-Shout out to @crun_chie for the request. I low-key went pretty hard on this part.-

Dick didn't want to finish his training. He didn't want to be what Deathstroke saw as 'ready', but... if getting out of training meant less hitting, he'd do anything.

The teen sat, kneeling on the grainy concrete floor, listening to his master's orders. He was going to Gotham, he wasn't registered in the zetatubes anymore. He'd have to drive. It was a long drive, and he could only move by night. His victim would be sent to him on location.

His victim. what does that mean? Was he stealing again? Torturing a confession out of someone?

Was he going to kill someone?"

He'd never killed, he felt flutters rise in his chest. He couldn't kill anyone. He thought he'd been keeping a straight face, but the sudden shock from his neck assured him he hadn't.

Kill, he might kill someone. He might take someone's life, just like how his parents lives were stolen. he'd be nothing better than violent, murdering scum.

Shock.

Slade knew he wasn't paying attention. How did he always know?

Shock.

Dick forced his brain to focus, but the words were impossible to grip, his brain hurt. all of him hurt.

Shock.

Focus. Work. Don't think.

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He was on location now, top a tall building. A tall, familiar building. He couldn't quite remember how he knew it, only that he did.

A lot of old memories had become faded in his mind, he remembered faces, but not which names they matched. A vague memory of a dark cave that smelt like stale coffee and robotics, a bed with a framed photo of... something next to it. the feeling of being a child in some large indoor space, with sawdust caked on the bottom of his feet. The thoughts were elusive, hidden, escaping his conscious. Like grabbing at smoke.

Shock.

His muscles contracted out of habit, as if he'd actually been shocked. But it was just a memory. They were the only real memories he had: Shock, Slap, Shock, Crack, Shock, Slit, Shock, Shock, Shock...

On his eyepiece, a face appeared, his target. The face was familiar, a face he couldn't quite place. A face he remembered, one he once saw everyday, but didn't know the name of.

Untidy black hair, tired, yet intelligent eyes, flat, tired cheeks. Who was that? The name was on the tip of his tongue, but every time he got close, it was like he was jerked away, watching the name dissolve into the mist.

Large red letters appeared under the name: TARGET. ROOM 422. KILL.

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He slid open the window, silent. He slid across the room, silent. He tried to creep down the doorway, his foot hit a creaky floorboard. He tensed...

Shock.

That one was real, Deathstroke was watching.

The bedroom door was ajar, and there was a nightlight inside. Who keeps a nightlight in a college dorm? That's it! College dorm, that's what the building was. He was killing a college student.

There was someone in the bed. He creeped across to the bed, taking the knife from its holster. He wanted to make this quick. He wanted to finish his training. His eyes watched the face, framed by messy, un-brushed hair. He was so familiar.

He didn't really want to do it, memories with this person were coming back, but were blurry, and muffled, like they were underwater. He remembered playing something on a computer with this person. He remembered eating birthday cake with them, buttercream frosting smeared across their faces. He remembered the two of them playing card in a large, empty dining room.

Who was this.

Shock.

He leapt, the pain slapped him out of his memories. He tried to land silently, but tripped.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

He sprung up off the floor, his target sat up quickly.

"Who-" Dick shot forwards, pressing the blade against the young man's neck. He could just slit it, but it was So hard... Why was this man so strong? He couldn't slit the man's throat. He must have the strongest neck in the world. He couldn't even press the blade deeper. The man watched him with wide eyes, his mouth agape. "Dick?"

"Tim?" Dick asked, before he even knew he was. Tim. Timothy Jackson Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake, Red Robin, Student at Gotham State University, inhabitant of room 422.

Tim. Dick remembered now. Tim playing MarioKart with him, Tim at Dick's tenth birthday party while everyone else was off-world, Tim teaching him to play snap while Bruce talked to the league in the next room.

Bruce. That was the name. Dick's brain twisted. Bruce...

Shock.

Shock.

Dick's body convulsed from the electricity. He dropped the knife. Tim felt the shock too.

"Agh! Dick! What's happening? Why are you here?"

Dick grabbed for his knife again, but he grabbed the wrong end. Blood gushed from his palm. He didn't scream. He just needed to finish his training. NO! This was Tim, he couldn't! He had to!

"Tim." He repeated.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Tim tensed from each shock. He shoved Dick off of him, onto the floor. "Dick? What's happening?"

Dick tried to answer, but his words came out in a gargle. His fingers closed around his collar.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

Shock.

"Dick!" Tim grabbed Dick collar, also being shocked. He tore at the metal until there was a snap, and Dick felt the collar fall off his throat. and then the soreness started, his skin was burning. "Dickie, what the hell? Oh, Dick, what are you-"

Dick let out a low whine, his voice was unused and dry. "Tim. I'm going to kill you! I need to kill you!"

"Dick?" His voice was surprised. "What do you mean? How did you get here?"

"Tim! He's going to kill us! He's going to do it! He's right outside!" Dick's voice was hoarse.

"Who? Who is? What are you doing here?"

"Bruce! call Bruce!" The words spilled over his lips, before he even knew what he was saying. "Call Bruce, He's right outside! Call Bruce!" He sobbed, it felt weird, he hadn't felt... anything, for a long time.

"Okay, okay, I'm calling Bruce." Tim grabbed phone and a pillow. "Look, Dickie, I'm calling Bruce! Just stay the bleeding."

Dick's body suddenly felt sore, tight, he collapsed forwards, face smacking against Tim's bedframe.

Nothingness surrounded him.

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"How did he find you?"

"I don't know."

"He kept saying that there was someone outside. That he was supposed to kill me!"

"The collar?"

"I don't know."

Dick opened his eyes. Everything hurt. Even his eyelids hurt. It was really bright, and smelt like anti-septic.

"Dick!" Someone grabbed him in a hug. "Where the fuck did you go?"

The smell of cigarettes, faux leather, and Old Spice deodorant encased him. Sight stubble scraped against his cheek. The memory of playfights, wrestling, and being shoved off the playground slide.

"Jason?"

Jason hugged him so hard, he practically lifted him off the medical bed. "Where were you?"

"I don't-" Dicks throat hurt. "I-"

"Who put the collar on you?" Another voice asked. The memories of someone putting a butter knife in his hand, showing him how to hold it, and someone holding him safely as he used the rings.

"Damian?" He croaked. "God, Damian! Dami!" He choked a little. "Slade! he's going to kill me!"

"Who?" Damian asked firmly, shoving Jason off Dick, and grabbing his shoulders.

"Slade!"

"Who?"

"Deathstroke!"

Damian stiffened. He shook Dick furiously. "How do you know who that is?" He ordered. Dick couldn't speak. "How did you know who that is? Did he put the collar on you?"

Dick opened his mouth, a slight croak escaped. He couldn't say anything. It's like the subject of his master physically silenced him.

"Damian, he needs to rest." A forth voice spoke. Being carried up to bed, Wiping his mouth clean after drinking chocolate milk. His... father? But Slade- no. who was his dad?

"Bruce?" Dick asked.

"Dick." He replied, emotionless. "Where did you go?"

Dick didn't know. He didn't know what was happening. For the first time in... he didn't know, tears began pouring down his face.

"Dickie, you've been gone for months, we-" Tim stopped. He turned and continued pacing.

Bruce finally approached him. He tried to touch his face, but Dick jerked back. "Dick, I'll let you rest, but please, talk to us."