

"What if I had done something?" Roy gestured to the newly repaired wall, from where Slade had made his appearance. "Called for help immediately instead of trying to take him on?"

"I saw what you did." Wally whirled, pointing down at him. "You jumped in front of a mercenary. To protect him. And I can't thank you enough for that."

"You should've called for help."

"Conner!"

The clone stood up tower over the archer, Roy felt his stomach drop slightly—but rage was beginning to course through him.

"I thought you cared about him. You're not like us." He gestured to Kaldur Wally and Megan. A sneer growing on his face. "You don't have powers, you can't fight like we can. You failed him."

"I—didn't." Roy snarled, Connor's cheeks growing redder by the second.

"You know what that monster did to him. The scars—you've seen them. And you let him take our brother!"

"Shut up! I'm sorry okay?" A burning heat growing behind eyes. "I know I failed okay! I hate myself every day for it!" An awkward silence covered them, Roy blinking his eyes rapidly.

Connor slowly backed away. Artemis stepping between the duo, pushing him back.

"Don't act all high and mighty mister! We've all made mistakes! I know! But what did you do?" She poked him, steam rising from her ears. "Why didn't you stop Slade, why didn't you?" She pointed towards Kaldur. "Or you?" She jabbed at Megan. "You called yourself his 'Steve' why didn't you stop him?" She glared at Connor. "We are all to blame, Roy did what we could. He knew he couldn't win—yet he tried his Nekron best. We should all be grateful he was there."

Roy was in utter shock, best he knew Artemis hated him—and yet she was standing toe to toe with the strongest member of the team, and the one most likely to physically lash out when angered. Connor deflated, slightly. He looked down slightly.

"Apologize." Arty's tone was short.

"Sorry." Connor was acting like a five year old being reprimanded by his mom. What had Dick sounded like at five? He must've been so bubbly at the circus. His voice would be giggly, his mouth perfectly fixed in a smile. But with Slade, a shuddered traced down Roy's back, he would've been dull. His voice hollow—as Roy had heard it.

It was an uncomfortable silence that creeped upon them. Kaldur was stock still, but his hands were still moving gently over Guggy. A small flicker of joy passed through his eyes. Dick had loved Guggy, so very much. He always seemed to be so happy.

"Swim, swimmy swim, swim." He moved the fish about, his legs crossed neatly as he on the island. "Kal—what's your favorite fish?"

"Why Guggy of course."

"Clownfish?"

"Certainly. I like your fish most of all."

The concerned look crossing his face. "Oh, he's not my fish. That would be like saying I owned Guggy."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And it's not nice to say you own things." He spoke with such a serious air. But in an instant his face lit into a blinding smile. "And Guggy's my best friend!" He hugged the fish tightly, swinging about slightly. "And you are too Kal. And Wally! And Meggy and Connor! And Roy an' Arty!"

Dick was truly a bundle of happiness and joy. Kaldur took in his teammates, Wally still pacing up a storm, Megan wiping down the counter—pausing, then starting the task all over again. Arty and Connor were having a glare battle, Roy entering and exiting the line of fire from Connor—said archer drumming on his cast in disgust. Kaldur needed to do something, it was tearing them apart on the inside.

He cleared his throat, drawing their gazes—though Wally continued to pace.

"We cannot sit around in despair. It is not what Dick would have desired. What if, we were to turn our energy to a better outlet?" Curious looks followed his statement. "We could prepare a welcome home party for our brother."

Megan clapped her hands in delight, Wally grinned happily.

"We could get streamers!" She declared motioning towards the ceiling. "And balloons!"

"We should get a piñata shaped like Hydra, or make one like Slade so he can destroy it!" Wally clenched his fists a wicked look in his eyes.

"That's a good idea Kal."

So they began shouting out ideas, Wally tearing off for a notebook to jot them all down in. The giddiness that filled them kept the anger away until Hal and Red Robin arrived to form battle plans.

Breakline

Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging as it mixed into his eyes. His hands were clammy, it must've been hours since he had stopped. But the adrenaline pouring through him allowed his to heed no mind to the fatigue that should be plaguing him.

This training session was different. Not once had Master called out a demeaning sentence, Richard had never found in face being ground into the training mat. He could attack for long periods of time—have his plan foiled, then told how to correct his strategy and attack once more. It felt like he had experience such a training before, with the sidekicks most likely. But he could not recall the exact memory.

The medicine Master supplied him with was effective. He knew he had been taken by the League. He knew they had tried to brainwash him, to have him betray his master—but he could not remember what they made him believe. All was blank. A good thing. He didn't want to remember his treachery.

