Disclaimer: I own nothing but overpriced college textbooks.

Gut Instinct

"To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world." ~Bill Wilson

"You know, I really hate it when you bring up this topic," Dick said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I know," Wally returned. He took a large bite out of his candy bar and, through the mouthful, continued, "So, no kryptonite, you think Batman has a chance against Superman? And be honest."

"This is a stupid question. And you have chocolate all over your face."

"C'mon, Rob, answer!"

With a frustrated sigh, the fourteen-year-old opened his mouth, but before he could offer a rebuttal, shouts of, "Stop, you bastard!" cut him off.

"What the heck?" he muttered, turning around, just in time to see a teen barreling toward him and a red-faced middle-aged man lagging behind. Hero instincts kicking in, he caught the boy by the arm; the sudden change in momentum forced him to his knees and sent something flying from his hand.

"Let go," he gasped, voice panic-stricken. "Please, you gotta let me go!"

"Sorry, kid, not happening." Dick glanced toward the man, approaching at a slowed pace, tongue hanging out in a pant. "You need him for something?"

"Yeah! That runt-assed punk stole from my store!"

"It was an apple!" the boy protested. "Please, it was just an apple!"

"I don't care!" Reaching down, the man grabbed the boy and jerked him roughly to his feet. "Theft is theft; I'll let the cops teach you a lesson."

"Wait, wait, wait." Wally, having stood silently to the side throughout the fiasco, now stepped in, hands held up as he cautiously eased himself between the man and child. "Don't you think that's a little harsh? I mean, it was just an apple."

"I let him slide, he'll steal more later! Ain't no redemption in thieves!"

Others passing on the sidewalk nodded in agreement; one even shouted, "You tell 'em!"

"He's, like, thirteen," Wally insisted, ignoring the commentary. "Can't you just, I don't know, call his parents?"

"No!" the boy practically shrieked, eyes widening. "No, please, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but please, please just let me go. I'll never do this again, but please, please just let me go."

For the first time, Dick took the young teen in. Despite the cold winter wind, he wore a loose spring jacket. He was probably average height but obviously underweight, and there were dark bags under his eyes, as though he had gone too many nights with too little sleep. He was trembling, too. The Boy Wonder expected such a reaction from a criminal facing Batman, but not from the prospect of having his parents called. His stomach churned, and he offered, "Look, I'll pay for the apple. Maybe you can just let him off with a warning-"

"Not a chance! This city's got too many damn thugs already without letting the new ones off scot-free!" Fingers digging into the boy's arm, the man continued, "So listen, since I'm feeling generous, I'll make you a deal: cops or your parents. Pick."

The boy sent a pleading look toward Dick and Wally, but the young heroes looked away; this wasn't something they had jurisdiction over.

"My dad," he whispered brokenly. "Call my dad."

"Figured. Little punk, taking the easy way out." The man jerked the offender back the way they had come, pausing just long enough to add, "Thanks for the help, boys."

"That was weird," Dick muttered, watching the two grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

"Yeah. People in your city are so uptight." Wally finished his candy bar and shoved the wrapper into his pocket. Chewing thoughtfully, he continued, "If this happened in Central, the kid would've gotten off with a warning."

"Not that part, Wally." As a Gothamite, Dick was pretty used to that reaction to felonies. There was no mercy in this city, not with a crime rate so high and a variety of villains so vile, so any new "criminal," even by the barest definition, was snuffed out. "I'm talking about how he responded to the guy threatening to call his dad. He looked absolutely horrified."

"So?"

"So? That didn't send any red flags?"

"You wouldn't be freaking out if someone was calling Bruce to tell him you'd stolen something?"

"Not that badly. And the fact that he stole an apple. Of all the things he could he snagged, he picked fruit."

"So he's a health conscious thief." Arm slung over his best friend's shoulders, Wally proceeded, "It's probably nothing. No need to get your tights in a twist, Boy Blunder. Now come on, the arcade's calling our names."

