So, this has been a fic I've been working on for a long time, and I've finally written the first few chapters and finished outlining the plot. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I already have over 15k written for this, so we'll see where we end up. Also, the reason I'm finally posting this is because I'm doing the 30 day writing challenge, and today's is:

Day 10 - Put your characters in the weirdest AU you can imagine.

So, not the weirdest, but it's been a blast writing this. Enjoy!

It starts with a dream.

A terrible, heart-wrenching dream, and he wants to cry his eyes out and curl up under his sheets just to block out the world. It's a dream that has him waking up with a jolt, eyes wide and terrified as things he's never experienced play through his mind. There's so much, and it bombards him all at once. He can't make sense of any of it, and it's horrible. He wants it to stop.

It takes a few moments, but he's finally able to dig through everything swirling around in his head and he remembers who he is.

His name is Richard—Dick. He's eleven years old. He's the ward of Bruce Wayne. He's Robin.

Dick has faced the Joker, the Riddler, Mr. Freeze—most of Gotham's underworld, really—and nothing, not even the psychotic clown, terrifies him as much as the new memories swirling around in his mind. He'd take the criminals any day, he thinks.

Because at least criminals are something he can fight. The dream, the memories, they aren't something he can punch in the face or outmaneuver. There's nothing to stop them from taking over his head and make him forget who and where he is.

So he hides under the blankets, shivering and trembling with trepidation far greater than he's ever experienced before, and some part of him is broken and sharp-edged in a way he hadn't been when he'd fallen asleep the night before.

Who dreams of something like that and stays sane? Who dreams of nine years worth of future memories and doesn't come out different on the other side?

Certainly not Dick Grayson.

After what has to be hours, Dick peeks out from under the blankets. He doesn't feel so overwhelmed anymore. His head is still running around in circles, but he can't quite comprehend his own thoughts, so he tries not to pay attention to it.

He looks around his room with new a new sort of perspective. His eyes catch on the Flying Graysons poster opposite his bed, and memories he hadn't known he'd had hurl into him. Dick can't take a breath properly without choking, and this isn't a panic attack. This is something else entirely. Something worse.

His parents are falling, and Dick can only watch in horror as they drop down to their deaths, their bodies hitting the ground. Someone's screaming, Dick realizes after a moment, and it takes even longer to realize that it's him. Dick is the one screaming.

And then he's flying, but it isn't with his family, because the Graysons are dead, and they've been dead for five years. Jack's in trouble, though, and flying is the only way Dick can think of that will help.

Dick knows Jack, knows the circus like the back of his hand—or. He did. Before. But whether the circus is still the same or not, Dick knows that Jack would never have changed so much that he'd turn to criminality. He's a ring master, not a thief.

So Dick's putting everything on the line, but even with his successful infiltration, there's a part of him that wonders if he's doing the right thing by interfering with something that's so obviously personal. Batman will be so upset. He shouldn't be here.

And yet, all of Dick's memories scream at him. He needs to save Jack, if not for himself than for his parents. The old man had been like a grandfather to him, as near and dear to his heart as Bruce and Alfred are.

It's hard to deal with, and Dick's feeling sick on top of it all.

He's not flying anymore. Somehow he's gone from missing M'gann's hands by mere centimeters to feet planted firmly on the ground, staring at the colorful poster of his family's old poster hanging there like a memorial. Dick feels sick to his stomach, and this time it has nothing to do with his illness.

His comm beeps, bringing him back to reality, and Dick hesitates only a moment before he answers it—it could be Bruce, or another Leaguer, and then Dick would be in so much trouble—but it's not. It's Wally.

He's not sure whether to be relieved or equally as wary.

"Dude, where are you?" coincides with "What. Happened." And the memory changes again. Dick is sore and aching and despairing at what he and Kaldur have been driven to, because he's done exactly what he said he didn't want to do. He put the mission first.

The stupid mission. How did it all become about the mission? How had he let himself get this far? Kaldur and Artemis and L'gann, and Garfield and Jaime and Bart. They've all become sacrifices of a war Dick's been forced to wage, and he hates how, if he had to, he'd do the same thing over again. Because it's the only way he knows might work.

