■ Author's Notes:

Happy New Year, everyone! Let 2019 be kind to us all!

I've wanted to do a Self-Insert type of story for a while now. Thought about making an OC, but then realized I could have some more fun taking over a canon character. The style is probably a bit different then the typical story, but I wanted to experiment with something I thought could be kind of fun. So here goes nothing!

WARNING: Rated T for crude humor, mention of drug/alcohol use, moderate language, and violence. Rating is subject to change later on.

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1
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EYES WIDE OPEN
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People around me are screaming.

My heart is pounding.

The earth feels like it's spinning beneath me.

And god does my head hurt!

Wait, am I lying on the ground?

Okay, note-to-self: no more drinking. If this is supposed to be my sign from above to finally stop, then I got it. Loud and clear.

Binging on alcohol is not the way to solve life's problems. Find a new coping mechanism. Consider it added to the to-do list.

Wow, do I feel like crap. Like, really, really bad. I mean, there is absolutely nothing pleasant about this experience right now. It's as if all my organs have liquefied and are now trying to seep out through my pores. I wonder if that's a real thing, like some kind of degenerative disease? I should check Google, but knowing WebMD, it'll probably just tell me I have some heinous form of cancer with only hours left to live – which in all honesty, it kind of feels that way right now.

Welp. This is going to be one hell of a hangover to get through, that's for sure. Ugh, can someone get me a V8 or a Gatorade? The blue kind, specifically. Please and thanks.

My tongue presses flat up against the roof of my mouth and I groan. It's like a wad of cotton balls have been shoved down my throat. The more I think about it, the quicker I realize that I can't swallow and suddenly start to gag.

All right, no need to panic, Me. It's all okay. Just calm down. Do some of those breathing techniques. How did that yoga teacher explain it? Oh, right! Breathe in deep through the nose. Hold for a few seconds… Aaaaannnd out through the mouth with a sigh.

Repeat. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.

Okay, that wasn't too bad. I'm already feeling a little better and I think my heart rate is going down. Good job, Me. Maybe those yogis are actually onto something with all this deep-breathing-relaxation-mantra-third-eye stuff that they can't stop talking about. Should I try taking another yoga class? Eh, that's a question for another time.

Now it's time to get that drink, 'cause I am parched.

Let's just sit up and —OW! Ow, ow, ow!

NOPE! Definitely not doing that right now! Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? Just the smallest movement, the tiniest contraction of muscles, and it feels like my atoms are being ripped apart. Did I fall off a table? Or maybe a cliff? Ugh, well whatever the case, moving is a no-go right now.

Oh, man. All the good that did was make me feel even more nauseous. I think I'm going to puke.

Uhh…

Ughh…

Hic!

Nope, false alarm, everyone! Phew. That would have totally sucked.

But, damn, I must've drunk a whole bar dry. Like seriously, I've never felt like this before. I'll just take a few more deep breaths and calm the stomach a little bit.

I wonder if there's any bread I can eat.

Aw. Bread. Now I'm hungry.

I'm also realizing that it's completely dark out not because it's nighttime or that the lights are out, but because my eyes are still shut. I don't remember falling asleep, though?

Crap. That means I really must've blacked out and am probably passed out on some random bench somewhere. Why do I always have to do things like this? Damn these self-destructive tendencies of mine!

I take another deep breath and can feel that my senses are becoming clearer and more defined with each passing moment. I can tell that my arms are stretched out beside my body and that my legs are sprawled about in an uncomfortable – and what I can only assume to be a rather unflattering – position. I flex my hands and my fingers brush over what feels like a dirt floor. Odd. I certainly don't remember going outside.

Well, no need to worry just yet. All I need to do is think back and figure out where I am. I'm sure that my brain is just a bit fogged over, that's all. Totally in the ordinary.

Let's see, the last thing I remember is...

Is...

Um…

Oh, no.

Why can't I remember anything?

All right, Me. Just stop, clear your head, and think. Slow down your thoughts and string this out piece by piece. No biggie.

