Chapter Text
Wally stands in the hallway just outside the rec room: he’s been waiting for almost ten minutes. The genderless, monotone Voice has fallen silent. Wally’s on the balls of his feet, feet should-width apart, knees slightly bent, elbows cocked at his hips. He bounces up and down, almost imperceptibly, like a video game character caught in a battle-stance animation cycle. A tiny trickle of sweat slides down his cheek and around his slightly parted lips, and he’s still panting, hot and wet, from the strain of the moments that came not long ago.
Wally’s eyes remain vacant, though, empty green irises staring at the wall across from him as he awaits further instruction.
In front of him, the kitchen is in shambles. His stomach growls softly.
He doesn't remember.
Wally doesn’t remember the way a flour tornado coated the team in a thin layer of white yesterday. Or the way everyone groaned as the dust settled, revealing Wally at the center of the chaos. He shrugged at them sheepishly, holding half of the dozen freshly-baked macademia nut cookies in his hands.
“Whoops,” he laughed lightly, turning to M’gann. “Sorry about that, sweet cheeks.”
The pretty Martian giggled back and reached for the paper towels. “Don’t worry, Wally. It happens to the best of us, right?”
Behind him, credits for The Flaming C roll to an end; children in an inane toy gun commercial run screaming around their yard, soaking each other in multi-colored goo. A small boy runs laughing toward the camera as he wins their game, pumping his fists in the air.
Robin still faces the TV, and Artemis slumps below him, seated on the floor, head lolling back on the cushions like she’s passed out at a friend’s slumber party. Neither are watching anymore.
Eventually, blue light from the Zeta Beams flicker over the trio, and Light agents swarm the war room, buzzing through the corridors of Mount Justice to collect their spoils. Professor T.O. Morrow marches through the entrance, snapping orders impatiently at the drones, and Psimon and the pretty nurse stroll in behind him.
“This is a disaster,” T.O. Morrow complains under his breath, but the “nurse” still catches the gripe. Tossing thick black curls over her shoulder, she sighs in annoyance.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have designed faulty nanobots, Dr. Morrow,” Bihytra purrs. “Because my work was flawless.”
T.O. Morrow snorts derisively. “That remains to be seen. This wasn’t supposed to happen for months. And then, only in emergency circumstances. Your sister won’t be pleased, Bihytra.”
The Bialyan’s chocolate brown eyes narrow. “Leave Queen B to me, little man.”
“I wouldn’t dream of getting involved,” T.O. Morrow smirks. “Let’s see how extensive the damage is.”
His white lab coat swishes as he turns toward Psimon, who has wandered over to Wally and is peering curiously at his freckled face from below. Wally doesn’t even acknowledge him, and looks blankly past Psimon’s exposed brain.
“Psimon,” T.O. Morrow calls, “Can you detect the clone?”
Psimon smiles thinly. “Not really; I believe he’s dead.”
The scientist’s expression darkens, and he glares at his olive-skinned companion. “Fantastic,” he says roughly.
“Whose fault is that?” Bihytra snaps back. “That’s none of my concern. I didn’t write the software, I just installed it.”
“And what did you set as the password, my lady?” the scientist sneers. “ ‘Awesome, dude’ ?”
A Light agent interrupts their bickering: “We’ve recovered the clone, sir. It seems he suffered a fatal shot above his eyebrow from a Kryptonite shard.”
“Fatal? Are you sure?” T.O. Morrow frets. He glances over at Psimon nervously. Psimon’s wan, smug smile never fades as other agents enter with Conner’s body on a stretcher. He runs a hand over the Kryptonian’s temples and through his hair analytically.
Wally doesn’t remember the sound of Conner’s annoyed, confused growl when he wins at his favorite pastime: steal the last bite of the of the peanut butter button from the Superboy.
“Well, he hasn’t been dead for very long,” Psimon pronounces. “If you remove the shards, his prognosis should be quite good. His memories may never recover, though.”
“Those memories are hardly of use now. He was probably getting too attached anyway. Perhaps this is ..”
“… for the best?” Psimon finishes.
“Mmm, yes,” Bihytra concurs. “He’ll be once again a nice, malleable, good boy. I prefer those.” She glances over at the speedster a few yards away. “Don’t I, Wally?”
No response.
T.O. Morrow waves the agents carrying Superboy on. “Get it to the hospital and remove the kryptonite. The meta-healing should kick back in and repair it,” he directs. “And, for that, great thanks for small favors. Cadmus wouldn’t be pleased if we terminated their hard work.”
“What about the rest of the damage?” he continues. “The Martian may have stood a chance.”
