The clang of the metal doors slamming reverberated through the empty air. He had long since left, the tower no longer on the horizon, and yet the echo still rattled through his ribcage. No matter how fast or how far he ran, he couldn't escape the ringing in his ears and in his core, the dissonant chord of finality – and only when breathing became too painful and stifled did he give up, collapsing to his hands and knees.

It took a few moments before he could even see straight enough to know where he was – a forest, a fair distance from the tower – and he'd been so concerned with just running that he didn't even know when or how he'd gotten that far out of the city. Not that it mattered. He didn't have anywhere else to go, anyway.

Automatically, he reached for his bow, then an arrow, trying to still his shaking hands. He felt too hollow, nothing holding skin and bone together but dull pain and that rattling, damning echo. But he had to steady his aim. His bow was an extension of him, and the arrows his only constant. He needed a constant.

A staticky sound broke his concentration, and he reached blindly for the source. The communicator. He switched it on, but the signal was garbled. "I'm not in the mood," he growled into the speaker, and he could make out a tone of protest in the choppy transmission as he tossed the communicator aside.

Slowly, stiffly, he lined up his shot, tuning out the buzzing voice.

"No eres un héroe."
"¿Alguna vez un héroe?"

He let the arrow fly, and another rapid-fire right behind it. They landed right next to each other, just a few feet up off the base of a tree.

"Who are you kidding? You don't belong here."

He aimed higher. Direct hit.

"Green Arrow was right to get rid of you."

The shot was higher still, and landed with enough force to split the wood.

And yet, with each shot, each attempt to kill the voices and the visuals of his team, his friends, the target was only ever himself, and each landed shot sent a sharper reverb through his chest.

"Speedy! Come in!" The voice from the fallen communicator broke through clearly.

He lowered his bow, but made no move to pick up the communicator. "Robin."

"Where are you? I've been trying to reach you for—"

"Can't you just trace me if you really wanted to know? Isn't that what these are for?"

"Bumblebee called me."

His voice did not soften any, but there was a quake to it. "I bet she had a lot to say."

"We need to talk, Speedy."

"I'm sure you heard all you need to know."

"No. I need to hear it from you."

"Well, you're not going to!"

"This isn't negotiable!"

From his end, Robin watched through the communicator's camera as Speedy finally came into view, tearing off his mask and throwing it aside as he swiped the communicator off the ground to shout into the receiver. "I'm not negotiating with anyone! You're not my leader, and neither is she!"

"Roy."

Speedy froze at the use of his given name, staring wild-eyed into the communicator. His usually-neat hair stuck to his skin with sweat, his face was blotched an angry red, and it was only through sheer force of will that he was managing to keep tears from spilling. "I don't have a leader," he tried again, quieter, more stilted, but there was a dangerous wobble to his voice. "I don't have a team."

Robin didn't know the last time he'd seen him like this. If ever.

"Then talk to me as a friend."

The picture jostled as Speedy clenched the communicator with a trembling white-knuckled grip. "A friend?" But the sound – the choked sob – was unmistakable.

Robin bit his lip, studying the shaky picture. This had to be in person.

"Stay where you are."