Note: Soooooo, I'm kind of extra harsh to Dick in this chapter (I'm toughening him up to become Robin). There is a bit of extreme punishment from both Bruce's and Dick's points of view. No blood or really graphic descriptions, but still extreme. If you don't like that, just skip over those parts. Sorry and thanks.
Rollerparty: To answer your question, the boy poor has never done a single thing bad in his entire life and yet so many mean writers beat up on him all the time! Sorry...?
The Batcave:
Batman was pacing. Stupidly, even after five months, he had neglected to give Dick a tracker. And he didn't even know if it was Oliver Williams that had him.
The Manor's phone suddenly began ringing. Batman stopped pacing and ripped his cowl off his head. Alfred picked up the receiver.
"Wayne Manor," the butler stated professionally.
"Give me Bruce Wayne."
The voice had the tiniest tinge of an Australian accent and Alfred nodded to Bruce. So, it was Oliver Williams.
"This is Bruce Wayne."
"Did you know that your kid is missing?"
"Yes, of course," Bruce almost growled but changed his voice to frantic at the last second.
"Do you want to know where he is?"
"YES!" Bruce yelled.
Was the man actually going to tell him, or at least give him a clue?!
"Would you like proof of life first?"
"YES!" Bruce yelled again.
There was a short pause and then Bruce heard a sound he never wanted to hear again. The sound of Dick, his nine-year-old ward, screaming in pain.
"DICK!" he roared into the phone.
"Was that enough proof?" the other man asked, a smirk in his tone.
"Yes, please, just tell me where he is. What do you want? I'll pay anything, I'll give you anything! Just, please, let him go!"
"I only want one piece of information that he has. And, until he gives it to me, you get to listen to him crying out in pain, begging for release, and calling for you to save him. You should advise him to give me the information."
There was another pause and then the soft sound of Dick trying to hold back tears.
"Whatever he wants, kiddo, just tell him!" Bruce exclaimed frantically.
"I don't know," Dick stated, a sob choking his throat.
"Oh, he knows," Oliver spoke into the phone again. "He's just being stubborn."
"Maybe I know," Bruce stated, panic dancing around the edges of his voice. "What do you want?"
"I doubt you have that knowledge," the Australian growled. "You're just a millionaire playboy who cares about nobody but himself and, surprisingly, this street rat."
"Try me," Bruce nearly growled back.
Another pause and then Dick screamed again.
Bruce's hand tightened around the phone. He picked up the nearest object with his other hand and threw it across the room.
"JUST TELL HIM!" he roared, hoping Dick could hear.
"I…don't…know," the boy repeated, panting between each word. "Please," he begged softly, "I…please…I…don't…know."
Another scream, sobs of anguish and now Bruce was close to crying. Batman was completely useless right now. And the millionaire had never had to plead for anything. He was powerful, rich and everybody gave him everything he wanted or needed. But suddenly that changed.
"Please stop, he can't…please don't do this," the man implored. "He obviously doesn't know, just ask me. Maybe you're wrong, maybe I do know!"
"My guy didn't see someone talking to you on the playground yesterday so you're not the one I'm going to ask."
"Batman?!" Bruce gasped. "What do you want to know about Batman?!"
"The more questions you ask, the more screams you'll hear."
Dick screamed again but it faded quickly.
"Darn, he's unconscious. We'll just have to try again later. I'll call you back!"
The man's voice was disappointed and then cheerful. Bruce heard a dial tone and he slammed the phone down. Alfred stared at him, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.
"You heard…" Bruce whispered.
"Yes, Master Bruce," the butler whispered back. "What would he want to know about Batman? What could be so important that he would go this far?"
"What does every criminal want to know, Alfred? My identity, probably."
"You told Master Dick 'no matter what', sir. He obviously took those words to heart, Master Bruce. Is there any chance that it's not that?"
"There's always a chance, Alfred, but this one seems quite small. Why did I say that to him, how could I put that pressure on him? HE'S NINE!"
Bruce sat down and dropped his head into his hands.
"He's nine," he whispered, his tone filled with guilty anguish.
An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:
Dick was hanging from the ceiling. The rope around his wrists had been attached to a metal ring and the rope was just short enough that he couldn't reach the ground with even his toes.
Oliver came back in with a black bag. He placed it on the table on the far side of the room and unzipped it. The first thing he pulled out was a knife, and Dick's eyes widened. Then, the man pulled out a whip, and Dick's body began to tremble. Finally, he pulled out a tire iron and Dick had enough experience with that to last a lifetime.
"Which one first? Sharp knife, metal rod or soft whip," the man asked, glancing at Dick with an evil grin. "Shirt," he demanded.
Mark Jerkins was concerned. He was okay with beating the kid up but…torture? Did his new boss want the information so badly that he was going to torture a nine-year-old? He thought back to his days teaching fourth grade. The kids, so eager to learn, so excited to watch Mr. Jerkins do his magic tricks. Not even Grayson deserved this.
