Even as a child, Dick never liked the galas that Bruce would make him go to. He despised the stuffy atmosphere that forced him to keep up this civil mask and loathed the incessant gossiping amongst the obnoxious high-class bastards.

One would think that would change as he grew older, but nope; in fact, he would say he disliked galas even more now that he was an adult. If he had the choice to never attended a gala ever again, he'd gladly take it—however, people were bound to get suspicious if he randomly stopped appearing to events out of the blue. As such, he had no choice but to attend occasionally, having to keep up his public image and all.

Hence, it was why he was at this gala one particular evening, and who would've guessed, he was having the worst time of his life. From having to keep up this fake act at all times to being dragged in these endless polite and pretentious conversations with rich, snobby people, Dick would much rather be anywhere else than here.

He could've been lounging at his apartment back in Bludhaven, or maybe hanging out with the family at Bruce's manor, or hell, maybe even fighting a villain as Nightwing, but, no, he was forced to go to this stupid gala that wasn't even that important!

Call it stupid, impulsive, or just downright ridiculous, but Dick had an idea of turning to alcohol as a reprieve from this painstaking situation—just a drink or two to take the edge off, was what he told himself even as he tipsily downed his... he wasn't sure how many at this point, glass and requested a refill almost immediately.

To nobody's surprise, he got completely hammered. He typically didn't drink much, having a slight aversion to it since the feeling of intoxication made him feel out of control, so it was natural for him to have a low alcohol tolerance, thus making him a lightweight.

So it was safe to say that the night ended with him being a complete mess; he was stumbling around unsteadily, slurring his words every few seconds whenever he spoke, feeling his mind spin nauseatingly with every moment that passed. To put it simply, he was wasted.

It was dusk—on the verge of evening, to be exact—and the sun was setting over the horizon, which gave the sky a pleasant blend of warm hues. The garden was a sight for sore eyes; with lush vegetation and prolific plant life, it complimented the peaceful, tranquil atmosphere nicely.

Too bad Dick was too busy bent over the fountain and puking his guts out in the water to ever care, though.

He had carelessly discarded his blazer at some point, his tie undone, his white undershirt crinkled and partly unbuttoned. His hair—neatly styled when he first got to the gala—was now a disheveled mess of wild locks and unruly strands. Gone was the normally charming Dick Grayson, now replaced with an inebriated shell of a man previously so pristine at the start of the night.

God, Bruce was going to have his head once he finds out about this. He can already imagine the headlines on the front of the newspaper he was way too plastered to care right now. Dick knew he made for a pathetic scene, with him looking so unkempt as he heaved into a fountain, though he really had no one else to blame but himself.

He took a deep gasp, his breathing shallow and labored as he tried to catch his breath after his agonizing vomiting session, feeling his head throb with dizziness. This was probably top ten worst experiences of his life—and that was saying a lot as he sustained nasty injuries almost daily as a vigilante.

"I should've never went to this blasted gala," he drunkenly mumbled aloud, miserably staring down at his ruined appearance in the reflection of the fountain's reservoir with a hiccup, "N-Now look at me, I look awful..."