Gotham was quiet. No one was on the streets, and that was wrong. All of it felt wrong. He had a twisted sense in his gut that some horrible event was taking a deep breath in advance.
Just like he said... All gone...
And then there was that fear, creeping up into the pit of his stomach and crawling up into his head. It was ever present, always taunting him in the back of his mind, yet he somehow had built up a tolerance, learned to ignore it over the years. But the wall was gone, gone like everyone else in this godforsaken city he called home. Gone.
You'll always be alone.
It was like a voice, tiny and persistent, a living being, hiding in the back of his brain. He never wanted to be alone. Never. And it was his fault. He knew that because of the voice, the fear. He hated to admit it, but the voice spoke the terrible truth.
Dead. All of them are dead. You killed them. You…
His vision blurred and he blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. It was in that instant, that instant of total blindness that he lost himself. And in losing himself, he lost his freedom. Barely a second and his world was turned inside out.
"You know, your uncanny ability to realize you are not alone just might save your life one day."
He turned, flitting around in a single breath. One form in the darkness met his eyes.
"You are still here? How peculiar," said a shadow, the only moving, breathing thing in Gotham that night other than himself. Silver glinted in the low light. He shied away from a blade, the blade, his eyes darting behind him. A sheer drop waited.
It was either the blade or the fall. His tormented mind struggled as the shadow neared.
He jumped.
Cold, hard air. That was it. That was the only thing that existed after he turned. He was reminded of something, something that helped to put the ever-growing fear in his heart and mind. He was not the first to end this way. He waited for the hit, the broken pain and the struggled breath, and it came, but not in the way he had expected. Of course, no one could predict what dying was like and neither could he.
He screamed. He screamed as loud as he could, voice full of impotent fury, tears running unchecked down his face. Around him the world was silent.
"Master Richard?"
Richard Grayson, sometimes called Dick, and known on the streets as Robin, opened his eyes, gasping as sleep left him.
"Is there something wrong, Master Richard?" came a pensive voice from behind the closed door of his room.
"No, Alfred," said Robin, his voice breaking. "Nothing wrong."
The door opened slowly and the aging man peered around. "Another dream?" he asked softly. Robin answered with a nod. "Shall I get you anything? Do you want to talk?"
The dark haired boy shook his head. Alfred Pennyworth, the butler, a kind man nearing God only knows what age, sat down beside Bruce Wayne's young ward. "It was them again," said the older man. It was a statement, not a question. He knew what the dreams were about.
"Always the same," Robin said, staring down at his hands. "Ever since..." He stopped. He didn't want to continue. He was rubbing salt in old wounds, and he knew better than to go there.
"How about something warm to drink. I'm sure that will cheer you up, Master Richard."
The teen answered with a quiet, "Okay."
"They aren't real. Just dreams," said Alfred, concern upon his thin face.
"I know."
But in both of their hearts, they knew it was something more than a recurring dream. But what exactly?
He was just trying to make the boy feel better. To Alfred, it was his duty to keep Master Bruce's ward happy, and it was almost what could be named as instinct that brought him to that particular wing to check on the young teen.
Something was not at all right, but there was little to be done at that hour. Alfred considered, briefly, finding Bruce, but couldn't. It was up to Master Richard. Hopefully, he would make his decision wise.