The last thing I did was…

...I went...

...I was at...

...With a person...

...Doing that thing...

Shit.

This isn't good.

Okay, maybe I should start to worry.

No! Wait. Follow the advice of the wise Douglas Adams and don't panic. There's probably some logical, reasonable, totally fine reason why this is.

Like, maybe I have a concussion? Well, no, that's actually something I'd want to be concerned about, so… Maybe I had the wind knocked out of me, and am just a little bit out of it. Yeah, that's probably it. I just need to take things easy for a few more minutes. Everything will come back to me in no time, I'm sure.

Maybe things would go a bit better if I actually could see where I was. So I'll start with conquering that task.

Slowly, my eyelids peel open and I find myself staring up at the ceiling. It's tall and round, painted in thick red and white stripes. Real ugly looking if you ask me. I blink a few times to allow my vision to focus. It's not too brightly lit in here, which is good. Bright lights never mix well with a hangover.

My vision comes into focus and —Hold up.

Am I in a tent? That's not a ceiling, it's a big canopy. And there's a slight breeze, just cool enough to prickle my skin. And I'm pretty sure there are several pebbles digging into my kidneys right now.

Okay, so I'm definitely not inside a real building. Is this like an outdoor wedding or something?

Gosh, this is so strange.

And my god, why are there still people shouting like it's the end of the world? That's definitely not helping with the migraine!

Okay, time to sit up and finally get an idea what's going on.

Take it slow, Me. Don't need to feel like my body's being torn apart molecule by molecule again. Once was enough for me, thank you very much.

I hesitantly bring my arms in close and then use my elbows to steadily push off the floor until my upper-half is vertical. My vision goes in-and-out of focus for a few seconds and it feels as if a gallon of ooze is draining out of my head, just like after having a bad head cold. Also, everything stings, and I think my stomach has turned inside out, but at least I'm sitting up now.

It's all about taking baby steps.

God, I really need an aspirin right now. Or better yet, just hook me up to a morphine drip. That'd be nice.

As my eyes adjust, around me I see dozens of people scrambling about in total panic. There are people of all ages, and because there are quite a fair number of children, I'm going to say that I'm not in a bar anymore. I see one man grab the hand of his wife as he clutches onto the body of his young daughter and runs to the side of the tent, trying his best to get out. He doesn't care that he pushes another lady onto the floor in his haste – he's too determined to leave this very instant.

His eyes are full of fear.

In fact, now that I notice, I see that everyone around me looks absolutely terrified. Some are even crying, others cursing. All are running.

Well, that's not good. Probably means I should get moving, too. I think I hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

I sigh. What unfathomable disaster have I gotten myself into this time?

Painstakingly, I bring myself to stand. It takes me a moment to gain my balance so I use a large wooden crate near me as a crutch. The world shakes and spins for a moment, and my arms and legs are engrossed by the sensation of pins and needles. That's always unpleasant. But as I take a few more deep breaths, things settle down. The numbness fades from my limbs and I wiggle my fingers and toes for good measure.

Then I notice that there's a hot, throbbing sensation coming from the back of my head. I tenderly reach back to feel the area with my fingers. I wince sharply when I touch something wet and sticky.

Random thought, but I don't remember my hair being this short?

I bring my hand back and see red color my fingers. Dark and viscous.

Yep, that's blood all right.

Great. I probably do have a concussion.

I glance down at where I had just been lying and see a jagged looking stone on the ground. There's a dark red stain on its surface. I swallow thickly.

Had I hit my head on that? Shit, that's not good. I should probably get someone to check this out if that's the case.

Now, how do I get out of here?

The one obvious doorway I can see is jammed-packed with frenzied bodies. And seeing how I'd rather not get trampled on today, I think I'll find another way. There has to be more than one exit – fire hazards and all. I begin to blunder forward.

Call me stupid, but instead of following everyone else who is trying to make a break for it out of the tent, I stumble toward the center of the mayhem. I realize this is probably the wrong thing to do - people running and screaming, sirens in the distance. Hell, for all I know, this could be ground zero for the zombie apocalypse!