The process was simple enough. Master handed him a small cardboard cup, two petite pills resting at the bottom. One a beige and the other white. He was to swallow them with his drink and slowly he felt the effects. A numbing tingling at his brain, Master recalled that his head had dropped—and he had wobbled slightly. But reassured him, he would not be hindered by that.

Truth be told, it was an almost pleasing feeling. A calm and peaceful wave slowly washed over him. It felt numb. His mind seemed to become refocused, become clearer—more attentive to his master and purging any thoughts Master would not approve of from his mind.

"Very good Apprentice." He took a soldier's stance once more. His arms folded behind his back.

"Thank you Master."

"How do you feel?"

He was inquiring about his medicine he knew that Richard was slowly tiring down. Very slowly.

"I f-feel fine Master, thank you."

"Good boy."

His hair was rumpled softly, a few words marking his dismissal. He turned away obediently, retreating to the comfort of his quarters—the wear and tear of his training catching up upon his as he allowed his guard to drop.

His head rested against the pillow, brushing against the soft fabric. But he didn't want to rest just yet. Sleep was not ready to claim him as its own. But what else had he to do? Well—studying was always an option. Richard's eyes graced the shelves of textbooks. But now even that option seemed to bore him.

But he moved towards the books nevertheless, perhaps he could find an interesting book on the Civil War—that was an exciting topic. So many battles, while the South supported a cruel cause—the military strategies they showed were impressive.

Luckily for him there was a book covering the topic, so he became splayed across his bed—eyes peering over the words and pages. He changed position, and was currently residing on his stomach, book propped against the pillow—as his door banged up.

He jumped ten feet in the air, mind immediately racing to the thought of a beating. Something was thrown at him, smacking him full on in the face as he failed to catch it—but it brought no pain. It was black, a mess of fabric.

"Pack your things, hurry up boy!"

It was a black knapsack which Master had tossed toward him. Hurriedly he began to comply, empting the few changes of clothes he had—mostly white t-shirts and athletic pants. But also his uniform. Half orange and half black, as his master's mask.

A few of the textbooks were packed as well. He wouldn't be able to pack them all—goodness no. But he was able to fit around seven into nooks and crannies. His Civil War book and Calculus book were first to be packed.

He shouldered the bag, timidly stepping out into the hall. He headed toward the training room, fear starting to wrap around him. He knew what was happening—the League. They had come, they had found the haunt. Richard tightened his grip on the strap, he didn't want to go back. They lied, they lied to him. They made Master afraid. They—they had hurt him. They said…they had said he was special to them. And they had lied.

Master was the only one who cared for him, the only one who wanted him. And the sidekicks and the League would take him away. They would steal him away from Master—and brainwash him. Force him to attack his master, use him. He couldn't—he couldn't go back. He couldn't.

"Richard, over here—now!" He sprinted, obeying immediately his master. Before his knees hit the ground his arm was caught. Dragged along he fumbled over his own feet, but he regained his balance. "Hurry up, blasted bats."

"M-Master, where are we going?" He flinched as soon as the words excited his mouth—he wasn't supposed to question Master. He turned away, ducking his head covering his face with his one free arm.

"We're going someplace safe Richard." Master did not strike him, his voice was calm—comforting. "You're going to be safe Richard."

He felt his hand being wrapped in another, his feet being urged along. An alarm broke his wall—a small cry prying out from his lips. Master cursed above him, and his feet scraped across the ground. He was up in Master's arms—eyes looking back. At a blur that tore into the room. His name shot like a bullet. They were here.

"DICK! I found him! I found him! Dickie, Dickie—come on!"

A huge tremor broke the other person's cries, fire. Bombs. Master was protecting him. He watching, numb. Ignoring the pain in his elbow as Master tossed him into the waiting helicopter, just watching in horror as the hanger part of the haunt was engulfed in the explosion. As those trying to hurt him were stopped.

"Richard—Richard, look at me." Master spoke gently, but still Richard's eyes fell on the destruction. He was torn away, Master turning his away. "It's alright Richard, you're going to be safe."

His throat was dry. They were there. They—they had almost got him. If Master hadn't—he looked at his master. Concern dripping in his eyes. He held a hand behind his head, gently rubbing circles against his scalp.

"They almost—"

"They can never hurt you again, never again."

Richard's head found rest against Master side, he could feel his breathing—slow, steady, and constant. Before everything with the League, Master was there—after the League. Master was the only constant. The only one Richard could count on was his master.