Just some F.Y.I. before proceeding:

- Renegade is the name Nightwing used while working undercover as a villain and teaching Deathstroke's daughter Rose. I'm just using it for personal convenience (and because I'm too lazy to come up with a non-cheesy name for him).

- This takes place supposedly before Grant Wilson had the enhancements done to him while he was contracted to assassinate the Titans.

- There are plenty of quotes I took out and adapted from a certain movie. If you can tell me which movie it is, I'd also like to hear any ideas you have for more alternate realities to write on.


Take 2: Perchance to Dream

The Ravager did not appear to like Gotham City. The Renegade, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.

The Renegade had been to Gotham once before, when he was a small child, and when his name had been Dick "Robin" Grayson, the Boy Wonder of Haley Brother's Circus.

Just a week ago had been the eighth anniversary since the tragedy that had ended the Flying Graysons, and consequently the circus.

Dick Grayson had been gone by then.

The Renegade could still remember what had happened that day: he had heard Mr. Haley being threatened with more "accidents", and when the police asked him questions, he told them everything. Tony Zucco had come after him, then, to silence him as well.

Neither of them had counted on someone from Zucco's shady past to contract an assassin. A real-deal, whatever-it-takes assassin.

That had been the first sight of Deathstroke the Terminator that young Dick Grayson would ever remember: the tall, foreboding mercenary with the bloody katana in one hand, Tony Zucco's body slumped over.

The Terminator had forcefully taken him in that night as his apprentice; apparently, his fame as a prodigy had even reached the mercenary's ears, and that was all he needed.
Deathstroke never ill-treated him, but he had not been kind; the apprentice grew up hardened and bitter, no longer Richard John Grayson.
His master had dubbed him the Renegade.

"Hey, you - what's the boss say?"

The Renegade turned to answer the Ravager's question, inwardly miffed at the sight of the slightly older boy digging through the rice wine stash of their latest hit place. Upon the discovery of Grant Wilson's recent initiation into this line of work, Deathstroke had sent his apprentice in as his "partner", more to keep tabs on the other than anything else.
A kind master, Deathstroke was not; a father who cared, he was.

The Renegade delivered their current orders of staking out to the other, then sank to a crouch as he took a breath. This mission had been a rough one; this branch of the Lucky Triad had given them a long run for their money this night.
The Ravager finally found what he was looking for, and crouched by the Renegade while taking a swig from the bottle.

"...y'know," he started, swishing the liquid around in the bottle. "I had this dream last night. I was sitting on a golden beach in a pair of these comfy designer trunks, and these girls came up to me, wearing nothing but short little grass skirts, and they were carrying this drink, in a coconut. As they served me the drink, they brushed their tits across my face..."

If the Ravager was expecting a reaction of any sort from the Renegade, he was not getting any. Undaunted, he continued.

"Yeah, well, that was the end of the best bits. After that, this giant tiki thing just showed up with a machine gun, and started blasting away. When it stopped, there was nothing left...nothing but blood and guts, and bits of body everywhere.
"What a damned nightmare."

At this point, the Ravager turned and eyed the Renegade. "...betcha a block o' rock like you never had a dream in your life, eh?"

For a moment, the Renegade wanted to tell him about his own nightmares, his own dreams.
Anything to see the Ravager's mouth drop.

He wanted to tell him about how he dreamt of his parents' plunge to their deaths, and of how he sometimes dreamt of himself falling with them.

He wanted to tell him about how he dreamt of a sky full of bats, and of a giant bat that, while somewhat chilling, gave him a sense of reassurance in the black depths of its wings.

He wanted to tell him about how he dreamt of the bat catching him before he fell, of helping him fly, even when his wings were clipped, of the bat's words in the midst of a foggy background of lights, sirens and canvas.

"It will get better, Richard. I promise."

But the Renegade was too tired for it; he did not have the mood or wish to tussle with a semi-drunk Ravager this night, not while he was still healing from the fight.
All he did was shrug.

The Ravager stared at him a moment longer, then turned to look out the window, at the shining circle of light with a bat in its center that hovered in the dark sky.

"...that must be nice...must be plenty peaceful. Here, have some of this."

The bottle was passed, and the Renegade tilted it to take a gulp at the rice spirits. Lowering it, he coughed, then returned it to the slightly amused Ravager.

The Ravager swigged from the bottle again, then set it down on the ground half-empty.

"...I hate dreams."