Author's note: Hello again - IT'S SUMMER TIME: WOO! And you know what that means, don't you? That's right! I can finally update this story! Ah, yes. What a glorious time of the year. Thank you so much for the reviews; they really did help keep this story on my mind, and they always make me smile. Definitely a big motivation to keep writing! So thank you for waiting, and without further ado, I give you chapter 8!

"Dick, come on, hurry up! You're going to be late for school again!"

Bruce stood in the doorway of the dining hall, his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently. Alfred raised a brow as he picked up the finished breakfast tray. "Late again, master Bruce?"

Bruce scowled. "It's only his second week back. You'd think he'd still be excited to finally be back in school, but I guess the novelty of it wore off quickly. And he's been making me late for work."

"Yes, well, he's young, sir. I imagine it's quite difficult to be excited about sitting in class for many hours each day. And you know that I could drive him to school; it is my job, after all."

Bruce sighed heavily. "I feel like driving him to school is the one of the few normal things he and I can have. And frankly, he's been avoiding me; these days, driving him is one of the few opportunities I have to just be in the same space as him. And, well, he used to love school. He looked forward to it. You know, before... All of this happened."

"Before Slade," Alfred said softly.

"Right. And before I took away his uniform and stopped training him." Bruce rubbed his eyes tiredly. "He's just been so... Different, recently. I expected him to be angry, or surly, or something, and I guess he was for a few weeks, but recently he's just been... Well, you've seen him."

"Distant, sir. He's been very distant."

"Yes, I suppose that's a good word. Distant," Bruce said tiredly. "I'm worried about him."

Alfred offered a small smile. "Give it time, sir. He's been through hell and back. I'm sure he'll be his old self again once he gets back into the swing of things."

"It's been over a month," Bruce said, his brow furrowed. "I thought he'd have at least made some steps in the right direction by now, but it just feels like we're moving backwards. I still sense so much anger in him, and I don't know what to do about it anymore. I'm not a parent, Alfred. I don't know what I'm doing."

"No parent knows what they're doing, sir," Alfred said wryly. "And if anyone raising a child says that they know exactly what they're doing, I can assure you that they're lying. You care about master Dick; right now, perhaps that's all you can offer him. He needs more time, and he needs you to look out for him. Things will look up soon."

"I hope you're right, Alfred," Bruce replied sadly. "God, I hope you're right."

At that moment, Dick strode into the room, looking solemn in his dark school uniform. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder and his hand was loosely grabbing the strap. One finger jutted out awkwardly in a splint. "Right about what?"

Bruce and Alfred exchanged a quick glance before the butler offered a short nod and left the room. Bruce smiled at his ward. "Nothing that you have to worry about. Ready to go?"

Dick stared blankly at his guardian. "Were you talking about me?"

Bruce sighed. "Dick..."

"Never mind," the boy said shortly. "It doesn't matter. Can we just go?"

"Yeah," Bruce said softly. "Yeah, we can go."

Dick nodded, his face completely impassive. "Good." Without another word, he strode past his mentor and out of the room. Bruce turned to follow his ward; his gaze flicked over to the liquor cabinet. He hesitated for a moment and then sighed heavily. "I'll be seeing you later," he muttered, and with a crisp step he walked out of the room.

Dick stared blankly at the wall, chin resting on one hand. He lightly tapped his desk with his pencil. A few of the more prim and proper students were giving him dirty looks for making the noise, but he ignored them. It was just impossible to pay attention; Mrs. Jones was rambling on about The Lord of the Flies, a book Dick had read twice already. Most of the kids in his class had hated it; too depressing, they had said, and unrealistic because kids couldn't really be that mean.

Morons.

It never ceased to amaze him how incredibly stupid some of the students were. His middle school was private, and supposedly highly selective. But it was fairly obvious that intelligence mattered far less than money when it came to getting accepted into the school.

"Mr. Grayson?" Mrs. Jones' nasally voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you paying attention?"

"Of course, Mrs. Jones," he said smoothly. She crossed her arms and pursed her lips.

"Well then I'm sure you won't mind telling the class what the conch represents in the story?"

"Civilization," he said smoothly without even hesitating to think. "The conch represents the power of words and politics. When it's broken, that power is lost; violence and strength become the law. Civilization is broken, and the children can finally display their true and savage nature."

Mrs. Jones blinked rapidly. "Er, yes, that's correct," she muttered, obviously surprised that he had known the answer. "Very good, Mr. Grayson. You clearly have a good understanding of the book."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jones," he replied with a fake smile. "Glad I could contribute."

She nodded uncomfortably and cleared her throat. "Yes, well, as I was saying before, according to William Golding, violence and savagery seem to be the true root of human nature..."

Dick tuned out her words once more and went back to staring at the wall. He was tired; he was bored. And above all, he was incredibly frustrated with being tired and bored. He was cold with Bruce and Alfred because it gave him something to do, a persona to keep up. It was satisfying to see Bruce squirm.

