A/N: Thanks for the reviews, mystery guest and LaurenHardy13! And thanks to everyone for being patient! :)
Wayne Manor – thirty minutes later:
Bruce was on the phone, impatiently waiting for someone at the detention center to answer. After three rings, he received a robotic announcement:
"The detention center is in complete lockdown. Please try again at a later time."
Apparently it was a looped recording, because the announcement began anew. Bruce hung up the phone and ran a hand through his hair. Complete lockdown. Every kid stuck in their cells, every door bolted shut, every window automatically shuttered with metal blinds that rolled down into position. If anything else had happened to Dick, he was probably close to being dead. In his cell, where nobody would even think about helping him for the duration of the lockdown. Or, he was dead already. There was no way he could survive another beating.
Batman was now in the Batcave, and his eyes narrowed in anger when he remembered the fake practice lockdown. Someone who had some power had wanted Dick away from Bruce. If Dick wasn't there, he couldn't talk. If he couldn't talk, nobody would get in trouble.
As soon as Dick was out of that hole, Batman was going to tear the place apart in order to find the corruption. And he was going to interrogate every single guard and every single teenager. Especially 'Sam'. Tank had said Chuck was dead, so Sam was Batman's main suspect.
Sam would be last, the hero decided. He would take everyone else, one by one, and he wouldn't send them back to their cells. Sam could sit in his cell and imagine everyone telling Batman everything. The teenager would be terrified when Batman finally called for him, and the Caped Crusader intended to take advantage of that fear.
There would be no mercy. Sam would fold as soon as Batman asked about the alleged fight club. The man was sure at least one teen would tell him something, so he would have details that would bury Sam.
Batman didn't know what he would do after that. He knew what he wanted to do, but putting a fifteen-year-old in a body cast wouldn't sit well with anyone, especially Alfred.
The Bat-phone began beeping, and Batman snatched it up.
"Yes, Commissioner?"
"Batman, I thought you should know that the detention center…"
"Is in complete lockdown," Batman finished with a growl.
"Of course you already knew," Commissioner Gordon stated. "Do you also know why?"
Frowning, the hero replied, "No."
The commissioner was surprised, but he forged ahead.
"Warden Wiskin is out of town, and somebody decided that locking everything down would be a better idea than hoping that nobody would escape while the warden is gone."
"WHAT?" Batman exploded, shock in his voice.
"Only the warden has the code to unlock everything. I've been trying to reach him, Mayor Linseed has been trying to reach him, and his secretary has been trying to reach him. We have had no luck, but we will of course continue to try."
"Are you telling me," Batman demanded angrily, "that all of those kids are completely trapped in their cells until whenever somebody can get the code from the warden, who is out of town?!"
"Unfortunately, yes," the commissioner replied. "The head guard can get through some doors in case a lockdown ever lasts longer than half a day. They do need to feed and water the kids…"
"We are not talking about animals, Commissioner," Batman growled, thinking only of Dick.
"That is not how I meant it to sound, Batman," the commissioner replied defensively. "But at least the head guard can get food and water to all of them. I called because there is a teenager who has had regular correspondence with the Riddler."
"Sam."
It was a statement, not a question.
"No, Batman, his name is Corrin and he's seventeen. He'll be eighteen next month, which means he will be released."
Batman didn't respond. Next month didn't matter to him right now. Not even the Riddler mattered right now. What mattered was the fact that a nine-year-old boy was going to be dead by the end of the day, if he wasn't already.
"Batman?"
"Get that code, Commissioner, I'm going to the detention center."
Without waiting for a response, Batman slammed the phone down.
"Sir, not even Batman can get into the detention center during a total lockdown. You made sure of that when Joker's protégé escaped four months ago."
"I know," Batman replied, the anger replaced by a trace of concern. "Nobody can get in or out without the warden's code. And the warden is the only one who knows that I helped him improve security. He would never give the code to somebody else. Unless the warden answers somebody soon, those kids aren't going anywhere for a while."
"Young Master Grayson, sir?" Alfred inquired.
"I'll be surprised if he survives the night," Batman whispered.
The detention center – midnight:
Tank had tried for two straight hours to get Dick to respond without success. He had given up an hour ago, exhaustion and stress overtaking his mind and body. The man knew he couldn't do anything else to help the boy until the lockdown was over. At least nobody could get in, at least he could keep the nine-year-old safe. With that thought in mind, Tank sat on his chair and fell into a restless slumber.
Twenty minutes later, the quiet 'snap' of a key and nearly inaudible 'scrape' of a door caused Tank to stir. But he immediately fell back into his restless state, and the dark shape of Head Guard Ron silently slid into the infirmary and straight into Tank's office. His size belied his ability to be stealthy; he made it to Tank's desk and the motionless silhouette of Dick Grayson without making a sound.
Slowly, Ron slid his arms under the limp body and lifted it up. Turning around, he just as silently crept out the door. The infirmary door had automatically closed and locked, so Ron had to shift Dick in order to get his key into the lock. The motion caused a soft moan to exit the boy's mouth, so Ron turned the key and exited the infirmary as quickly as he could.
Ten minutes later, he was laying the boy on the floor in Sam's cell. The teenager acknowledged his uncle with a nod then crouched down by the nine-year-old.
"Kid, wake up," he said softly, although his tone was full of a mixture of anger and fear. "I am not going into solitary because of you. So wake the frick up."
To Sam's surprise, Dick's eyes fluttered, then opened. A quiet gasp flew from his mouth, and he began to shiver.
"Good job, kid, just keep obeying me, got it?"
"Al'ys zite," Dick mumbled.
"Yep," Sam responded with a grin, "I'm always right."