Relenting, Dick allowed himself to be led to the arcade, but the thief lingered on the edge of his conscious the whole time. Wally was probably right (he hated admitting that, even to himself), and he was probably blowing this all out of proportion, and it was probably ridiculous that he was still dwelling on this hours later.

But Dick was a mathlete, and he knew too much about probability to bank on a flimsy probably. That's why he found himself in the Batcave that night, referencing and cross-referencing and re-referencing as many different sources as he could, trying to deduce who the teen was based on virtually no information.

"Dick?"

He turned to the sound of his mentor's voice. "Yeah?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing? You've been down here for close to an hour."

"Nothing. Just...I have this gut instinct about something. Trying to find information, that's all. No big deal, promise."

The Dark Knight observed his partner for a moment before nodding. "If you need anything, ask me. And don't forget to give yourself breaks; you need to eat."

With a snort, he countered, "Oh, really? Look who's talking!"

"Do as I say, not as I do. One of the perks of being an adult." He started upstairs. "If you're not in the kitchen within three hours, I'm dragging you up and forcing food down your throat."

"Alright," he said, a small smile finding its way to his face. "Thanks."

Time passed. Pictures and stats danced across the computer monitor. The smile waned, then faded completely. It was close to six o'clock, long after the incident had happened. The kid would've been home for hours now. Not that it mattered, really, because he was probably obsessing over this for nothing.

(But probably was not definitely and what if he's right?)

His fingers flew across the keyboard without cease, and his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching as the list of names shrunk down to one.

Marcus Keeton. Fourteen. Lived with his father, in a house in the heart of the city. Had been in the hospital twice, once for a broken wrist from basketball and once for a fractured rib from football. Suspended for three days during his seventh grade year and for a week during his eighth grade year, both times for fighting. Between first grade and now, halfway through ninth grade, missed close to seventy days of school.

Dick took a shaky breath and pushed himself from the computer. Numbly, he slipped into his Robin uniform and struggled to figure out a plan. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he quickly typed the Keeton address into his wrist computer and hopped onto his motorcycle. He should have told Bruce, but he didn't want to waste any more time, and besides, this was something he had to handle on his own.

A normally twenty-minute ride was shortened to ten due to reckless driving that totally would have earned him a lecture. Parking in the shadows of the neighborhood, out of range of the streetlights, he crept toward the house, heart beating faster and faster with each step. Destination reached, he scaled the building with ease and peered through the closest window. Master bedroom. Empty.

Jimmying the window open, he slipped inside and carefully made his way across the room. Silently, he opened the door and, assured that the coast was clear, he entered the hallway and hugged the wall. One hand on his utility belt, he used the other to gently push open the doors along the corridor.

Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong...

Labored breathing, mixed with small gasps of pain.

Mentally preparing himself, Dick pushed the door all the way open and hesitantly made his way into the room. Marcus was sprawled on the floor.

Swallowing hard, the young vigilante approached the limp form. Even from a distance, he could see blood staining the boy's back. "Marcus, can you hear me?"

"Mmm? Wha...?" Weakly, the boy turned his head. Mouth snapping open, his eyes widened-as much as they could, considering they were both severely swollen and already starting to bruise. "You're...how...but...?"

"Don't worry about any of that right now." He knelt beside the fourteen-year-old (they were the same age, they were the same age). "You're going to be safe, alright? I'm going to call the police-"

"No." It was barely more than a whisper. "No, please, please, you can't."

"I have to. Marcus, you have to get out of here. I'll make sure you're safe. He won't be able to hurt you any more."

"It's...it look worse... Not really that bad. I...deserve...stole..." A shudder rippled through his body, and for the first time, Dick realized just how cold it was in the room.

"You didn't deserve this," he protested gently, removing his cape. "You've done nothing wrong."

He started to drape the fabric over Marcus but stopped when he noticed where all the blood had come from. Thief, pathetic, and worthless, in harsh, bold moves,had been carved into his back.

Watery salvia filled Dick's mouth, but he forced himself to swallow it down. Tucking the cape around Marcus, he then rested a hand on the back of the other's head. "Where's your dad, Marcus? Is he here?"