The truth was he was so furious with his mentor that it was hard not to lash out every time he saw him. At first he had expected Bruce to change his mind about not training him; he had been certain that the man would see reason, see that Dick needed crime fighting, needed something to keep him focused and relatively happy. But after a few weeks it had been clear that that was never going to happen. The worst of it was that Bruce wouldn't even let him practice on his own; apparently he didn't want to encourage the boy to continue with fighting at all. And so for weeks, Dick hadn't had any means to release his aggression.

He knew it wasn't normal or healthy to be so angry. He knew it. But he just couldn't bring himself to forgive Bruce. And now that he wasn't distracted with training, he was thinking more and more about Tony Zucco and Slade: where they were, what they were doing, who they were threatening or hurting.

It haunted him. He wanted revenge; he wanted justice. But all he could do was sit in class and hear about The Lord of the Flies. It took everything he had not to run screaming out of the room.

What felt like hours later, the bell finally clanged loudly. Lunch time. Dick moodily grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, striding purposefully out of the classroom. He couldn't wait to sit by himself for forty-five minutes. He had friends, it was true, but lately he hadn't felt inclined to spend time with them. They were all spoiled and hadn't experienced anything truly difficult in their lives; it hadn't bothered him before Slade, but now he felt as though he couldn't relate to them. He couldn't listen to how difficult it was for them to not have the newest bicycle on the market when he had been brutally beaten by a criminal and his parents had died in front of him; they just existed on completely different worlds.

He had just grabbed his lunch tray and was moving to sit outside when suddenly a girl appeared next to him and bumped his shoulder. He blinked in confusion at her. She had freckles that dotted a cute nose, and big blue eyes. Her dark red hair swung behind her in a ponytail. And she had a very intense gaze.

"Hi," she said curtly.

"Erm, hi?" he replied cautiously, wondering what she could possibly want.

"We're in the same English class," she said very matter-of-factly, as though this somehow explained everything. "You like The Lord of the Flies."

"Uhhh..."

"I like it too. And your description of the conch shell was very precise. And succinct. I like succinctness. Do you know what succinct means?"

"Um, yeah, it means short. And, well that's... Great, really. That you like succinctness," he replied awkwardly, feeling more overwhelmed by the second. Was it too much to ask to have a quiet lunch?

"Yeah, I think so too," she said breathlessly. "What a great word." There was a slight pause; Dick started to say goodbye and prepared himself to run far, far away, but she beat him to it. "Want to have lunch?"

"Well, I should really - wait, what? No!" he sputtered indignantly. Her brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Why not?"

"B-because!" he stammered. "I don't even - we're not - I don't know you!"

"I'm Barbara. Barbara Gordon. But you can call me Babs. And you're Richard Grayson. See, now we know each other. And both of our last names start with 'g.' Isn't that funny?"

"No!" he all but shouted. "And we do not know each other! And we are not having lunch!"

"Well, you're being pretty darn rude," she said, looking offended. "Didn't your parents ever teach you to be polite? And especially to girls. That's called chivalry. Do you know what chivalry means?"

"Gah! Go away!"

"Well maybe I will!" she said indignantly.

"Good!"

"Fine!"

She turned to walk away but then shot a nasty look over her shoulder. "I'm going now!"

"Wonderful!" Dick cried. "Please, go faster!"

Giving him one last ugly look, Barbara strode quickly away. Her wavy hair bounced and swung rapidly as she walked.

Dick glared after her for a moment before shaking his head and walking toward the door. "Geez louise, she's nuts," he muttered.

The rest of his day passed fairly uneventfully, although there was one moment in his biology class when he nearly shattered a beaker because he slammed it onto the counter. He was very chivalrous. Extremely, even. And he most definitely was not rude. She was the rude one. Asking him for lunch, honestly... Who did she think she was?

The last bell of the day eventually rang. He was putting his backpack on when his eyes lit up with realization, and then he groaned. He had left his jacket in the gym locker room during sixth period. "Crud," he muttered, and started to jog down the hall, weaving in and out between the students. Bruce was waiting for him, and would probably wonder why he was late. But it would only take a second, and he didn't really care if Bruce had to sit around for a few extra minutes.

It took very little time to find his jacket; he remembered exactly where he had left it. He walked out of the locker room; the hall was completely empty. He was about to start lightly jogging again when he suddenly heard a noise coming from the gym. Curious, he moved toward the door and peeked through the window. His eyes widened at what he saw.

It was Barbara Gordon, still in her gym clothing. There were three very large, very beefy boys standing around her. And they were shoving her.

In the blink of an eye, he was beyond angry. Barbara Gordon was a weird, annoying girl, but that didn't mean he was going to let anyone push her around. Completely forgetting about Bruce waiting in the car, he burst into the gym. "Hey!" he snarled. "Leave her alone!"

