The Fallen Hero (Dick Grayson)

a vision of the world i see

His life is like K.O after K.O with no one to call the fight. It started when he was young, and the cycle never stopped. A merry go round with endless electricity prancing the horses around over and over again. Going up and down, a rod jutting through their very being, and continuing on while people use them day after day. The grime that cakes their pristine skin is only natural with use, and it never comes off.

Dick Grayson was the skin he used to own, but it was caked in horror, heartache, and trauma. Grayson Lloyd is who he is now, and who he will remain until he reunites with who he knows best: death.

The shot ringing out brings Gray out of his stupor as he evades with a quick roll, and a flick of the wrist snapping the gun out of its holster and firing. The man drops like a rock, and will never breathe again.

"Shit, my bad I was a little distracted. I didn't mean to leave you guys hanging." His voice is gruff, and gravelly. He knows why, he can never forget why, but even with the voice modulator it's noticeable how his real voice is just as dark and scathing.

"Here, catch," the bullet is already in the second man's chest by the time he's done with his last word. His outstretched hand holding the gun turns over in his hand, and he inspects it. "Oh."

He crosses the alley in a few strides, and peers down at the bodies at his feet. A sneer grows on his lips beneath his metal mask. The mask has layers of metal that are collapsible by the dials on either side. They can lift to show his mouth, where a mesh looking covering hovers in order to vent his breathing. It's almost always locked because that allows the voice modulator a more controlled access to regulate his voice and disperse it how he likes.

People have heard his voice before, it's not a secret, but he doesn't talk much unless it's on. It hurts to speak. The mask has functions that keep his throat from feeling like it's been dipped in acid. When he was killed by Deathstroke's sword years ago he sliced right through his throat, and voice box with his blade.

His hand itches, and he shoots the second man once more, directly through the back of the head. "You have no right having a brain if you're going to use it the way you did."

Sirens that started about when he took his first shot are just around the corner now. If he concentrates close enough he can hear the tires rolling against the grime that is the Gotham streets. Rain muddles his hearing from reaching any further, so he clicks his belt and launches onto the building on the opposite side of the entrance to the alley way.

Boots hitting the pavement in a steady pattern, left and right. He's outrunning the shadows following him. The persistence to catch him overrules their nature to stay in the darkness. Even in daytime they're constant. Burdened, plagued, cursed, that's the usual answer people supply. They're probably not wrong, but he really just doesn't care.

Now across Gotham, he surveys a tall building from a higher building across from it. Settling on the balls of his feet,  he sees the neon pink glowing sign. The Iceberg Lounge is nothing if not glowing. The building is sleek with black wood, and adorned with windows. Bullet proof of course, there's been enough attempted shootings to make them a requirement. The windows create an opening into the bright and colorful lights that move across that people dancing and chatting inside. The bar sits at the far wall.

He shoots across–over the road and cars below–with the grapple in his belt and drops into a roll towards the entrance of the alley.

"That was quick," the bald-headed guard on the left, John, notes as he moves away from the door.

The man on the right lifts a brow and remains firmly in front of the door. John side eyes his coworker and addresses Gray, "Rev meet our newest bruiser, Brooks. Don't give 'em too much trouble."