A/N: I've been trying to get this chapter out for so long, like you guys don't even know. But I started binge-watching clips of fight scenes from various animated DC movie titles and my writing blood for this story got a kick in the butt to get going.

Also, does anybody watch the Flash? I need to discuss with someone my Harrison Wells/Eobard feels. ;_;

It's been a year or so since I last updated this, so hopefully my writing shows improvement.

"When I heard authorities were cordoning off this highway for a speedster, I assumed I'd be confronting Flash himself. He and I are due for a reckoning. But I suppose I must settle for making him miserable by killing his brat sidekick instead."

-Vandal Savage to Kid Flash, episode "Coldhearted"

Wally had been serving the public as a hero for a few years now. When his powers had first manifested after the accident (well, okay, it wasn't really an accident), Barry had finally been forced to acknowledge Wally's desire to help, though he hadn't immediately crowned him as his partner (that would take a few weeks of Wally being unable to control his new abilities before Barry would finally cave).

But Wally hadn't been tossed onto the scene with just a pep talk to back him up. Barry had been certain to provide the amount of training needed for such a dangerous job. Bomb dismantling, hostage situations, multiple-hostile scenarios…

…and especially kidnappings, notably when Wally was the one kidnapped.

His mind may not have been fully present at the moment, but this extensive training had taken root in his muscle memory; he woke calmly, despite the throbbing of pain in his body, and smoothly continued to feign consciousness.

"I know it's hard," Barry had sympathized during one practice, "for us speedsters to stay still for long. But it could mean the distinction between life or death. Wait a few seconds or minutes if you can, try and scope out the situation as best as possible before giving signs that you're awake."

He tried to do that now; his eyes remained lightly closed, but he strained his ears to the max threshold, hoping to discern noises like breathing or steps. A subtle flex of his limbs revealed that he was chained against a flat surface, arms pinned at the wrists above his head, and ankles and waist also strapped down. Immediately flickers of claustrophobia began to squirm in his gut, but he brushed them aside as best as he was able.

Don't panic. Panicking doesn't fix anything.

His head pounded distractingly, and the slightest twitch of his cheek sent internal screams of agony raging through his mind. Savage had hit him, he remembered, and then he fixed that statement: Savage had hit him many times, but the powerful backhand was what had finally knocked him unconscious.

And of course, thinking about Savage suddenly reminded him about the thralled Justice League, and he cursed himself for being so selfish. The worry condensed in his chest like a solid, anxious weight. Was Barry okay? Were the others all right? What had they been doing while he was passed out? And Robin and Artemis and the others? What had happened to them?

He wished he hadn't been so stupid and blindly rushed ahead. If he had only hung back with the others before charging into the control room, perhaps their combined might could have been enough. Instead, he had blazed ahead as usual and screwed everything up.

The self-loathing didn't help matters at all. He reckoned five minutes had passed, maybe, but the restraints were too tight to be successfully ignored, and now the fear inspired by the chains and the worry about the others joined together to drive him into a panic. Flying open against his will, his eyes immediately began scouring his surroundings.

A dark, bare cell, tiny as well, with a solid, steel-barred oaken door. He was pinned in a horizontal position, on his back, on some type of rectangular board. There were no windows; the only light source came from a bare bulb dangling on a short cord from the ceiling. Emitting a sickly, white-washed light, it provided little comfort and only bleached the room of color.

All in all, it looked very much like a retouched medieval torture chamber. Homey.

"Nice taste, Savage. Knew you'd be the theatrical type," he muttered lowly, and then fell silent as the hot pain from his wounded face–fractured cheekbone, maybe?–made its complaints known once again. And something about that was wrong…

...he should have already been healed. Even if his "nap" had only been twenty minutes, which he highly doubted, the damage would have been nearly fixed. Alarmed, he began taking further stock of himself as much as he was able to in such a vulnerable, stretched position. His side hurt greatly, and he was familiar enough with what a broken rib felt like to know that it was probably not in very good condition. Most likely bruised, possible fracture.

He was baffled. Why weren't his powers–

–and then his fuzzy mind finally remembered Savage throwing him to the ground, grinding his boot on Wally's face to keep him pressed to the floor while he leaned down and fastened a metahuman collar around his neck–

–The collar! It must have been interfering with his accelerated healing!

Now the fear was really clamoring for attention (how could he escape if he was temporarily crippled?!) and he beat it back by forcing himself to get angry. Really?! A metahuman collar, like he was some kind of pet? How humiliating! When he escaped, he was going to plant both feet right in Savage's ugly mug with such force that Wally's bootprints would be his newest scars.

Time passed with excruciating slowness.

At first, Wally tried to remain dignified and calm despite his situation, but he had never dealt well with forced stillness–neither he nor Barry did. It was why he twirled pens in his fingers and tapped and bounced his knee all the time. Many times, teachers had called him out on the habit and complained that he was a "disruption" in class.