"Went for...food. I didn't...dinner...punished...shouldn't have stolen..."

"No, no, don't talk like that. Just relax, alright? I'm going to call the cops, get you to a hospital."

"You don't understand," he whimpered. "Please, please...

"I have to," Dick replied sadly. "This is wrong, and you need to get out of here."

"Please."

But Dick was already alerting the police, hardening himself to the desperate pleas. After dealing with the violence left in the wake of people like Vandal Savage and the Joker, he should have been able to handle something like this, but he couldn't. It filled him with this burning hate, a hate he hadn't felt since the day his parents died. And when the cops arrived, followed close behind my an ambulance, Dick couldn't help but feel disappointed that he never got a chance to confront the bastard.

(It was the second time in his life that he ever contemplated breaking the no-kill rule).

Dick rode behind the ambulance, trying to keep his head clear enough that he could concentrate on the road. Still, he couldn't stop the tears as they clung to the inside of his domino mask. Marcus might be out of the house, but the struggle wasn't over. He had to heal physically, he had to heal emotionally, and he had to face his father in a court of law. And Dick, who had saved countless lives, felt utterly and completely helpless to do anything. The system was flawed, and he was in no position to change it.

As Marcus was being wheeled out of the ambulance, the cop-his tag read Blake-quietly asked, "How'd you find him?"

"Saw him get caught for minor theft," Dick provided. "Freaked out at the prospect of having his dad called. Gut instinct just told me something was up, so I tracked him down."

"Good thing you did. Ten years on the job, I've never seen anything this sick. Don't know how more this would have progressed before Keeton lost it completely."

"What happens now? Are they looking for Keeton?"

"Unmarked car is waiting outside the house. Doesn't know any of this is happening, he'll be back soon enough. We'll pick him up, take him to the station, hopefully get him to plead to a deal. Considering the extent of the damage he caused, shouldn't be too much to convince him he's better off with a deal than a trial."

"Hopefully," Dick repeated softly. After a moment, he added, "How low of a sentence is a typical plea?"

"Lawyers normally drop the felony charge down to a misdemeanor, so between three and seven years. For something of this magnitude, though...I'd be surprised if they offered anything less than ten. Not that he deserves anything less than life."

"Not that that would ever happen." It came out more bitterly than he intended, but he made no attempt to modify the statement.

"Couldn't agree with you more. But politicians are too busy squabbling over how to spend the money they don't have to focus on the real issues, and the issue is so taboo that citizens won't even broach it as a political point." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "Just our future being tortured and murdered on a daily basis. Why should anyone-?"

He was interrupted by his beeping cell. "Officer Blake." A nod. "Alright. Thanks." Focusing on Dick, he related, "Keeton was just picked up; he's getting taken to the station now. I'm going to go down, lay the pressure on him. You're going to wait for Marcus?"

"Yeah. Should have a least one friendly face after he's treated."

The officer nodded and left. Watching him go, Dick allowed a spiteful smirk to cross his face. Walking into a deserted corridor, he hastily typed in a keyword into his computer that connected him directly to Wayne Manner via an untraceable connection.

"Dick?" Bruce's voice, stern and just a bit frantic. "What-?"

"Listen, I know you're probably really mad right now for me sneaking out and all, and I'll take any extra training sessions you throw my way, but please, I need you to go to the police station right now and scare someone into a plea deal, the longest one you can get from him. Please."

"What's going on?"

"Long story short, this sick bas-this sick freak took a knife to his son's back and has been abusing him for years. I'm at the hospital now waiting for the son to get treated, but please, please terrify the dad for me. This kid can't go through trial."

There was a few moments of silence. "I'll do it. Come home as soon as his treatment is finished."

"Okay. And thank you."

"You're welcome." A breath of a pause. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course. See you soon."

He hung up, turned the computer off, and retreated to the waiting room. A few bewildered looks were shot his way, but no one tried to talk to him. That was fine by him; he wasn't much in the mood for talking, not with his mind consumed with all that he wish he could do to Keeton.