But the more I move, the more there's something in my gut telling me to go this way. That I need to see what's happened myself. It's important for me to do so.

Vital, in fact.

Maybe I'll remember what the hell is going on if I do.

"Don't go over there, kid!" I hear someone shout over the chaos. I look over my shoulders to try and identify who they're talking too. It's still too crowded and people are running about. Probably some parent separated from their kid.

I continue to push my way through the throng of people to see what the commotion is. It's safe to say that I'm going against all common sense right now, walking in the opposite direction of a running crowd, but I want to know what the hubbub is about.

It's an eerie situation, sue me for being curious.

I hear what I think is the same voice from before, rise above the turmoil. He sounds very distraught. "Dick! Stay back! Don't look!"

I can't help but shake my head a little. Who still has a name like Dick, nowadays? Like, do yourself a favor and change it to something else, buddy. Save yourself the embarrassment.

I see a clearing in the room and I squeeze myself through the final layer of the frenzied crowd with relative ease. I step into the open and find myself standing in the center of the tent. I'm on a makeshift stage that has an odd-looking, artsy centerpiece.

My eyes scan around the area. There's seating all around, and I feel like I'm in a small arena.

All right, what's the big deal is? Where's the fire? I'm not seeing anything—

Oh.

Oh, dear god!

Jesus fuck!

Okay. I get why everyone is running and screaming.

It's right there in front of me, just a few feet away on the stage. My inattentive mind hadn't registered what it is properly. It probably didn't want to.

Because that's no art piece...

Yeah, I think I might actually puke now.

I count five bodies in total; all unmoving and all most certainly dead. They've somehow piled on top of one another in an extremely clumsy formation — a grotesque human knot sculpture. If I'm right, there are three males and two females. I can see that they are all wearing matching uniforms: black bottoms with red tunics embroidered with large golden wings.

Their limbs are mangled and bent in ways that make my spine shiver and throat clench up. One of them is petrified with an expression of pure terror and pain.

For such a gruesome sight, there's very little blood to be seen.

Before I can think anything else, my body reacts on its own, bends over, and retches.

I cough up several times, and when I think there's nothing left in my stomach, I use the back of my arm to wipe my mouth. My tongue tastes sour and acidic. My stomach burns.

I take several deep breaths to help calm down and promptly step back to distance myself from... from that.

My head tilts up as I try to turn my line of vision elsewhere. I think I see something and my eyes squint slightly. It looks like there are two ropes dangling loosely from the ceiling, with a wooden bar attached to both ends. I then take notice of the two tall wooden poles on both sides of the stage. There are platforms large enough to stand on at the top of both.

Wait. Big, round, striped tent; people in colorful uniforms; a stage surrounded by bleacher seating…

I'm at the circus!

My eyebrows scrunch together in thought. Now, why would I be at the circus? Hell, I didn't even think they existed anymore — especially with all the recent crackdowns on animal abuse and human rights not being met. Didn't Ringling just get shut down a few months ago? Maybe this is like Cirque du Soleil and they have a vintage theme for the show.

Gosh, I would really like to think that I'd remember going to the damn circus of all places.

My eyes can't help but drift back down to the corpses on the floor. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't help myself. I'm going to safely guess that they are (were?) performers. Acrobats, most likely. And if that broken rope dangling above is any indication of what happened...

Well, it's not hard to guess what had transpired here tonight.

I frown. Aren't aerialists supposed to use safety nets just for this kind of reason? That should be a basic circus law! That is, if circuses even have laws to abide by... A circus union, perhaps?

Oh, man. Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man! This is just, well, I don't even have the words to describe what this is. A tragedy? Devastation? Utter horror show?

I'm a bit relieved that I actually don't know what's really going on. Or where I am. If I did, I don't think I'd be taking any of this as well as I am now.

Crime shows and action movies can try all they want to desensitize the world to violence and death, but seeing it in real life, up close... My stomach is churning at the display. But not in a way where I think I'm going to vomit again; more like in a way that makes me feel empty on the inside. Hollow.