But Wally stalks towards him with something more than anger in his eyes, and Dick wonders if this is the last straw. The mountain is gone, and now so is their friendship. He's done it now. Years of slipping further away from each other have taken their toll, and now, when he used to look at Wally and hear the "Dude, that's what a best pal is for," all he hears now is the "Why can't you just trust someone for once!"

He hates how right Wally is, too.

But Dick has never been one to back down, so he ruins the best friendship he's ever had, and says, "It was necessary," like it doesn't make his heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

Wally's eyes glint in his rage, and he opens his mouth—

Dick surfaces from the memories gasping for air, like he's been underwater and he's coming up for air. Confused and unable to make sense of anything, Dick tries lies there. He's lost his sense of reality. Is everything just a memory? A dream? Is anything real? Is he real?

He doesn't think so. Not anymore, at least. But he doesn't know how to prove that either is or isn't, so he abandons the contemplation of his entire being and crawls out of bed. He pulls the covers with him, and then sneaks out his bedroom door.

And, so, it's not really sneaking, per se, but it's something akin to it as he pads barefoot down the hall, softly and cautiously with all the training he's ever been offered, blankets sliding after him. He's not quiet enough to qualify Batman's brand of sneaking, even with whispers of something in his head showing how he can be even quieter as long as he steps just like this, but Dick doesn't mind.

It makes him feel like himself to ignore what the half-formed memories tell him. He can barely comprehend what them anyways, so he doesn't pay them attention, instead turning the doorknob to Bruce's bedroom and slipping quietly into the room.

Bruce is snoozing on away on the bed, and Dick tries not to sigh in relief as he contemplates waking Bruce up.

On the one hand, it's approaching four in the morning, and Dick imagines that Bruce probably just got home and into bed within the last couple hours. He's not going to be happy to be shaken awake with less than two hours of sleep under his belt, especially when he has to be up by eight in order to get to work on time.

Besides, Dick is supposed to be old enough to handle the nightmares himself, now.

On the other hand, Dick's too raw and hollowed out, too young and yet too old to understand what he's supposed to do with these memories in his head, showing him a future he doesn't know will come true—or maybe his brain just came up with the whole thing, which means that he's just really, really screwed up.

In either case, he needs some sort of comfort from the man who took him in and loved him, so he creeps closer to the bed. Waking Bruce up is the only way Dick thinks he might be able to make sense of all of this.

Bruce doesn't shift when he approaches, so he's probably tired enough that his paranoia has switched off, and Dick tries not to feel too guilty.

He finally gets close enough to make out Bruce's face in the gloom, and it's just his luck that the memories kick-start. Dick sees another million things that have nothing and yet everything to do with Bruce, it's pure agony trying to make sense of more than a few things.

"I know it's hard," Bruce tells him, hugging Dick to his chest, "but you can't blame yourself. You weren't even there."

"But I should've been," Dick sobs. "He asked me—I should have gone with him!"

"And then what I would have is," Bruce swallows, tightening his grip on Dick, who has collapsed in his lap like he's seven instead of seventeen, "what I would have is two dead kids, Dick. This isn't your fault."

Two sons dead would literally kill Bruce. Hell, one dead is already killing him, and it's killing Dick, too. How is Bruce even coherent right now? Dick's head is a mess and he can't get himself to function because Jason's dead—

And then.

Wally's dead. A swallow past the lump growing in his throat almost makes Dick choke, but he doesn't. He's Nightwing right now, even if he won't be for very much longer, and he can't afford to—can't afford—

"Nightwing, report."

"We defeated the Reach. I'll have my report written by morning—" he wouldn't, he can't, not yet "—and you'll have every detail of what happened then."

Batman doesn't comfort him. Not like he had back then, when it was both of them hurting. Now that it's just Dick in agony, Batman just looks at him. Doesn't see the hurt, only everything that Dick had done wrong while half the Justice League was on trial. He doesn't say anything else, either.

So Dick says, "Wally's dead," his voice flat. It doesn't hurt any less to say it loud, but Dick keeps going. "Mount Justice is gone. My friends hare me. I'm leaving, and you'll have my report by morning."

Batman doesn't look sad when he tells Dick, "It was necessary."

And Dick hates himself when he says, "I wish it hadn't been."