"Are you here for Marcus?"

Dick's head shot up at the sound of the doctor's voice. Eyes flicking to the clock on the wall, he wondered where close to an hour had gone. "Yeah. How is he?"

"Besides the knife wounds, he has two broken ribs and blunt force trauma over most of his body. Emotionally...well, he has a long journey, but he's resilient. With time, he'll heal. I'm guessing you want to see him?"

"Please."

"He needs rest, but a few minutes wouldn't hurt."

"Thank you."

Marcus didn't try to hide his surprise at the sight of the young vigilante. "You stayed?"

"I wanted to check in on you. Make sure you were alright." He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I mean, obviously not alright, all considering, but holding up. You were pretty upset before-not that that was bad or anything, just, I mean..."

"I get it. Thanks." Marcus looked at his hands. "And...and thanks for saving me."

"No problem. Part of the job." He tried to smile but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. "I'm sorry this happened. That your dad...I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's been going on since I was four. Used to think it was normal, you know? I thought it was how all kids got punished. By the time it got really bad, I was too afraid of him to do anything. Not that I could do anything. He's a CEO, always tossing money at charities. Who would believe me against him?" Seeming to process his own statement, his face contorted slightly, and he buried his head in his hands. "No jury is going to believe me."

"Don't say that," Dick protested. "If things go well at the station, your dad might get a deal and you won't even have a trial. And if not, there's no way they'll vote in his favor. There's too much evidence against him. You're going to be okay. Hero guarantee."

He nodded and started to rub tiredly at his eye, only to wince as his hand came into contact with the swollen flesh.

"You're probably exhausted. I'll leave you to rest. I'll come back tomorrow, if you want."

"You don't have to."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Marcus let out a small sound that Dick couldn't quite identify; he liked to think it was a laugh. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Rest up."

Bruce was waiting for him, arms crossed over his chest. Dick knew he wasn't really mad, though, just confused and concerned. "Keeton's going to prison for twelve years. His lawyer was less than pleased to see me in there when she arrived, but after the police related the details and presented her with the photos sent over from the hospital, she didn't try to lower it."

"It's not enough."

That wasn't the first thing he was supposed to say, but it was the only thought that came into his mind.

Bruce sighed quietly. "I know it's not, Dick. It's not even close. But it's the best the law would allow without a trial."

"It's not fair." His voice cracked on the last word. "It's not fair that he could do that to his son for ten years and get a twelve year sentence! He tortured a child for most of his life and he's going to be out before he turns fifty! How is this justice?"

He was crying again, sobs catching in his chest. He'd never felt so helpless before, not even as he watched his parents fall. At least then he knew who the villain was. In this case, in all cases like this, it was impossible to tell. They looked like anyone else, acted like anyone else; only their victims knew the truth. And it terrified him to think about all the kids he couldn't save.

"I know," Bruce whispered, pulling him into a hug. "It's not justice. But listen, I'll run a Wayne charity ball for the foster care centers around the country. Invite the politicians, put pressure on them to toughen the laws against child abuse. It's not much, but it's something."

Something, but not enough. Nothing would be enough until it was brought to national attention.

In the weeks that followed, Dick would recruit his teammates for a personal mission: crashing a meeting of Congress with their own presentation. Whether it would make a difference, that was hard to tell, but it was worth a shot, at least. If nothing else, it would get people talking.

In the meantime, he patrolled a little longer, watched his surroundings a little closer, listened a little better. He was a hero, and it was his duty to save those who were crying for help.

Even if those cries were silent.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

In America alone, five children will die today from child abuse. That's five too many, in not only this country but all countries of the world. Children are the most vulnerable people and yet the protection for them is shamefully weak. Donate to charities like ChildHelp or write to your legislators. And if you even think someone is being abused, intervene, and don't stop until he or she is safe.

To all the victims, you are in my thoughts and prayers always. If you need help, get it. Someone will believe you. Don't give up hope.

No more concrete angels.