My chest is tightening up, too. And there are hot tears streaking my cheeks.

I think what I'm feeling is sadness. Sorrow, even.

Loss.

Too many lives have been squandered here tonight.

Jesus, why can't I look away? This should be freaking me the hell out, shouldn't it? Seeing five dead people — who've just died in a gruesome fashion— is not the norm. I'm a bit scared, actually. I should be just like all the other people around here and trying my absolute hardest to get out of here.

Maybe I really do have a brain injury.

Oh, god, please don't let me become a psychopath.

"There you are!"

A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump under its weight. My head swivels around and I come face-to-face with a rather portly looking man, in a red coat and top hat. He looks down at me with such intensity; I'm not sure if I should be scared or not.

"You shouldn't be here!" he says to me. His voice is surprisingly soft, all though he's worried about me. Just me.

Well, yeah, no duh! I shouldn't, and neither should he! There are dead bodies just lying about and that's not exactly a good sign to see anywhere in the world. Then again, I don't even know where "here" is.

His hand stiffens on my shoulder. "Let's go. There are some people who are going to stay with you in the back by the trailers." He tries to usher me away from the gruesome display – which I understand, no one should have to see this – but I pull back. I don't know who this guy is and why he thinks he can just yank me around like that. And I sure as hell am not going go into some back trailer area with a stranger!

I'd like to think that I'm not a total idiot.

"Don't touch me!" I hiss and duck out of his grasp. I take a step back but seeing as I still feel like a walking zombie with not too much control over my body, I trip and fall on my ass.

Ow. As if I needed a bruised tailbone along with all this other stuff that's happening.

The man's eyes go wide and he rushes up to me. "Richard, are you okay?"

I squint my eyes and am about to tell him that's not my name when I hear a noise come from behind me. From the pile of bodies.

"Uuhhuhg…" It's a low, barely audible wail, hardly loud enough to hear over all of the commotion still going on around. I freeze for a moment and think it must have been something else, or just my imagination. There's a lot of weird things going on right now.

But then I hear it again.

"Huhggguh…Hhhheeehhhpp…Mmmheeeeehhh"

Oh, fuck! I think one of them is still alive!

Or I was right about this being the start of the zombie apocalypse.

I whip my head around to the man in the red coat — whom I can only presume is the Ringmaster given his ridiculous get-up — and scream, "One of them is still alive! Help them! Someone do something!"

Now that I think about it, where the hell are the ambulances? The police? Several people are dead and no one seems to care about that except me! Don't tell me we're in the middle of the boonies or some bullshit excuse like that. This is ridiculous.

"Samson!" yells out the Ringmaster at the top of his lungs. "Samson, get over here! Now!"

Before I can even blink, a man who looks to be the size of a rhino comes barreling through the chaos. He's wearing a striped leotard that conceals very little of his body from view. The strongman's arms are bulging with muscle, and if this introduction were under any other kind of circumstances, I would have taken a full few minutes to be thoroughly impressed with his physique.

"Get him out of here, Samson!" shouts the Ringmaster. "Throw him over your shoulder if you must!"

The moment I realize they're talking about me, it's too late.

"Sorry, Dickie," he says in a near whisper. Then, Samson, the behemoth of a man, shows no trouble of scooping me up and carrying me beneath an arm. The sad thing is, I don't think this even counts as the most degrading thing that's happened in my life.

Samson takes off running and I try to squirm my way free, but stand no chance. I can only watch helplessly as the fallen acrobats grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Then, I see that the paramedics have arrived and are running up to the scene.

Took them damn long enough.

Right before we leave, I make eye contact with a tall, dark-haired man standing across the room. He's wearing an expensive looking suit and appears remarkably well-groomed in comparison to everyone else here tonight. What kind of pretentious A-hole wears a suit to the circus?

Yet, there's something about him that makes it so that I can't take my eyes off him. His posture is rigid, and his expression is just so... dark. He doesn't blink, either.

