Teen Titans one shots

Remember

What is memory, really?

Memory as we know it is a collection. Snapshots of moments that help and hurt and control our lives. Instinctive patterns are born from it, so that we may walk down the path etched by our past. Relationships are born from it, telling you who you hold and who you love. Personality is also memory's child, shaped by your situation or trauma or events that define you. 

Memory is who we are. 

Jars a thousandfold of everything, all pleading no, no, no.

One-shot and they are shattered. 

Their voices are a chorus of shards. They're singing to him.

"Dick."

"Wake up."

"Grayson, I'll kill you if-"

The glass is scattered. Mixed and twisted and broken. But pieces are still there. Smells and sounds and colors, a rainbow nostalgia of something he never knew. 

And during his stay in the hospital, their low rumbles and high vibratos are his lullabies. 

Once he comes to, he is reborn. And it's all so confusing.

There are costumed actors in skintight kevlar, talking a million miles at once. Once a soothing harmony to him, their concert of screeches are nails on a chalkboard. 

"We're so glad you're ok."

"Of course you'd go down making a joke." 

"I'm gonna call blank, blank, and blank. Even blank's relieved you're fine, how about that?" 

He stops. Eyes darting around the sea of empty faces in pure terror.

"Who...who are you?"

They laugh at him. Laugh at him and slap him on the back. Strangers mocking, damning him for not knowing. 

A guy holstering two guns and one red helmet is the first to speak up. 

"Don't scare me like that, chuckles. I get you wanna make light of your recovery, but making an amnesia joke right after you got shot? " Blank's giggle is husky, and he ruffles his hair. 

No. This is all wrong. 

"Don't touch me." He recoils like a wounded animal, grabbing at invisible enemies. He shouldn't be here. He should be practicing on the trapeze. He's only eight, after all. His parents wouldn't want him talking to people they didn't know.

Their features go fuzzy, and it is black. 

He awakens and is reborn again. This time, the unknown is clad in white lab coats. 

The head physician kneels to his eye level from his bind to the bed. Oval glasses hung off her nose, and she sported a puffy afro slicked back into a ponytail.

"My name is Isabella, honey."  She sounds out each syllable slowly and carefully. It gives him more time for his throbbing skull to comprehend. "I'm here to help." 

Names. He could do names. His parents must be taking him to a new family doctor. 

"What's your name?" 

"Richard Grayson." 

An old man is scowling in the corner. Mad at the world. He whispers something to Isabella.

"And what's your nickname, hon? Whaddya want me to call you?" 

"Richard is fine. Or Ric." 

Whatever answer he gave, the way the man shook his head made him feel like it was wrong.