The Light agent pales a little. “Uh, nossir. The blackmail measures for her … or the archer … will no longer be … uhm, effective,” he says delicately.
T.O. Morrow exhales harshly. “Very well. They were backup anyway.”
Another suit passes by carrying Artemis’ corpse; tiny dots of blood trail behind her. “Don’t get sloppy, Agent Tomer,” the doctor barks. “Let’s not leave any evidence behind. We’ll have more leverage over the League if they think we’ve kidnapped them and that they’re still alive.”
“Yessir, sorry sir,” he apologizes as he shuffles into the Zeta Beam behind him.
Wally doesn’t remember the feel of Artemis’ elbow in his rib as she scolded him: “Geeze, Kid Fat, leave some for us.”
“Soooorrrrry,” he whined through a bite of moist brownie.
Morrow makes a note on a clipboard the agent hands him. Behind him, the agents carefully carry out a mangled form wrapped discreetly in white sheets: M’gann.
Wally doesn’t remember the fond, patient look in M’gann’s eyes as he’d playfully dusted the flour out of the red strands in her hair last night, while more brownies baked in the oven.
“Who’s next?” sighs T.O. Morrow, and more agents shuffle by, carrying the prone form of Kaldur. He is as tranquil in death as he was in life, one arm draped lightly over his chest.
The doctor cocks an eyebrow. “I suppose we can use this opportunity to learn a little more about Atlantean physiology. Take him to the lab for study.”
He waves the black-suited agents away.
Wally doesn’t remember the sweet, salty smell of Aqualad as he reached past the speedster for an oatmeal and brown sugar treat; Kaldur smiled indulgently as he split it in two and passed half to Wally.
T.O. Morrow looks again for Psimon. The small-statured man has moved past the Wally to the couch beyond, where he bends over Robin’s peaceful form.
“Hmm,” he murmurs.
“Is that Batman’s untouchable puppet over there?” T.O. Morrow asks. “I imagine the ‘Dark Knight’ has buried his ID quite well, but that should be useful information.” He smiles for the first time since he arrived. “We can run his fingerprints and DNA at the -“
“Oh my,” interrupts Psimon. “That will be quite unnecessary, I’m sure.”
Both of his companions cock an eyebrow while Psimon holds Robin’s sunglasses aloft. He cups the boy’s chin in his other hand.
“Ms. Bihytra. The word ‘bachtz.’ Where is it from?”
Bihytra flushes bright red. “How do you know that word?” she demands.
Psimon chuckles and waves toward Wally. “Oh, I pulled it from our braindead friend over there, of course. Don’t worry. Your trigger word is buried quite deep. Took me the entire time we’ve been here to do it.”
He glances back at her. “It doesn’t quite sound like modern Bialyian, though.”
The brunette sneers. “Of course not, do you take me for a fool? It’s ancient. No one uses it anymore.”
“But … ” Psimon continued. “It derives from the Persian ‘baxt,’ like most ancient Bialyan, does it not?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Did you know that there are some languages that still use the term unaltered?”
Bihytra’s eyes narrow. “They would be quite rare.”
“Rare indeed,” agrees Psimon.
He stands up and puts the sunglasses on his own, tilting his head up at the light, as if he were trying to see the world through someone else’s eyes. “And this is where I share that Romani is one of those languages. And that Dick Grayson was Romani. And by ‘was’ I mean until your brainwashed drone killed Robin approximately fifteen minutes ago.”
Psimon levels his gaze at his colleagues and grins wickedly. T.O. Morrow drops his pen.
Wally doesn’t remember the way Robin scraped a stray bit of sugar cookie batter off the edge of the silver mixing bowl. Or the taste of his fingers as the speedster licked it off them before Robin could bring them to his mouth, faster than anyone could see.
“Augh, Wally, yuck,” Dick complained, but Wally just shrugged his shoulders in wide-eyed-innocence from across the room.
“Wasn’t me!” he denied.
Robin made a face and rolled his eyes as he wiped his fingers on his designer jeans, but everyone laughed, and that was enough for Wally.
“Dick Gray …?” Bihytra huffs and crosses her arms. “And just how was I supposed to know that Robin was Dick Grayson? Much less that he spoke Romani?”
She spins toward T.O. Morrow. “I won’t be shouldering the blame for this, Morrow. You can count on that. My sister will hear of the poor execution in your progra —”
T.O. Morrow finally recovers and throws his head back, laughing. Bihytra sneers and jerks away when he claps her on the shoulder, but the scientist just shakes his head.
“Oh, Bihytra.” His white coat flutters; he’s almost giggling. “We hardly have anything to worry about now. In fact, this couldn’t have come at a better time. I believe Lex Corp will be taking an even closer look at Wayne Industries tomorrow.”