"I said, take off his shirt!" Oliver commanded.
"No," Mark said softly, shaking his head. "The boy is nine and says he doesn't know. You can't go this far."
"You wanted revenge, right?" the Australian sneered. "This is revenge."
"Not like this, not even he deserves this. I know, I was his teacher. He's a smart kid. If he says he doesn't know, he doesn't know."
"You're ridiculous," Oliver snarled, pulling a gun from the bag.
"Wait," Mark said, raising his hands in surrender. "Just…at least leave his shirt on."
His voice was trembling. He glanced at Dick, his eyes full of fear, and said, "This shouldn't be happening but self-preservation is higher on my list of priorities."
"I…I get it," Dick whispered, his voice shaky and outlined with terror.
Oliver was suddenly in front of them, tire iron in hand. He swung and the metal hit Mark on the side of his head. Jerkins crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from the wound.
Then Oliver took out a cell phone.
"We're calling Daddy. Phone number," he demanded.
Dick shut his mouth so Oliver swung again. The hit, light compared to what Michael had done five months ago, landed on his right shin. But still there was a 'crack' and Dick whimpered in pain. Oliver held up the tire iron again and the boy quickly gave him the number to Wayne Manor.
There was a short conversation, during which Oliver walked back to the table and grabbed the whip. He removed the phone from his ear and returned to Dick.
"Don't worry, soft whips don't draw blood. They just sting really, really, bad and leave lovely bruises. This one is Daddy Wayne's warning."
Drawing his arm back, Oliver brought the whip down toward Dick. He barely knicked the boy's broken rib, but still Dick yelled out in pain.
"DICK!"
It was Bruce roaring and Dick decided to try to cover up the pain. He sniffled and pushed his aching chest to the back of his mind. It was a futile attempt, however, because as soon as he heard Bruce demanding that he tell the criminal whatever he wanted, Dick broke down.
"I don't know," he cried, a sob forcing its way into his throat.
No matter what.
The thought echoed in his mind again. But did Batman think he should go this far?
Oliver brought the phone back to his ear. Another short conversation, another drawing back of the arm, and then the material slammed across his torso. It left a trail of fiery pain and Dick couldn't hold back the scream of agony.
"JUST TELL HIM!" he heard Bruce roar.
"I…don't…know," Dick repeated, panting between each word. "Please," he begged softly as he saw Oliver lift the whip again, "I…please…I…don't…know."
This time it hit his broken arm then wrapped itself around his head. The man was correct, it didn't draw blood, but it hurt more than anything Dick had ever felt in his entire life.
Another short conversation and then Oliver's arm went up again. This time Dick screamed before it even happened and fell into the inviting black hole, leaving the world behind.
Oliver was disappointed. He had never had someone fall unconscious so quickly but, then again, the boy was only nine. Shrugging, he returned the soft whip to the table and strode out the door, leaving two unconscious bodies behind him.
Thirty minutes later:
Oliver checked on them for the third time. Neither body was moving so he sighed and decided it was time for lunch. Walking out the front door, he strode to his car, got in and drove away. The nearest town was half an hour north but Jerkins wouldn't be alert enough to do anything if he woke up and the boy would probably be out for at least another hour.
Unbeknownst to the Australian, Mark Jerkins was already awake. He heard the car drive off and slowly opened his eyes. There were two people hanging above him and the world was swirling around. But, he still had his cell phone in his pocket.
Slowly, the man sat up. The only number he could remember would go to the office of Principal Mercer. He dialed the familiar number and an unfamiliar voice picked up.
"Principal Maizer speaking."
"Gray…son…Wayne…McGraw ha's…"
Mark dropped to the ground again and his cell phone gently slid out of his hand.
"Hello? Who is this?"
Principal Maizer received no answer so he hung up.
"That was strange," he murmured.
The principal thought carefully for a few moments and then made a decision. Picking up the phone again, he called Commissioner Gordon.
Commissioner Gordon's office:
"That is strange," the commissioner agreed after hearing Principal Maizer's story. "Do you have any ideas of what it could mean?"
There was a pause and then the commissioner nodded.
"Yes, I'm assuming whoever it was meant Bruce Wayne. Possibly Dick Grayson? I'll give the man a call and ask him if he has heard anything. Thank you, Principal Maizer."
Commissioner Gordon put down the phone and it was his turn to think for a moment.
"Maybe I should tell Batman, first," he pondered out loud.
He waited a moment longer and then nodded his head. Decision made, he stood up and strode to the bright-red phone sitting under its glass case.
The Batcave:
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Yes, Commissioner?"
Bruce had snatched the phone off its receiver as soon as he heard it. Then he realized that the commissioner probably didn't even know Dick was missing.