And he's still watching me. Just me. Like nothing else that's happening around him matters right now.

Creep.

Samson runs through a flap in the tent and suddenly we're fully outdoors. I look up and see the night sky. It's clouded and grey. It looks like it could rain at any moment.

I take a deep breath and the cool air is very refreshing. I feel awake. Alive.

"You can put me down!" I call out.

Now that I'm out of the chaos, I realize that the sound of my voice is nearly unrecognizable. I don't remember it being so scratchy. Maybe it's the flu.

Samson carefully lowers me until I'm standing on my own feet again. I readjust my pants (which are far too tight) and grimace. Worst. Wedgie. Ever.

"Uh, thanks?" I tell the strange man.

Talk about awkward situations.

I look up at Samson, and for a moment, think that maybe I should say something else to him. But then I figure that it's better to just leave things how they are. He doesn't know me and I don't know him. I'm perfectly okay with parting as strangers - even if he did just man-handle me a second ago.

Time to go!

I give a small nod and start to walk away. All I know is that this place is crazy and I don't want to be here. There are dead bodies and creepy strangers staring at me, and I'm sure there are clowns lurking about, too. Uh! I do not like clowns! I mean, who does? So overall, there are just a bunch of things going on here that I am really not in the mood to deal with.

Man, later on, I'm really going to need to do some self-introspection and ask why drunk me thought it would be a good idea to go to the circus. I hate the circus.

A man rushes by me and is clearly having a meltdown. I step to the side to make room because it doesn't seem like he's paying too much attention to his surroundings right now. "Of course. Only in Gotham... Damn city..." he mutters under his breath. I watch as he finds his car in the gravel lot and quickly drives off.

Gotham? Like New York City? I've never been to New York… At least I don't think I have. Hmm. I would think I would remember something like that.

A series of police cars are now swarming in the parking lot. Frenzied civilians are still panicked, fighting to get out, wanting nothing more than to get home and forget this whole ordeal.

I guess it's a good thing that I blacked out and didn't see the accident. I'm screwed up enough as it is.

I touch the back of my head once more and bite down on my lip when even the slightest touch makes it feel like a thousand nerve endings are on fire. I probably should still get this checked out, but not here, I don't think. The fact that I'm up and walking is a good sign. I should just go home and take it easy. Finally get that aspirin I'm dying for. The emergency room can wait.

Crud.

Where is home?

My breathing suddenly picks up and I think I'm starting to hyperventilate.

Okay, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. It's all going to be okay... Just keep breathing. In and out, in and out.

Are you there God? It's me. I promise not to drink anymore after this, okay? Now can you help me get home?

Hello?

No, you're not going to say anything?

Of course. Why am I not surprised?

That's fine. I can handle myself just fine. All I have to do is walk off whatever this weird drunken nightmare is.

Hell, maybe I'm high. But this is some intense trip, then, and I don't even do stuff like that. Shit, did someone spike my drink? That ain't cool!

Ugh, whatever the case, I gotta distance myself right now from this place. This is just too much for me to handle.

I begin to leave.

"Robin, wait!" Samson calls out suddenly, sounding upset. "Where are you going? You have to stay here!"

Is he still talking to me? C'mon, dude! I'm not bothering anyone!

"Come back here!"

I stop, sigh, and turn around. "What?" I snap rather aggressively.

The man suddenly goes stiff and looks like he's about to break down into a million little pieces. His lips quiver.

Oh, god. I made a 300-pound muscle man cry. This is a new low, even for me.

"I'm…I'm just s-so sorry!" Samson begins to sob aloud. "Oh, god… I'm so sorry, Robin! Here I am crying while you... you.." He bursts into more tears.

Oh, damn it. Why do I have to be all sympathetic right now?

I jog back to Samson and chew on the inside of my cheek in thought. This is not an ideal situation for me. I step up onto a wooden picnic bench Samson is next to so that I can reach and give his back a comforting pat.

