AN: Couldn't get this idea out of my mind. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Nope.

Off the Team

Anger. Resentment. Fear. Despair. Hopelessness. Any of these would be a fine emotion to be feeling other than this aching, all-consuming nothing. The initial sting, the one that followed Nightwing's decision (so curt and quick, as though he'd been waiting for an opportunity) is long-gone. Watching the Misfits, as they have taken to calling themselves, he's numb, detached, a thousand miles away.

It's not like he's ever been a real member of the Team. He was an add-on, thrown into the mix because they felt guilty (they stopped looking, they stopped looking, they stopped looking), because he had nowhere else to go (because Ollie can barely look him in the eyes, and when he does, the sadness and confusion and guilt make him want to break something and sob at the same time), because he was one of the original protégés and deserved that title no matter what (even though he's been replaced, in more ways than one). He couldn't click with any of them, though, because they were too young or too old or too calm and collected (while he's simmering with rage and fighting demons and waking up in tear-stained pillows).

They don't understand. They'll never understand what it's like to be missing for eight years, to have been stolen for eight years. He's guarded because he's petrified of being forced into that situation again, of waking up in a hospital with his so-called guardian and a clone (who's doing so much better than him and might as well be the real one), hearing words that sound like shattering glass and wanting nothing more than his right arm back (because he's an archer and he needs that). Even now, with his fancy toys and impenetrable façade, he's scared because he's human and fragile and desperate for a sense of security he'll never have.

It's made him selfish. For all his flaws, he's not blind to the truth. Risking the others like that was wrong, but he can't quite bring himself to care (but only because they're safe now). The world is cruel, and when push comes to shove, it's every man for himself. Karen was so out-of-line for calling him a traitor (because she compared him to Blue who's like the Reach who's like Luthor who ruined everything), but of course no one but the Misfit defended him (because they don't know him well enough to see he's poorly-pieced back together and ready to break at any time).

If she knew the truth, if any of his teammates knew the truth, they probably would have been easier on him. Forced therapy sessions with Dinah (who tries to be objective but never stops staring at him like he's a ghost) have jogged his memories, if only slightly, to right before his time on ice. It hadn't been immediate. Luthor's goons had taunted him at first, called him a joke, and he'd responded with bared teeth and a thousand threats and the promise that if they let him free for one second, he'd show him what he could do. He remembers, too, the terror gnawing at him because a few months on the job and he's already been captured. Fighting against the restraints, taking deep breaths, he told himself that Ollie would come, Ollie would save him (because that was his mentor and guardian and friend and hero and he wouldn't let them hurt him, he wouldn't), and he never stopped believing that until they threw him into the pod and the world began to freeze and he knew that no one was going to rescue him.

He doesn't trust others. He can't. And maybe he should admit this (to someone other than himself) but he can't because that is weakness and he will not be seen as weak. Not again. So he just harbors that secret deep inside (along with the yearning for someone to tell him it's okay to let it out and the nightmares that make him watch the removal of his arm) and plays the rebel without a cause. Maybe it's better this way, before there was a more drastic reason for his removal (like the dead body of a teammate he left behind). Maybe the Misfits are where he belongs (until they're faced with an enemy they can't beat and he abandons them, too).

"Hey, Arsenal!" Virgil calls, stopping short in front of him, grinning. "Don't look so down, man. We'll figure this out."

"'Course we will," he returns, flashing a smirk. "C'mon, let's look for a place to sleep tonight. Can't go back to Luthor's, and there has to be a vacant apartment building around here."

It only takes them half an hour to find a decent location. Things are looking up.

(And then that night he wakes up in a cold sweat and warm tears, metallic fingers clawing at the floor and wondering why he can't feel anything.)