Oh, what a waste of an army's dreamer.

It was such a waste to give up such abilities that you held in the palm of your already bloodied hands. The drips of all that you had spilled can't be wiped away even as you try to venture onto the next step of redemption under the tutelage of Batman and the rest of his family.

It's what had pulled you right back to your blood family. The ones that had tortured you time and time again. But why waste all the potential that they've given you? Bruce Wayne couldn't uphold his end, wasting it away by making you try to act like a normal being.

"What could you do? Should have been a rockstar." Dick asked you. But you never had the money for the guitar. The instruments were a luxury only a few could earn and afford. Even underneath Bruce's protection, no such items were of use to you because you had not deserve it in your eyes.

"What could you do? Should have been a politician." Damian claimed. But you never had the proper education to pursue anything. School was a struggle for someone your age, only knowing death and destruction.

"What could you do? Should have been a father or a mother." Bruce regretted. But you would never make it past your twenties. Too many enemies sworn to kill you and too many allies have been killed.

So here you stood, a waste of an army's dreamer in both families' eyes, the old and the new. The evil and the good. A waste of a dream that they've conjured up in their minds as you fell and rose then fell back onto the hands of your criminal family. Instead, you just hung your head, eyes downward, and stared at the ground.

Pins and stripes and silky ribbons decorated your chest what you had reaped of the good and bad. They hung heavily on your chest, pulling you down and spiraling into a hole of awaiting death. All surrounded by the former family that had adopted you, the Wayne family.

Oh, what a waste, what a waste...