Okay, either this guy really is part giant or I've somehow shrunk like crazy. I wouldn't say I was ever big but I sure as hell wasn't a scrawny pipsqueak, either! My hand looks so darn small in comparison to Samson, it's kind of freaky.

I feel his body quiver under my touch.

Come on, Me, think. Say something supportive. People died tonight and this guy probably worked with them. They were probably his friends.

"It's terrible what happened. Truly awful. But an accident's an accident, y'know? Sometimes things like this just happen."

Of course, if those idiots had just used a safety net...

Aw. That was mean of me. I really need to be less mean.

Through his sobbing, Samson looks up at me and his eyes are filled with a shade of disbelief, as if I had just said something impious. Okay, I get it. I'm not the best at comforting people.

Before I can try to ease the crying giant any more, I spot another man walking up to us through the corner of my eye. He appears to be in his early fifties, with thick glasses and a ridiculous orange mustache.

"Hello, my name is Jim Gordon." He kneels in front of the bench I'm standing on, either to make me feel bigger or because he wants me to sit. He pulls out a shining gold badge from the inside of his coat. "I'm a detective with the GCPD. Is it all right for me to talk to you?"

Samson collects himself a bit and gives me a small nod of approval. "It's okay, Dickie" he says and stands, towering over the Detective and me. "I'll give you some space to talk. But if you need me, I'll be right over there, okay?"

Um, okay?

I watch quietly as Samson make his way over to where a group of funnily dressed circus performers are huddled together near a smaller sized tent. They're whispering and crying to one another, and every so often, one of them looks in my direction and then bursts into more tears.

What the hell is going on? Who are these people?

I then turn my attention back to the detective and clear my throat. "Uh, yeah. Sure," I tell him and take a seat on the bench table. I rub my arms and suddenly wish that I was wearing a jacket because damn is it cold out!

"Why talk to me? I'm sure there are more important people you could talk to. I didn't even see when they fell."

"Oh, thank god! That's such a relief to hear," says Detective Gordon with a deep sigh. He straightens up a bit and tries to give a comforting smile. "I'm here to ask you a few questions about who may have done it. This might be tough for you, but that's okay. Just take your time."

Done 'it'? What is he talking about? They fell. There was no net. You don't have to be a detective or understand how physics works to know that.

"Did your family have enemies?" he asks, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "Did you ever hear anyone get mad at your parents? Say they want to hurt them? Or ask for money?"

Whoa. What is this guy babbling about?

Those people in there, they were not my family. I think I would have recognized them if they were. He must have me confused for someone else. Because I don't know anything about this messed up circus.

"My family? I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about, Detective. I'm not even sure how I got here."

Detective Gordon frowns, then raises an eyebrow. "You're Richard Grayson, aren't you?"

And yet again someone calls me by that name. I mean, the name does sound familiar to me. Really familiar, in fact, like I should know it. But that isn't my name. My name is…

My name is...

Oh, fuck.

I don't even know my own name! Why don't I know what my name is?

"Uhh," I mumble out in sudden panic. I watch as the detective closes his eyes, lets out a small sigh, and shakes his head slowly.

"Detective!" comes a hoarse voice from nearby. I see the man in the top hat — the Ringmaster — come charging out of the main tent. He looks sweaty and worn out. Completely exhausted. Someone should get him a drink.

He hurries up to the two of us. "I don't think now is the best time to be questioning the boy, do you? This can surely wait!"

Detective Gordon stands to face the Ringmaster. "My apologies, Mr. Haly. It seems like I have the wrong person, anyway."

The Ringmaster, whose name I guess is Haly, furrows his brow and tilts his head. "Well, who are you looking for?"

Gordon pulls out a small notebook and flips through a page or two. He nods slightly and says, "I was told the Grayson's had a kid. He wasn't in the act tonight, but is supposed to be here."

Haly then looks even more confused. His glassy eyes land on me and he points to my chest. "This is him," Haly tells Gordon. "This is Richard Grayson."

Wait.

I think I'm remembering.

Richard Grayson.

Richard.

Grayson.

Gotham...

Circus...

Robin...

Oh, shit!