"Batman, Principal Maizer received a strange call a few minutes ago. I thought I should tell you before I contact Bruce Wayne. The man, whoever he was, said 'Gray son Wayne McGraw' and then something that the principal said could have sounded like 'house'. Have you heard anything about Bruce Wayne or his young ward, Dick Grayson?"
"That is strange, Commissioner. I'll take care of it."
The Caped Crusader hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Grabbing his cowl, he quickly put it on and raced to the Batmobile. The old McGraw house was on the eastern edge of the city, hidden in a dense forest.
"Be careful, sir!" Alfred called as the Batmobile roared away.
An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:
Oliver Williams, on a hunch, had returned to the crumbling remains of the McGraw house. The first thing he saw was Mark Jerkins' cell phone lying on the ground. It was off, so Oliver felt relatively safe, but wondered if the man had been able to call anyone. Perhaps it would be best to move the boy to a different location.
Nodding his head, Oliver went to the table and retrieved his knife. He stood on the chair Dick had been tied to in order to reach the ring hanging from the ceiling. After several seconds of hard work, he was finally able to saw through the rope. The boy dropped to the ground, his head hitting the back of the chair as he fell.
Batman, meanwhile, had just parked the Batmobile in the forest about fifty yards away from the old shack. He could see a car and needed the advantage of surprise. Sprinting through the trees as quietly as he could, the hero arrived at the McGraw house in less than twenty seconds.
The Caped Crusader crept around the edge of the house, flattening himself against the wall. When he got to the window, he carefully peered around the corner. An unfamiliar man was standing on a chair, looking at the ground with a satisfied grin. There, lying on the floor and not moving, was Bruce Wayne's nine-year-old ward. Next to him was the motionless body of Mark Jerkins, a cell phone next to his left hand.
Had Jerkins called the principal?! That was a question that didn't matter right now, Batman decided. What mattered was that the other man was at a table on the other side of the room, putting things into a black bag. Without hesitation, Batman sprinted to the front of the house, burst through the door and ran straight at Oliver.
The criminal turned around, surprise in his eyes, and had no time to react. Batman was already upon him, his fists flying around the man's body, leaving blood and bruises everywhere. When Oliver finally dropped to the ground, the Caped Crusader wasted no more time on the man. Instead, he raced to the center of the room, where Dick was lying on his back.
Kneeling down, Batman yelled Dick's name and carefully shook the boy's shoulders. There was no movement, so he shook harder. Still nothing and the hero was now extremely worried.
The boy was breathing – barely – but Batman couldn't find a pulse. He tried Dick's neck, then his right wrist and finally his left. Again, still nothing, so the Caped Crusader placed a heavy hand on the small chest.
"Come on, Dick," he murmured as he started walking his fingers around the boy's ribs. One was broken and, unfortunately, another was about to break.
"Sorry," Batman stated as he pushed down on the ribs protecting Dick's heart.
There was a slight give but nothing else happened. So, the hero did it again…and again…over and over until he heard the telltale 'crack'. Batman pushed down one last time and felt the tiny beat that he had been searching for. It was slow and sluggish, but it was there.
"Good job, kiddo."
Pulling out his Bat-knife, the Caped Crusader quickly cut the rope that was holding Dick's wrists together. His own hands were shaking, Batman noticed. Batman's hands were never shaky. This was affecting him more than even he had known.
"Status report," he whispered, something that, although he didn't know it now, he would be saying frequently in the future.
Broken left arm, fractured right shin, several large bruises – dark, ugly, whip-shaped bruises – blossoming under his torn shirt, two broken ribs, deep bruise that circled the top of his head like a crown, small head wound, and slightly bloody wrists.
"I need you to open your eyes, Dick," Batman stated loudly. "Give me something to work with here. Help me out, kiddo."
There was a nearly inaudible grunt and then the eyelids fluttered.
"That's right, keep going," the Caped Crusader encouraged.
"No. Matter. What."
Anyone listening wouldn't have been able to understand the mumbled words. Batman, however, wasn't just 'anyone'.
"I am so sorry, kiddo. I shouldn't have…you should have…"
"Promised," was the quiet reply. "No matter what."
"But you shouldn't have let it go this far, chum. Nothing, not even that, is more important than your life."
"Promised," the nine-year-old whispered again as he opened his eyes a fraction of an inch.
Batman shook his head, guilt in his eyes. He pulled the can of Bat-sleep out of his utility belt. Dick didn't need to be in more pain than he already was, especially since Batman had to pick up him with two broken ribs, a broken arm, and a heavily bruised torso.
The Caped Crusader sprayed a gentle mist in his ward's face and watched his eyelids close and his face relax. Replacing the Bat-sleep in his utility belt, Batman slid his arms under Dick's body and carefully picked him up. The dark head dropped back so the hero adjusted his grip to support the small neck.
"Okay, you strong boy, let's go home."