After thirty minutes had ticked by (or so. He wasn't sure. Nothing to measure the passage of time by, and his internal clock was a little off-balance by a likely concussion) he started humming, very quietly, to fill the pressing silence. When that quickly got boring he started reciting math formulas in his head. It occurred to him that it was a good thing his school had gone on break for the new year, or else his absence would have been noted already. At least he wouldn't have any schoolwork to make up!

Slowed metabolism, for him, meant only slightly increased eating urges, which was possibly the only real blessing of this situation. If Wally still had his metabolism functioning at their astronomical levels, he might have been half-mad with hunger already. And if Savage ever saw him in such a state…the notion of being so helpless chilled him, and he shoved the thought away quickly.

Okay, now he was feeling a little insulted. What kind of self-respecting villain captured the hero, went to the pains of locking them up tighter than a packaged toy at Christmas, and just left them there? For hours? Unbelievable!

Not that he wanted to see Savage's stupid face and listen to his gloating, of course, but still… at this point, anything different would be welcome. Except torture, of course. Though Wally didn't think that was why Savage had kept him, or at least he hoped not. Hadn't the other supervillains discussed holding onto them as insurance?

Was this his fate, then? To be kept in a cell for days on end, for no other reason than a "just in case"?

Dread once again rose; he pushed it back with more difficulty than before.

"I trust you've realized the futility of your situation by now?"

The deep, growly voice hit him like a cinderblock, like a bucket of cold water being dumped on his head. Wally instinctively jerked in the restraints, shuddering from the abrupt shattering of his light doze.

Savage's grotesque scars appeared even more pronounced in the weak lighting of the cell, and his groomed head nearly brushed against the waterstained ceiling. He looked larger than life, as though one flick of his pinky finger could snap every bone in Wally's body.

Trapped by the small space, his low voice might as well have been a shout. It seized Wally's concentration and gleefully reminded him about his injuries, courtesy of the criminal himself. His cheek twinged in pain.

"I don't know," Wally snapped, his tongue running away from him, "why don't you let me out of these and we'll see?"

Immediately, he froze. Stupid! The metahuman collar was still active; even if Savage released him, he would be practically helpless.

To his shock, Savage directed him an amused smile, and obligingly crossed the little cell in one huge step. Wally's skin crawled at the proximity. He stiffened and then just barely caught the gasp of pain as his ribs instantly thundered in protest. The hopelessness of his situation battered at him once again, warning of danger! danger! as Savage plucked a key from his coat and unlocked the cuffs on Wally's limp wrists. They sprang apart and Wally gave a staggered inhale as the aching tension he had grown accustomed to slackened entirely in an instant. Muscles screamed in protest as he very slowly brought them down from above his head. Buzzing began in his fingertips and traveled up his arms once the blood flow resumed. His wrists were smeared with blood. He hadn't realized he had struggled so much.

Suddenly, both of his wrists were captured in one of Savage's huge hands. Yanking them away proved to be useless, and Wally froze, waiting for that enormous hand to snap both of the fragile bones. His acid-green eyes flicked upwards, scanning Savage's face for any intent to harm–and Savage was watching him, still smirking.

"Look what you've done to yourself," he chided, flipping Wally's wrists over to examine the damage on the paler underbelly. His gloves. His gloves were gone, along with the hidden lockpicking tool Robin had given him once and taught him how to use. The rest of his costume was still intact, though, including his cowl, though if Savage had the entire league in his possession that might be a moot point.

Oh God, what if Savage and the other members of the Light peeked at the league members under their masks? Wally tried to imagine the supercriminals discovering who Batman was under the mask and his blood froze. He had to do something, anything, before everything in his life went up in smoke.

"Don't touch me," he spat weakly, and pulled at his hands again. His head was pounding, his heartbeat a sickly whoosh in his ears. He was very tired and hungry.

"Just cataloguing damage," Savage answered absently, and then his hands were moving up, capturing the lip of Wally's cowl between two gloved fingers–

–"No!" Wally gasped, renewed by fear–

–and then his mask was sliding back, off his head, and that wound in his face screamed in agony as the movement tugged at the skin. Devastation sent a surge of disbelieving shock rampaging through his veins, and adrenalin mixed terribly with the concussion. Sick, he was going to be sick. His life was ruined–Savage knew–

Savage said nothing; he seemed to be enjoying the moment as his fingers probed at Wally's swollen face, who blankly stared upwards in total, debilitating shock.

"If it's of any comfort," Savage mused aloud, pressing experimentally on an area under Wally's eye socket–he hissed in pain–"I already knew your 'secret identity' before all this."