The next morning, Dick send his report to Batman, detailing the Invasion and Wally's death, and then he's gone. Dick Grayson disappears, and no one knows where he is, not even Bruce Wayne. It doesn't take a long time for people to realize that he isn't coming back.

Dick blinks back to reality, tears in his eyes as he tries not to let the emotions of the memories overwhelm him again. Bruce's face had really sparked all that emotion? It was so strong and Dick hadn't felt emotion like that since—well, since.

Part of Dick wants to jump on top of Bruce and wrap his arms around the man he sees as a father and never let go, but the other part of him, the older part of Dick that he doesn't understand and thinks he never will, wants to scream. He wants to scream and cry and yell how could you do this to me? How could you let me become everything you told me never to be? and Dick has no idea what to do next.

He may have skipped a grade, but these feel like adult problems, and Dick's eleven. Not thirteen and eager to prove himself. Not seventeen and mourning a brother. Not nineteen and wishing his best friend wasn't dead and Bruce would look him in the eyes. He's only eleven.

He starts sobbing, loud enough to startle Bruce awake.

"Wha…Dick?" the man asks, bleary-eyed and not at all prepared to deal with a sobbing child at four am. He sits up, bewildered beyond belief, and he holds out his arms, offering comfort easily, even without knowing what's going on. Even though he's exhausted.

Dick snatches up the offer before it can be rescinded. He climbs onto the giant bed and all but falls into Bruce's awaiting arms, ignoring Bruce's soft "oof" at the force Dick puts into it. He curls his small arms around Bruce's neck, and Bruce's own arms fold around him and pull him into his chest, like a protective wall against the world, working much better than his abandoned blankets had.

"Dick?" Bruce asks again. "What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I don't know," Dick confesses tearily.

He hates that he doesn't know whether those memories are just a figment of his imagination or whether it's something he needs to watch out for two, five, nine years down the line. He wonders if he'll even get that far before screwing things up.

"You don't know?" Bruce asks, and he sounds confused, still half-asleep, and the guilt of waking him up wars with the need for comfort. "What do you mean?"

But Dick doesn't know how to explain it. He doesn't know how to make sense of anything in his head right now. And he certainly doesn't know how he's supposed to be a real person anymore. He doesn't know anything anymore, and it's frightening.

Dick sobs harder, and that seems to stop Bruce's questioning for now, which is good, because Dick doesn't have answers for him. He doesn't even know where to start.

"Hey," Bruce hushes. "Hey, it's okay, Dickie. You're alright."

He's not. He's so far from alright. But he lets Bruce try to rock him back into a fitful slumber, jerking awake every time a new memory surges up to engulf him again. Dick is shaking, trembling, and Bruce tries to hush him and murmur reassurances, but they both realize pretty quick that neither of them are going back to sleep anytime soon.

Dick zones out while Bruce dozes. He can't make sense of anything, really, and he's so tired, but he's too afraid of what he'll see if he closes his eyes longer than a blink. But even with Bruce curled protectively around him, even despite his most valiant efforts, the memories don't stay away.

He doesn't try to make sense of them buzzing around in his mind, though, because from what he's peeked at so far, he doesn't think any of it will be pleasant. It seems his whole life is just doomed to get harder and harder. Like he's cursed or something.

Dick doesn't know how long he sits there staring at the ceiling in some sort of numb state, but it's long enough that the sun is peeking through the curtains and Alfred is opening the door by the time he shakes back to himself.

"Master Dick?" Alfred calls softly when he realizes Dick's awake, bewilderment apparent in his voice, and Dick's stomach does enough flips to make even him sick. Bruce doesn't stir, though, so that's a plus. Still, it would be nice to have Bruce awake, if only so Dick doesn't have to face Alfred alone. "Master Dick, are you quite alright?"

Dick bites his lip, but he doesn't trust himself to say anything. He might start crying again, and Alfred's not someone he should dump all of this new baggage on.

Alfred leans over the bed, catches Dick's eyes, and gives the boy the most concerned look he's ever received. "Master Dick?" he asks softly, and Dick's plunged back into a memory, this one tinged with an undercurrent of fear and desperation instead of just sadness and despair like the others.

"Master Dick?" Alfred calls, and his voice is as soft and gentle as his touch as he smooths back Dick's sweaty hair.