The boys paused; Barbara looked up in shock. Tears were streaming down her face, and Dick felt his anger rising quickly at the sight. One of the boys stepped forward, his face menacing.

"You don't know what's going on here, kid. Scram, and we'll keep you out of it." The other boys puffed up their chests and sneered, obviously trying to look intimidating.

A white rage was spreading, rage that had been building steadily for weeks now; Dick's entire body was trembling, and it probably looked like he was shaking from fear, but it was taking all of his self control to keep himself from attacking them. "You seriously think," he said in a low voice, "that I'm going to leave you here to beat up some girl just because you told me to?"

"Come on, kid, just get out of here!" the older boy said, clearly getting frustrated. "Beat it!" He shoved Dick backwards, or at least he tried to; Dick saw the move coming from a mile away. Growling, he caught the bully's hand, pulled him closer, and punched him square in the nose.

The boy howled in pain and staggered away, bringing his hands to his face. Blood dripped down through his fingers. The two other boys stood in shock for a moment before snarling and moving forward. Barbara frantically stepped in front of them, trying to keep them back.

"No, wait, please," she begged, weakly attempting to push them back. "He was just being an idiot, I'll -" one of them grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to the side. Her head hit the wall with a crack and she crumpled to the ground.

And that was the last straw.

Roaring with fury, Dick sprinted forward, leapt into the air, and kicked Barbara's attacker so hard in the chest that the boy was momentarily lifted off of the ground. The boy landed on his back with a grunt. Landing like a cat, Dick saw the one who had threatened him pulling his arm back for a punch, but this was child's play, the boy was just too slow. This was nothing compared to Slade or Batman. He spun around gracefully and hit his opponent with a brutal roundhouse kick; the boy's jaw cracked loudly and he fell to the floor with a cry.

Eyes narrowed, he quickly assessed his situation. The other two, recovered from their previous blows, were moving toward him slowly; at some point, one of them had acquired a baseball bat.

"You're dead, kid!" one of them snarled, and they both charged forward with a cry. Dick prepared himself to leap above them, when out of nowhere Slade's dark voice was whispering in his ear, words from their fight on the rooftop. You rely too heavily on your acrobatics instead of grounding yourself in the fight.

Barely having time to think about it, he sunk into a low stance. Instead of jumping above the boy with the bat, he pushed himself into the boy's lower body, placing his hands on the boy's abdomen and chest. The boy's momentum was so great that it took almost no force to throw him across the room. Before he completely released though, Dick managed to grab hold of the baseball bat and wrench it from his would-be attacker's hands. Then, without holding anything back, he turned and swung hard at the other boy whose fist was pummeling toward his face. The bat cracked hard against the boy's jaw, and he fell heavily to the ground and lay still.

Breathing hard, Dick stood up straight and looked around. Only one boy was out cold; the other two were slowly starting to stand up shakily. His gaze darkened; his rage was not satisfied.

Tightening his grip on the baseball bat, he strode forward. He reached the boy with the bloody nose first, who was almost on his feet. Not wasting any time, he slammed the bat into the boy's stomach. The boy's eyes widened and he fell on his knees, gasping for air. Face contorted with rage, Dick hit him again, this time across the back, and then on the head until he was out cold. He moved on to the other boy, whose eyes were wide with terror. "Please, don't!" the boy whimpered, scrambling away; but he didn't listen, the boy needed to be punished. He swung hard. And then he did it again. And again. And the bat kept rising and falling, rising and falling, and the boy was spitting blood but it still wasn't enough, he was still so angry, and the boy was bleeding so much...

He could hear screaming, and he didn't know if it was him or the boy or someone else shrieking in horror. He was too lost in the rhythmic swing of the bat, too lost in the sight of the boy feebly trying to crawl away. The screaming didn't matter, it wasn't enough, he couldn't bring himself to stop, until hands were suddenly pulling him away, dragging him away from the villain, and he was so furious, who dared to stop him. He whirled around with a snarl, bat raised, and he froze when he saw Barbara Gordon looking at him with terror, shrinking away in fear.

"Stop," she whispered. "Please stop."

For a moment he was in intense shock; he couldn't quite understand what had just happened. He began to tremble again, only this time it was because he felt ill. He looked down at the bat; suddenly horrified, he dropped it. It fell with a clatter. He looked at Barbara and swallowed heavily, trying not to vomit.

"What happened?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

He wanted to reply that he had protected her, that he had saved her from her attackers. But all he could do was stare at her; she looked so frightened, and there was a large bruise swelling on her face.

He couldn't speak. All he could do was turn and run, out of the gym and far, far away, away from Barbara Gordon, and the three boys looking dead on the ground, and the swollen puddles of blood that gleamed in the light. He ran because he knew that, for at least a moment, he had been exactly like Slade.

And in that moment, he had liked it.