Bihytra’s eyes brighten in realization, and she lets a out a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, that is good news,” she agrees.
The brunette’s curls bounce lightly as she traipses over to the comatose speedster and throws her arms around him; he sways a little under her weight but quickly rights to his neutral position, gaze focused far away.
“Oh, you are a good boy, my WallyWallyWally,” the Bialyian coos as she ruffles his hair. Bihytra digs through her through her purse and locates a small tin.
“Cookie?” she asks the brainwashed boy.
Dr. Morrow scribbles furiously on his clipboard. “I am just dying of curiosity now: what does it mean? ‘Batches’ or ‘baz’ or whatever?”
Bihytra glances over her shoulder as she pulls open the tin. The thick smell of freshly baked chocolate permeates the hall.
“Oh, that?” she says, carefully selecting a particularly soft gingerbread man cookie. “It means ‘luck’.”
“Derived from the ancient Persian in both Romani and Biyalian, I believe,” interjects Psimon. “It’s evolved in modern Biyalian, and the romanization is quite different. But Romani uses it unchanged.”
“Part of a traditional, very old good luck charm. Bachtz heii sactimos tyri patrague: good luck and good health,” Bihytra continues as she turns back to the empty boy.
“Good health starts here, my red-headed friend.” Bihytra waves the sweet treat under his nose expectantly.
Nothing.
Bihytra frowns. “Don’t you want it?”
Nothing.
“Eat.”
Nothing.
“Fine,” she grins and fishes another cookie out of her bag. “Maybe you’d prefer a - how do you say - snickerdoodle? I made it myself.”
Still Wally stares blankly ahead.
“What’s the matter, Bihytra? Is it being temperamental?” T.O. Morrow looks up from his notetaking.
The stunning brunette pushes the cookie more firmly under Wally’s nose. ”Eat,” she says, a dangerous bite sneaking into her tone. She pouts over her shoulder at her companions. “He’s not following a direct order.”
“Really? How odd,” Psimon walks over to him. “Sit down.”
Wally sinks to the floor.
“Stand up,” Bihytra commands.
Wally stands.
“Go to the couch.” Bihytra points as he complies, stepping through the small puddle of blood that Artemis left behind.
Bihytra pulls a piece of jerky from the fridge and follows him. “EAT,” she says.
No response.
“Well, that’s annoying,” muttered Psimon. “I don’t sense any rebellion or …”
He places his fingers on Wally’s temples and closes his eyes. “I don’t sense much of anything.”
“Your programming is insufficient,” Bihytra turns and snaps at T.O. Morrow. She spins back to the speedster.
“Play DEAD,” she snarls.
Wally collapses to the floor, and Bihytra, on the verge of a tantrum, tosses the piece of jerky and cookie down next to him.
Psimon crouches down and takes the food up to Wally’s mouth, prone on the floor. “Eat, boy.”
The empty eyes stare unblinkingly ahead.
“A starving speedster is hardly of use,” Bihytra whines. “After all that time and energy I spent on him, he’s just going to die like this.”
T.O. Morrow gives a short laugh and punctuates his final note on his clipboard dramatically. “Is it unstable in any other way?”
Psimon sighs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem so.”
“Then no matter,” the white-coated doctor smiles grimly. “They invented feeding tubes for a reason.”
And Wally doesn’t remember the way Robin paused in front of the Zeta beams almost 24 hours ago and tossed him the last of his cookies. He doesn’t remember the rich taste of the chocolate chips as he scarfed it down. He doesn’t remember the way the brunette shook his head in resignation as he steadied Wally’s shoulder, licked his thumb, and wiped a tiny speck of chocolate from his cheek, so small it looked like a freckle.
“You’re such a slob,” the diminutive boy said, grinning.
“Yeah, maybe,” Wally grinned back, playfully grabbing Dick in a headlock and dragging his knuckles across his head.
He doesn’t remember the way the scent of peanut butter clung to his soft black locks; he doesn’t remember the sound of Dick’s muffled laughter as he wrestled his way out of Wally’s grasp.
“You’re just lucky you have someone who will tolerate you as a friend,” Robin griped, and Wally doesn’t remember the sight of his smile as it spread from cheek to cheek.
“Yeah,” Wally agreed. “Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.”
And he doesn’t remember how he threw his arm over Dick’s shoulder and walked him to the Zeta beam to head home.
Wally doesn’t remember because in that moment, the moment the doctor closes his mouth, deep in the recesses of the speedster’s emerald irises - now glassy and dull - the last spark, the last bit of Wally that may have believed in miracles or magic or even luck goes out.
End