Dick can't recall where they are. Not in the manor, he knows. There's a reason they can't go back there, but the reason is lost to the fever currently rampaging through Dick's system. At twenty, you'd think Dick would know better than to ignore a warning about those cuts. Now he's down, poisoned, and Bruce is missing. It's just him and Alfred, somewhere he can't recall.

"Please, Master Dick," Alfred says, still sounding so quiet and worried. Something metal presses against Dick's chapped lips. "You need to eat something. You won't be able to regain your strength unless you do."

Dick doesn't open his mouth. He can't. If he does, he's going to start screaming from the pain, and he can't scream. There's a reason, he knows, but it's lost, just like the reason to why they can't return to the manor.

"Did he eat anything in the past couple hours?" someone asks from across the room, something like a door closing a second after. "He looks worse."

"No," Alfred sighs, and the metal retreats from Dick's lips. "He refuses to eat, and we don't have enough IVs left to keep him hydrated for very much longer."

"Have you heard from Bruce yet?"

Another sigh. "I'm afraid not."

Where is Bruce? Dick can't remember the answer to that, either. He can't remember why it's Alfred petting his hair and trying to get him to eat and not his father. Dick feels almost angry at the fact that Bruce isn't here to press worried lips against his forehead and assure Dick that Batman will take care of everything and that's it's okay, Robin, you earned a rest.

Those words don't sound quite right in Dick's head, though, and it takes him a few minutes to realize why. He's not Robin, not anymore. The endearment has been passed on like a title, and Dick isn't sure the last time he was actually called by that name by anybody, let alone someone who knows what it means.

There's a clatter that echoes around them, and through half-open lids, Dick sees Alfred stiffen and turn towards the entrance.

"Not good," that someone else murmurs—Leslie, he thinks when he sees her, it's Leslie—and then the room explodes into sound and chaos, and Alfred—oh god, Alfred. Dick doesn't know where Alfred is, he doesn't know where Bruce is, and he feels like someone's ripping through his skin with a knife.

That, of course, is when Dick realizes they are. Someone's stabbing him, carving into him—

—and Dick fights, lashing out at those hands holding him down. But he's too dehydrated and sick for this, and he can't fight off an army of enemies that want to hurt him, and they manage to grab him again.

Dick's looking into the eyes of the man who is going to kill him, and there's a glint of glee that makes Dick's stomach churn with fear. He can hear Alfred yelling in the background, but no one comes to save him. No Alfred, no Bruce, no Leslie. No Wally and no Jason and no Tim, either, because they're dead. No one is coming to save him.

"This is gonna hurt," the man says, a knife glinting in the dim light, and then—

Dick screams, lost in the haze of memories, and he's writhing in agony against the pain of blades drawn across his skin again and again, and it's only when Bruce holds him down that Dick realizes he's not in the midst of an enemy attack—

"Dick!" Bruce yells, fighting to pin Dick's arms to the bed without hurting him. "Dick, it's okay. You're okay, you're fine! It's—ow—it's okay!"

—he's in Bruce's bed, surrounded by the terrified expressions of the people that took him in and gave him a home after he lost everything. Alfred is here. Bruce is here. He's safe.

But he's not okay.

Dick starts to cry again, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as Bruce rests his forehead against Dick's, his eyelids fluttering shut as Dick watches him murmur something under his breath. Dick's crying too loud to understand what he's saying, but he's also crying too much to ask.

Bruce finally looks up at Dick, pulling away from him slightly to swipe a thumb at the tears. "You're okay, kiddo," Bruce breathes. "You're okay."

He's not. He doesn't get why Bruce keeps telling him he is when he's so obviously not. Nothing about this is okay, and he needs Bruce to get that. He needs him to understand, even when he's not sure how to say that he's not.

"What's wrong with me?" Dick sobs, his words barely audible, and Bruce gaze snaps to his own.

"Nothing's wrong with you. It was just a nightmare," Bruce tells Dick, but even Dick can see that Bruce doesn't believe his own words. It seemed more for Bruce's benefit than Dick's. "You're alright, Dick. You're alright."

Dick wishes Bruce would just stop saying that. He's not okay, and he doesn't know if he ever will be again.