Growing up on the streets was tough. Even those who’d grown up in the goods part of Gotham knew that. Horrible weather and monthly pneumonia, rats crawling around as you slept, creeps trying to feel you up on your fifth birthday. But no one really knew what the streets could do to a person. It was so much worse than an eventual painful death. It was psychopathy, sadism, masochism, scary habits, pseudobulbar affect. No one but you really knew.

You’d gotten good at suppressing all these things going on in your mind. All the psychotic and horrifying things you thought up.

A group of guys, just older than yourself had followed you into an alley; cornered you. The first punch to your gut hurt. The knife to your thigh stung. But then, the blows and kicks felt good. It made you feel good. It made you feel alive.

Dick, Gar, Dawn, Jason, and Rachel had been to a diner, teambuilding, or some shit. They were on their way back when they heard laughing. Not a good kind of laughter though. A hysterical laughter, one mumbled by something. The closer they got to the laughing, the clearer they could hear thuds and grunts and punches landing hard on something soft. Peering around the corner and into the alley, Dick sees you held up by one of the guys, your face beaten beyond god’s recognition. Your clothes and skin were stained with thick, dark red blood pouring from all over your face and body.

He and the other Titans dressed in their civilian clothes quickly broke up the fight, sending the guys running with a gun pointed at their backs. You lay slumped against the dumpster a near-psychotic smile on your face and not at all bothered by the blood trickling under your shirt. Nothing came near to the sight. Fight Club might have been close, but not near.

Jason, having grown up on the streets before Bruce found him, approaches you. As he crouches in front of you, he can see the pain deeply buried behind your eyes. Behind the blood was a person. A really touch and affection-starved person.