How the hell did it take me this long to realize what's going on?

Yes, now everything makes sense! Of course! This is all just some uncanny dream I'm having. A really, really, vivid dream. I must have passed out watching cartoons last night, which then prompted me to imagine all of this.

Wow, am I stupid. Well, more likely just very drunk.

Wait, can you be drunk in a dream? Eh, that doesn't matter now, because none of this is real, so who cares!

I let out a deep sigh and feel a wave of comfort wash over me.

What a relief this is!

No one's actually dead. Thank god.

All this being a dream explains so much, like why everything is so crazy and why I couldn't remember anything! And especially why I would be at the circus of all places.

And because this is a dream, that's why I'm not reacting to all these things as a normal person should. No one acts as they should in a dream. Yay for not being a psychopath!

But why would I have a dream about the night Dick Grayson's family dies? It's an oddly specific event, and everything I'm seeing is pretty detailed. I didn't even realize I knew this much about his backstory, other than that he was an orphan from a traveling circus. I guess I must have picked up more information than I realized when watching the shows.

I guess now that I'm realizing all this, I'm a bit bummed that this is my superhero dream. I mean, if I'm going to have a cool, lucid dream where I get to be a comic book hero, then at least let me have one where I get to fly around and stop super villains! Living through a tragic origin story is boring and cliché. I want to do something interesting! Put me where the action is!

Oh, well. Maybe in my next dream, I can be Superman.

"Dick Grayson, huh?" I mumble softly, lost in my thoughts. I pay no attention to Gordon or Haly.

Robin. The first ever comic book sidekick.

Protégé and trusted partner to Batman, and together they're the dynamic duo!

He's a founder of the Teen Titans.

And later on, he becomes Nightwing (who is arguably one of the best heroes ever created.)

And I get to be him!

Well, it's only a dream. But still, that's cool!

I shake my head and begin to laugh.

Loudly.

And I can't stop. I think I even feel a cramp form in my gut.

Detective Gordon and Mr. Haly stare at me with concern. It's probably deeply troubling for them to see the young boy who just witnessed his family fall to their deaths become hysterical. Mr. Haly whispers something under his breath and then rushes off. I wipe a stray tear away from my eye and try to settle down. Gordon takes a deep breath, and his tired expression tells me that he's desperately craving a cigarette.

It's not my fault they're unaware that they're only figments of my imagination. They can think whatever they want of me, because they're not real! In fact, they'll be gone from existence in a minute once I wake up.

"Richard," Gordon says slowly and I do my best to calm myself down. His voice is breathy and I think he's trying to find the right words. "What happened tonight, it's… Tragic, to say the least. And I am so very sorry that you had to witness what happened."

And it's as he says this that I decide I might as well play along. I mean, why not? Dreams are the only part of life where people are allowed to have fun. Live out wild and impossible fantasies, hindered only by the imagination. So screw it.

For now, I'll be Richard Grayson. And as of right now, Richard Grayson has just become an orphan.

Time to play the part.

Thunder dramatically rips through the sky, and all at once, the sky opens up and lets down a heavy rainfall. I'm completely soaked in a matter of seconds. But you know what? I'm not even mad about it. If anything, I'm really impressed with how real this all feels right now. Usually, in my dreams, there's some resemblance to the feeling or sensation that I experience, but I still know that it's not real.

This rain, though? This is legit. Has me thinking that when I wake up I'll be sopping wet, too, it's so believable.

In fact, my body shivers. An honest to god, bone-chilling shake. I look down at myself and see that I'm wearing a Flying Grayson uniform; it matches the ones worn by the dead bodies inside perfectly. I guess jackets didn't vibe well with their style.

Something is shoved in front of my face and I look up to see Detective Gordon holding out his heavy, brown leather coat. His orange mustache droops under the weight of the rain. "Here," he says gruffly. "We should get out of this weather. Don't need you getting sick."

How thoughtful.

I grab the large coat and nod my head in thanks, then pull it on over my body. It's probably five times too big for me, but I immediately feel warm with it on. I even smile in appreciation.

