I own nothing. Except my laptop, and that's debatable.

Four years ago, Dick's life went somewhere in a hand basket.

He'd had it good until then. He traveled the world with his parents, playing the crowds and stunning the critics. He had friends in the circus, and he'd like to think that he'd had a family.

And then Zucco came. His parents were dead. The circus abandoned him. And because it was the real world, not some fairy tale, there was no knight in shining armor to take him in.

To the orphanage, then, with the last Grayson. When the ringmaster, face full of compassion, told him where he'd go, Dick was cautiously hopeful. He envisioned a new home, a school, and perhaps even friends. He didn't hope for adoption—his parents' deaths were too fresh for that—but he thought he might have a family again, someday.

One problem put a stop to all that. His parents died in Gotham.

The orphanage was in Gotham.

It only took a year for Dick to run away.

YJYJYJYJ

Batman had spent years perfecting his BatGlare. This was common knowledge. Once, he'd caught an entire forum online dedicated to analysis of his glare and speculation as to how he'd developed it. (He'd rebuked all theories and given some pointers under the alias 'Matches Malone'.)

What most people didn't realize was that he'd spent just as long perfecting the actual persona. When he was out partying, giving models smoldering looks and the rest of the club drinks, that was Bruce Wayne. And when he was patrolling his city, as he was now, he slipped into the Batman frame of mind.

He prided himself, privately, on his persona. He was as strong as a bodybuilder, better at martial arts than most Kung Fu gurus, and more disciplined than… well, no one else could compare.

Batman utilized that discipline now, stilling in his journey across the rooftops as a faint noise reached his ears. It was a sort of scuffle, barely heard, but it sounded close by. He was immediately on guard. The Dark Knight turned slowly, scanning the area.

There was nothing. There was so much nothing that the Batman—purveyor of discipline and physical perfection, as described above—began to doubt what he'd heard. And then a small boy crept out of the shadows.

He was thin; that's the first thing Batman noticed. It was blatantly obvious that what little food he'd eaten went straight to the muscled arms, without giving much thought to things like the ribcage or internal organs. But he was muscled, quite clearly for one who looked to be about ten years old.

Batman briefly wondered what could make a child into such a study in contrasts.

The boy's hair fell messily to his ears, and Batman could tell it had been cut clumsily, perhaps with a knife or some other ungainly implement. Electric blue eyes stared up at him defiantly from beneath the hair, daring him to say anything.

He did anyway.

"Who are you?" This is where the Batman persona came in. He kept his voice impassive and cool, leveling a steady gaze at the boy and waiting expectantly for an answer.

He wasn't disappointed. "I'm Rick," returned the boy in a steady voice.

"And what are you doing here?"

The answer did what few things could do: it shook Batman's mask, nearly made him start in surprise.

"You could say I'm applying for a job."

What do you think? This has been sitting around in my head for a while now-I have a pretty good idea of where I want it to go, and I think I might actually finish this one. PIs anyone interested?

Let me know!

-Bibliophile109