That was no comfort at all. Savage sucked at comforting. In fact, 'Vandal' and 'comfort' should never be in the same sentence unless there was an 'is not good at' between them.

"What?" was all he could pant, and then jerked his face away from Vandal's touch. The immortal let his face slide away agreeably, apparently finished with his inspection.

"Wallace Rudolph West, 15 years old, born November 11, 2000. Parents Rudolph and Mary West." Upon seeing the paleness rushing through the speedster's revealed face, he added lightly, "Care for me to go on?"

"How do you–"

"You've been unconscious in my care for two days; it appears that the loss of your abilities temporarily stalled your body's natural healing. Two days was more than enough time for me to investigate my newest little side-project."

Wally's blood chilled. "What do you mean 'project'?"

Vandal smiled ominously but said nothing. He moved to begin unlocking the restraints on Wally's waist and legs. Wally let him, choosing instead to gaze emptily at the ceiling. It was over. Vandal Savage, leader of The Light, knew his secret identity. Wally would never be able to be a hero again, and his family–oh God, his parents!–would never be completely safe.

It was over for him.

"Now, I expect you'll behave if I let you up?" Savage asked mockingly, hand stalling on the last restraint. Wally's gaze snapped to the immortal's smirking face and brightened into a white-hot glare. At his silence, Savage placed a hand on Wally's chest and began applying pressure. Agony bolted through his injured chest cavity and the breath was forced from his compressed lungs. He bucked uselessly, mouth writhing silently in the horrible pain.

After a few eternal seconds, Savage removed his hand, but let it hover menacingly. "I'd like an answer."

"Yes," Wally spat. Don't cry, don't cry. His chest throbbed with fresh pain. Definitely at least one broken rib.

Savage undid the shackle and finally Wally was free to move–except he couldn't. Every time he tried to sit upright his ribs hurt so bad he wondered if he might pass out. A hand at his shoulder provided leverage to shift him into a weak sitting position. He kept his back hunched; if he tried to uncurl himself, his chest protested viciously.

"Look at it this way," Savage said pleasantly, his hand still at Wally's elbow. Wally hated him. "With the collar and your current injuries, I won't have to resort to breaking your legs to keep you from any foolish escape attempts."

The gleam in his dark eyes said he would have gladly done so otherwise.

"My hero," Wally snapped shakily, trying to find a breathing rhythm that didn't jar his ribs.

"Heroes," parroted Savage, with great amusement. "Yes, I'd almost forgotten how you fools view yourselves. The champions of humanity, as it were." He removed his hands from Wally's side. Wally did his best to hide the resulting wobble in his balance. "But here you are, a fifteen-year-old already indoctrinated into their views." He briefly lifted the cowl attached to the back of Wally's suit and shook it for emphasis. "You look so young without your mask. A little duckling, lost without its mother."

Wally flushed horribly. "Shut up," he snarled, and swayed forward, weakly throwing a punch. Savage caught it solidly in his palm and squeezed the closed fist warningly. Wally gasped in pain. Once again, Savage waited just until the pain built into something like agony before releasing the half-crushed hand. His fingers were numb.

How strong was this guy?

Savage sighed. "It seems we'll have many similar lessons in our future. How disappointing. I had taken you to be a more intelligent sample of this age's youth."

Two things: 1, why did the concept of Vandal Savage, a supervillain, being disappointed in him hurt his pride so much? and 2, why was Wally still alive?

He repeated the last question out loud in the hopes of receiving a definitive answer. Their encounter had been a little while ago, when Wally had been transporting that heart, but he still remembered the barely-concealed loathing in Savage's voice when he mentioned the Flash. So why was Wally, the hero's protege, not dead yet?

"I promised you a painful death two months ago," Savage said simply, as though talking about a shopping list yes we'll need two more shipments of minions and we're about out of evil milk, "in order to torment your mentor. But, as any great leader, my plans are flexible. It seems your continued existence is more beneficial to me than your death."

His words summoned scenarios to Wally's mind of his own corpse, with a snapped neck and bloody body. It was a scene that had occasionally showed up in Wally's nightmares after he fended the man off on his birthday. Ice cubes seemed to drop into his stomach.

"Besides," Savage continued, suddenly gleeful, "if your mentor was, somehow, able to break our mind control, then I can barely think of what would hurt him more than glimpsing his protege reduced to a mere powerless drone–mind broken, will extinguished, and knowing that if only he had been smarter, or faster, he could have prevented it."

Wally's tongue went numb in–no, he wouldn't call it fear. Wally West was not afraid of Savage.

Maybe if he repeated it enough it'd come true.

A/N: Yo, the last few of you awesome people who reviewed freaking made my day. You guys were the inspiration for getting this out. To the anonymous guest who says he/she checks this ragged old story every few weeks–I hope this update makes you as happy as your review made me!