A paramedic approaches from the parking lot, trying her best to shield her face from the rain. Detective Gordon steps to the side, allowing her access to me. She says nothing to me as she pulls out a thin cylinder from her pocket and then uses it to shine a bright light into my eyes. I instinctively swat at her arm. Dream or not, that's annoying as hell.

"I think we need to have you checked out by a doctor. It looks like you hit your head pretty badly," she says, taking notice of the gash on my head. "Could be a pretty severe concussion."

Another EMT appears seemingly out of nowhere with a stretcher. He grabs onto my wrist and attempts to pull me on it.

"Wait, no, stop!" I scream out and recoil. "Don't!"

Was I overreacting? Maybe a little. But I'm processing a lot of stuff right now. And I don't like strangers touching me, real or not.

Besides, it's my dream. Shouldn't I get to control what happens next?

"It's going to be all right, kid," the first paramedic says to me. Even over the loudness of the rain, I can hear a genuine sympathy in her tone.

Of course, I want to tell her that everything's fine and I'm not really a kid. That there's no need to patronize me. But I can only imagine how soul-shattering it would be to be told that your entire existence isn't real. That you're just a made up character in someone's mind. How would someone cope with that?

Yeah, I'm not going to do that to them. Their time's already limited as it is.

But the next thing I know, I'm being strapped to the stretcher by her partner and pushed into an ambulance. Damn. Guess I'm not all that great at lucid dreaming, after all.

"Don't worry, Dick!" I hear Haly yell to me from afar. "I'll be there as soon as I can!"

I'm feeling too overwhelmed to try and struggle against the restraints. The EMT places an oxygen mask over my face. "Where are you taking me?" I manage to bark out.

"Gotham General. Just try and relax, we'll take good care of you."

With that, I suddenly feel extremely tired, like a wave has just washed over me. The fresh oxygen tickles my brain and the heavy blankets are somewhat comforting. And it's nice to be out of the rain. It's warm. Cozy, even.

You know what? Fuck it. Why fight this? It's just a dream, right? Might as well go with it. Now that I know none of this is real, I'll probably be waking up soon, anyway. Coming to self-realization usually indicates that the brain is starting to come out of the REM cycle. Any second now, and all this will come to an end. Then, I'll find myself waking up in my bed (I hope) and most likely late for whatever it is I need to be doing in real life.

I sigh.

Man.

Dick Grayson.

I stifle back a laugh, which garners little attention from the EMT.

I suppose there were worse characters to be.

Too bad I won't have the chance to try my hand at being Robin. I think I could've had some actual fun with that. Swinging off the side of a building, or throwing a bat-a-rang! Oh, oh, better yet, I want to drive the Bat-mobile!

Or at least tell Batman that he should try therapy.

I'm sure that would have gone well.

Heh.

I can't believe I'm Robin right now. The Boy freakin' Wonder. Maybe after this, I'll get back into reading comics. Don't really know why I stopped in the first place, anyway.

I feel my eyes grow tired and they begin to close. The truck's engine starts and we drive away; I find the soft rattling motion to be soothing and rhythmic. No harm in drifting off, I guess.

Good thing this is just a dream, because if this were real, falling asleep would be the last thing I'd want to do right now with my concussion.

Hmm.

What a strange dream indeed.

I don't think I've ever had one this clear.

The way everything feels so real. Like I'm actually here. I hope I can have dreams like this again.

But, as interesting as this has been, I think I'm ready for it to be over.

It's time to wake up now.

✖.✖.✖

■ A/N: The writing is supposed to seem kind of choppy here. I want to exude the feeling of being inside someone's head. This about experiencing a new life in real-time, so it's very thought focused. Maybe a bit raw, even. So don't go looking for eloquent prose and frilly descriptions here. Also, it's my first time writing in the first person, and I'm not accustomed to writing in the present tense, so forgive me for any grammatical errors. I'll try and get better.

I'd be interested to hear your thoughts if you had any while reading this. Thanks!