Memorium~Nightwing

Two Years Later

Bruce Wayne rubbed his hands on his pants as Alfred placed the plate in front of him. "Enjoy your breakfast Master Wayne."

Bruce muttered a thanks and pulled his plate closer.

"Which one was it this time?" Alfred's brow creased in thought.

"Pardon?" Bruce looked up from around a mouthful of egg.

"Your nightmare. I can tell if you have one. I used to play poker with a couple of my old friends, your father included, and I was the one person who could tell when the others were bluffing. You rub your hands on your pants whenever you have a nightmare. Now, which one was it this time?"

"Dick."

Alfred's face softened. "He's been dead for two years. Why does Richard Grayson still haunt you?"

Bruce rubbed his eyes, trying to get the image of the dead child out of his eyes, his body mutilated beyond recognition. The police had found him, and identified him by the shirt and pants that Emily Walker had issued to him. His body was contorted in pain, blood smeared from wall to wall in the abandoned warehouse.

The funeral was hard. Emily blamed herself for his murder and she never was the same again.

"I don't know Alfred. He was just so young and talented..." He drifted off in thought.

He flinched when a beep from the computer jerked him from his mind. "Crime Pattern identified. Serial Murder." It chirped.

"A Serial killer?" Alfred frowned.

"Yeah, these bodies started showing up about a week ago, almost everyday. Clean, to be kind, with one bullet or more commonly blunt force trauma. The victims were ranging from politicians, businessmen, or a doctor. I was going to talk to Gordon later."

"Do be safe Master Bruce. In Gotham Serial killers usually means assassin."

"I'm always safe Alfred."

~*~

"I said for you to be careful." Slade dragged a red hot fire poker across the ground, sparks flying up making Dick flinch.

"Master, I was careful. The police didn't s-see anything I swear." His hands shook from clenching them for too long. He stood ramrod straight, his scared blue eyes staring off in the distance.

Dick didn't see the blow coming. He rarely did. His ears rang as she sank to his knees.

"Lift your shirt." Deathstroke demanded.

Dick shakily obeyed. Stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip, the twelve year old had a very deep gash. Instead of Slade whipping his entire back, he repeated the same slash at every offense, causing the pain to increase every time Dick displeased him.

The fire poker whistled through the air and Dick let out a shriek as his barley healed scar was split open, blood pooling onto the tile. Slade pulled back and repeated the action; Dick's tears mixing with his blood. He couldn't help it, the young boy wailed in pain.

"Clean the floor and have my dinner on the table in five minutes." The poker clattered to the floor.

Chef, assassin, house cleaner, Dick did whatever Slade wanted. He had to.

Dick pushed himself off the ground, nearly slipping. His back screamed in protest and he bit his fist to stop himself from crying out. His bare feet clutched the stone, and he didn't fall.

With a gasp he took a step. Agony warped his vision, but Dick continued. With a trembling hand he grabbed a dirty rag and soaked up the blood. He was getting dizzy from the amount he had lost.

He lurched over to where water dripped from a hole in the ceiling and rinsed the blood off his hands as best he could. He took a step to the kitchen and fell, he elbow and palm slamming into the rough ground. He let out a squeak, but didn't dare make another sound. With a shaky breath he grasped the wall and pulled himself upwards.