The Red Right Hand

He Shall be King Thereafter

One Year Prior...

The day had been long, the trip from Jump City to Gotham being tiring and seemingly endless. He'd been told not to come, but he didn't listen. It had been over a year since he'd seen his old friend, the one he'd had for most of his life.

Roy left the Titans two years prior, wanting to go off on his own and become "his own hero". His departure was civil; it had nothing to do with the team. Roy only felt like he'd out grown the Titans and maybe he had, but it seemed now that maybe he wasn't ready after all.

After his departure, Roy accepted a mission to go undercover and infiltrate a criminal arms dealing organization that had ties to the Mexican Drug Cartel. It was a high risk mission and even the Justice League questioned taking it on (only doing so as a favor to the U.S. Government). Roy jumped at the opportunity and hardly thought twice. Dick remembered the details and even thought about volunteering, but didn't, knowing his code of ethics would be compromised. It was no different for Roy.

He'd come back from the failed mission a disgraced, broken man. And from what Dick could tell, it was going to take more than his moral high ground to remind Roy how far he was from his own.

He approached the rundown looking building, its brick crumbling into decay from years of neglect, but no one seemed to care. It was only one among many structures in this part of town that reflected the lives of those who lived along the "Methadone Mile", a stretch of Gotham plagued by drug abuse and poverty. Leaving the lives of its occupants in ruins as they let themselves and their families rot away.

Dick looked up when he reached the main entrance at the top of the steps, his apprehension fresh in his mind.

"Well here goes nothing."

_________________

The young man worked frantically, looking for just the right implement to suit his needs. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, burning as he inhaled the toxic smoke. He ran his trembling fingers through his shallow strawberry hair. He needed something deep that could hold just the right amount of water. His eyes became glassy as a sick feeling filled his stomach and throbbed in his head.

It had been hours since he had his last fix and he needed his next. Finally, he found the right tool that could perform his distasteful task. Irritated, the young man sighed in relief and took an old spoon in his hand then placed it down on the table. He opened a small box and placed it down beside the spoon. From it, he took out a syringe, filling it with a small amount of water and ejected it into the cradle of the spoon. He placed a fine, rose grey power in the water, being careful not to add too much. Diligently, he took the spoon in his hand and lit a lighter, allowing the flame to heat the bottom. The liquid began to bubble, reaching its boiling point to breakdown the substance. Once the liquid had reached its peak, he placed down the spoon and used the end of the plunger to stir the contents, then sampled the concoction to check its purity.

He both loved and hated the taste of the drug. This time it was very bitter and he couldn't help but cringe at its foulness, but this is where love came into play. He loved that he was moments away for drowning out the world and quelling his craving just like he loved the high he'd face when he got there.

He placed in the spoon a small piece of cotton and watched as it engorged itself with the poison that was killing him. He hated himself for what he was about to do, but it called to him, holding him tight in its grip.

He pressed the needle down into the cotton, using it as a filter and filled the syringe to the desired amount. He'd tied an old phone charger around his arm and began to look for a vein. He traced his finger along the skin of his arm, hitting it to provoke their prominence. He'd always wonder if this was the time he'd take too much or just get a bad batch. Deep down he always wanted it to be the last time, but knew that it wouldn't be. A vein pronounced itself and he set his sights on it, aiming the needle toward it. He knew the feeling that awaited him, wanting nothing more than to forget his self-hatred and failure. But just as the needle was about to pierce his skin, a knock wrapped at the door.