I've been inactive whoops!

Anyways, I have a nice healthy dose of angst for y'all to enjoy, if you like that kind of stuff.

So Yeah. R&R? :3

*DISCLAIMER*

i dont own DC or the BatFam blah blah. You know the drill.

"Dick. Dick Grayson."

Those words stuck with Barbara ever since the first time they exited his mouth. She'd always remember the first time she looked into his blue eyes, the perfect smile on his face, even at a young age already present. The moment she found that her crush was Robin (now Nightwing), and that they'd be working together. It was like a dream come true. Correction; it was a dream come true.

Yet dreams do end.

Richard Grayson lay tied up, on a cold, gritty floor, enveloped in darkness, the tiny chinks of light bathing his features in an eerie glow. In the dim lighting, long cuts were visible on his toned, muscled arms, bruises decorating his chiseled features, his eyes bloodshot, dark circles ringing them, making his gaunt features look even more ghostly where they weren't covered by the domino mask.

Blood dripped from his lips, staining his skin a deep scarlet where it travelled, an intricate river of red falling. His ebony hair was matted and dirty, liberal amounts of blood clumped in it, as well as dirt and grit from the less than humane living conditions he was currently being kept in. Even in his semi-conscious state, he could feel the angry sting of the deep cuts on his arm, every beat of his heart making the wounds throb as more of his precious blood spilled out.

He only hoped that none of the superficial wounds would have hit an artery, but he wasn't sure. His torso was excruciating every time he took a shaky breath; at least one of his ribs were cracked, if not broken. And now there was the large bruise on his temple, growing more and more agonizing every second his eyes remained open. His vision kept coming in and out of focus, the room (if you could call it that) spinning and cartwheeling periodically as it danced to and fro in his shaky vision, making him even more dizzy.

Slade Wilson sneered at the broken boy lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, barely moving as each breath shuddered in his ribcage.. He felt a sadistic pleasure coming from every time the boy gasped in pain, or every time he saw his body stiffen from the exertion as he tried not to cry out, every drop of blood bringing a horrible sense of triumphance as more scarlet drops stained the dark floor.

He loved the fact that his jaw was clenched, features tense with pain as his teeth gritted. But only if he could see the famous blue eyes, that supposedly nobody had seen before. Slade's wrinkled face lit up with glee, relishing the thought of seeing the eyes of Nightwing. He could confirm the rumors, if his eyes were actually blue, or if it was brown, black or grey or any other color in the spectrum.

Slade crept up to Dick, noticing how his body tensed at the presence of the villain, and liking it, a sick sense of pleasure at the boy's pain. It made him feel special somehow, like a coveted item that was finally his after a long time of hunting. Lifting up the domino mask, Slade was disappointed to see the eyes were closed, eyelids tense as the veins popped out on his temples, determined not to open them.

"Open your eyes, little bird." He sneered, showing off his vile teeth and rank breath. Cheap whiskey and tobacco; exactly to be expected. But Dick didn't, just lay there, tense. Slade tutted disapprovingly, reaching into his pocket for a syringe. It was loaded with a green liquid, glowing menacingly in the dark, eerie, kind of like Venom. He pressed the syringe to the hero's wrist, loving how he stiffened as the silver point of the needle tore through muscle.

Slade grinned as the boy stiffened even more, a slight hint of a cry of pain escaping his lips. Slowly, the drug began to take effect, and Nightwing could take it no more as pain blossomed from the injection sight, making him feel like he was being burned alive. Essentially, he kind of was, the blood turning a bright scarlet as the corrosive drug entered his bloodstream. A guttural snarl escaped his lips, before another cry and yet another as the drug burned through him, his back arching as another scream escaped.

The veins in his neck popped out as the screams of pain erupted out of his dry cracked lips, resonating in an echo in the hollow chamber. His eyes flew open, bloodshot, but still beautiful electric blue orbs, glassy with pain as madness descended and the agony grew worse. But it didn't cease, and he begged inwardly for the pain to stop, arms tearing at their restraint in an attempt to protect his broken body as his muscles spasmed and his head flopped to the side, unresponsive, the pain exploding in his limp body as the drug took over his sanity. Whimpers of pain escaped his lips, as well as a few drops of blood. Slade grinned.

"Now the world will see your eyes, little bird." He said softly, taking out a small camera and snapping pictures. With a final laugh, the villain exited, grinning as the poison took over the hero's mind, weaving into the emotional parts of the brain that Dick fought to keep concealed. Nightwing's agonized screaming could be heard, the pure terror and pain like nails on a chalkboard.

The last thing he remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was falling, falling far, the sight of a trapeze above him, the thin material of his shirt catching the wind as he fell, down into nothingness…

Don't do drugs.

xxxxx

Babs sat on her bed, her usually rosy face thin and gaunt. Dick had been missing for three days now, and the redhead was distraught with worry. The past three days, she had yet to eat or sleep, just sitting there on the edge of her bed in a silent vigil, hands clasped, palms cold and clammy, since she had gotten wind of his absence. An untouched bowl of pasta sat on the bedside table, her lunch presumably. A cold mug of tea and stale biscuit stood on her desk, along with a tall glass of water, all untouched. Completely unresponsive to external stimuli.

Dark circles ringed the redhead's eyes, her expression taut. Bruce and Alfred looked at the girl's frail body worriedly, willing her to get out of her rut and eat again. Every attempt to rouse the girl had failed, she just stared blankly into the distance silently. Bruce sighed, putting his head in his hands. If she didn't eat or sleep soon, she would have to be put on a drip or even hospitalized. It wouldn't do for his surrogate daughter to be hurting herself in this manner, but Alfred had insisted that she would be alright, that it was just a stage of grieving, and when it came to home matters, Alfred knew best.

With a small sigh, Bruce departed the room. He knew how she felt, he missed Dick too, and had been awake for days on end keeping an eye out for new leads on his location. His face was pale and drawn with worry, uncharacteristically showing his emotion. The door of the study was closed, so nobody was there. Bruce looked upon the mantelpiece, his blue eyes boring into the pictures of Dick. He picked it up, a look of nearly sadness crossing his normally stoic face. With a sigh, he put it back down again, slipping on his cowl. Patrol would go on.

Not technically. He was supposed to be patrolling with Dick tonight, as Tim was otherwise occupied, and Damian was kind of...dead. And Jason wasn't an option, seeing as the two weren't exactly on good terms, since Jason had punched Bruce. (Batman and Robin; Issue 4). Steph was busy with Tim, patrolling another part of Gotham, Arkham presumably, and Cassandra was off doing whatever Cassandra did. Her lack of speaking ability did make communication a little (a lot) difficult at times, and when she did talk she didn't speak much; a sever miscommunication if there ever was one.

Bruce let out a heavy sigh as he pulled his cowl on. Patrolling alone again tonight…