Memorium~Nightwing

Impaled

Deathstroke had made a mistake. A very costly one.

Deathstroke had ran a rusted pole through Renegade after he had returned from an assignment unsuccessful. He was tasked with killing a applied physicist in a small lab whom Deathstroke had thought he was a threat. The security had been too difficult to hack, so he attempted to B&E, but the burly guard and found him and attacked. Against his better judgment Dick had crawled home with a cracked jaw and dislocated shoulder.

Slade wasn't happy.

"Master p-please forgive me." He begged, whimpering around his injured jaw.

"You ask forgiveness!!!" He screamed slamming his steel toed boot against Dick's ribs.

He flew backwards, wailing as his shoulder struck the ground.

"You have failed!! I will not accept failure!!" He picked up a discarded piece of rebar, chunks of rust flaking off.

"No!" Renegade held up his hands. "Please!"

With a shout, Slade shoved the bar through Dick's stomach.

Dick gasped and wrapped his trembling fingers around the bar, blood bubbling from beneath his lips.

"Pathetic waste." He hissed, slamming his boot into the side of his head.

Dick sobbed as agony enveloped him. The last thing he saw was Deathstroke walking away, just before his vision blurred black and white.

>>------>

Dick gasped, then cried out in pain. There was a burning sensation spreading through his stomach. He glanced down and stared at the metal protruding from his midsection. Then he remembered.

His Master had left him to die.

He wished he was dead, everything hurt. He was just so tired, he wanted to close his eyes and never open them again. His shoulder and jaw throbbed, his gut was in unspeakable agony, -but there it was. The one thing Dick had been searching for ever since he had arrived. Hope.

A cool breeze was blowing against his cheek.

Dick's senses stirred awake as he realized that he was outside, tossed carelessly on a pile of trash. He had been thrown away.

He could just die like his Master had intended. It would be so easy to just slip away, let the darkness cradle him. Then he steeled his resolve. He had promised the memory of his parents that if he had the opportunity to live, to escape, that he would. He didn't know how long Slade had taken him, there was a tracker in his neck that dissuaded him from veering off course on an assignment to check a local newspaper.

Oh god, the tracker.

He had to take a chance. Deathstroke had thrown him out, presuming his heart had stopped, so maybe he had disabled the tracker, or at least wasn't monitoring it. It was located in his leg near his artery, ingeniously preventing him from attempting to cut it out.

If he was going to try this, there would be no turning back. Dick was in terrible pain, and he couldn't remove the rebar without bleeding out.

With a hiss he moved his leg to support him against a stuffed garbage bag. As soon as he did so, his hands slipped and he slid from the top of the stack. His bruised and broken ribs screamed and tears poured from his eyes.

He breathed hard through his noise to deter his reflex to cry out.

He limped out of the pile, wincing every time the rebar even brushed something. He looked around. Dick wasn't near his Masters home, he had left it several times, so he was sure it was south of Gotham.

He could see an illuminated "W" on a skyscraper, signifying he was East of Central Gotham. It was about a half a mile to the city limits.

Dick didn't know what he was expecting to do when he got into Gotham. A hospital was an idea, but Renegade had made many enemies with sources in surprising places. He needed medical attention though.

Los Lloras.

They were an Mexican organized crime centered out of the slums of Gotham. A bit ago, his Master had ordered him to eliminate the mob boss, a man named Ramon Fernando, also know as Ojo. There was a possibility they could help him, but there was also a possibility that they would kill him on site. It was about a 30% to 70% chance.

He stumbled on his own feet and groaned as a piece of loose bone shifted inside him. His head swarmed with a black fog. He was going to pass out if he didn't get help soon.

He had to risk it.

Clutching his side he shambled towards a old building. He was now in the downtown area, far from the buissness section of Gotham. Blood dripped between his pale fingers, and his breathing became shallow. He wasn't going to make it.

"You look familiar, chico." Someone snarled.

Dick slumped against the wall, the pain in his dislocated shoulder making him dizzy, on top of the piece of metal skewering him. A large Hispanic man was walking towards Dick, a red teardrop tattooed near his ear.

"Los Lloras." He rasped. "I need your help."

The hitman snorted. "I see. You have a little somethin' in ya." He reached forward and wrapped a hand around the rebar.

"No!" He batted at him weakly. "Y-you can't..."

The Lloras members eyes widened. "I remember now. Your face is the same. You are the one who broke Ojo's neck."

"I didn't..." Spots splattered across his vision.

"Boys, the little cerdo doesn't have long. Let's make his last moments his worst for the boy who killed Ojo."

Dick heard movement from behind him, but he couldn't move any more. He was dying.

A shadow fell across the moon as Dick fell to the ground, pain dragging him down.

Shouts arose from the thugs.

"Move!"

"Run!"

"Leave him!"

Blood stained Dicks lips as his head pounded. Nothing could save him now, he was going to join parents. Nothing but one thing could save him, but he was here.

Batman had arrived.