The jostling movement of being lifted and carried awakened Dick's senses. He moaned softly as the guard carried him out the door. When he felt something hard and cold against his back, his senses carried him back into consciousness, and he awoke with a shiver.
Sam, he recognized the face that was looming above him. His mouth was moving, but Dick didn't even try to work out what the teenager was saying. There was no point, because the nine-year-old only needed to remember one thing.
"Al'ys zite," he mumbled, and was relieved when Sam grinned.
The teen said something else and then his face disappeared. Dick began to panic, because he was supposed to be obeying Sam. How could he obey if he couldn't see him?!
Suddenly Sam was back, and Dick's near-hyperventilation breathing returned to its wheezing state. He received a pat on the head, which calmed him down. Sam disappeared again, but Dick wasn't worried this time. All he had to do was wait for instructions. He would lay on this cold, hard surface for as long as Sam wanted him to, then he would do whatever he was told to do.
Because Sam was always right.
The only thing Batman could do when he arrived at the detention center was sit in the Batmobile and stare at the block of cement where his nine-year-old was dying.
He's not mine.
Mine. Why had he used that word? Dick Grayson didn't belong to him, the boy didn't belong to anybody. Neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne had any sort of claim to him. Neither the hero nor the millionaire could even get to Dick, much less take him out of the place. So why was Dick Grayson now 'mine'?
Why hadn't Batman insisted on keeping the code to end a lockdown? It wasn't like he was going to turn evil and release all the dangerous juveniles onto the streets of Gotham City. He was Batman, paranoid, always-had-to-be-in-control Batman. Why had he forced himself to forget the six digits that would unbolt all the hall doors, unblock the windows, and allow the guards to make their rounds again?
The fact that he had no answer to that question made him feel like an idiot. Maybe he should take the Bat-jet and fly to California. That might be quicker than waiting for the warden to answer a phone call.
The Batphone extension began beeping. His mind was only on one thing, but he answered anyway.
"Sir, you have a message from someone at the detention center named 'Tank'."
"He's the nurse in the infirmary. Play it," the hero demanded.
Mr. Wayne, this is Tank, from the detention center. I'm calling to talk to you…
"Why did you stop it?" Batman nearly yelled.
"I didn't, sir, that's the end," Alfred responded evenly.
"Call him back and patch me through," the hero commanded.
"Sir," Alfred said with an inaudible sigh, "the only answer we will receive is an announcement that the detention center is in lockdown."
Batman had forgotten about his earlier attempts at contacting someone in the detention center. No calls in or out, which is probably why the message had been cut off so abruptly.
It was obvious to Batman that Tank had called to talk to him about Dick. There was no other plausible reason for the nurse to want to speak to Bruce Wayne. Which meant Tank had probably seen Dick, which meant the nine-year-old was finally receiving some help.
"Master Batman?"
The hero realized that Alfred had been patiently waiting for almost a minute, while Batman himself had been lost in thought.
"Tank is taking care of Dick, he's the only one who cares about the boy. That call tells me that Dick is with Tank, which tells me that he is safe. For now, at least. There's nothing I can do here, I'm on my way back."
Hanging up the phone, the Caped Crusader shifted the idling Batmobile into 'drive' and headed for the Batcave.
Three days later:
The lockdown had lasted for almost seventy hours. That was how long it had taken to get the code from the warden, who had been reluctant at first but had eventually been persuaded to end the lockdown.
Ron, as the head guard, was the only person able to go anywhere. Therefore, he was the one who had to trudge back and forth from the cafeteria to all the cells twice each day. By the time the lockdown was over, he was exhausted.
Tank, after waking up and seeing an empty desk, had pounded on the infirmary door for over an hour. Ron had stayed away from that end of the complex, not wanting to hear the noise and probable threats being shouted from the other side of the door.
Sam had been playing nurse to Dick, but nothing he did could reset a broken wrist, or fix three broken ribs, or make the boy's concussed brain focus on something for more than a minute. But the bruises were fading, and the teenager had cleaned off all the blood on Dick's head, and the nine-year-old could talk without sounding like a croaking frog. That, to Sam, was good enough. As long as Dick could move and talk, Sam wouldn't get thrown into solitary.
And, to Sam's satisfaction, Dick agreed with everything he said. When the teenager had said that Dick had killed Chuck, the boy had profusely apologized and promised to do better. He had even declared that he would lose his next three games on purpose, to honor Chuck's memory.
Sam had almost burst out laughing at that, because there was no way Dick would ever come close to winning a game. Not in the near future, at least. But a loyal nine-year-old was a nine-year-old who would never tell Mr. Wayne anything that could affect Sam's well-being. So, Sam had graciously accepted Dick's offer to lose, after which Dick had thanked him for being so generous.
The fifteen-year-old had never felt so powerful. He and his buddies had been in charge of the yard for almost a year, but nobody had ever completely agreed with everything Sam did or said. Sam had the same power that was reserved for dictators and tyrants, although he only had one little follower. The feeling was addicting, and Sam decided that Dick was never going to leave his side. Not willingly, at least.
He still wasn't quite sure why a nine-year-old was in the teenage block in the detention center, but he also didn't really care anymore. Why the boy was there didn't matter as much as how long he was going to stay. And, if Sam had anything to say about it, the how long would be until Sam was released at eighteen.
When the door to the infirmary popped open, Tank immediately headed for the teenage block. He was surprised to see Dick sitting on his bed in his cell with no new injuries. In fact, the boy looked almost fully healed. The bruises around his eyes were nearly gone, the dark ring around his neck was much lighter, and his wheezing was better than it had been when Tank had found him unresponsive three and a half days ago.
A guard opened the cell door, and Tank strode in and crouched in front of the boy.
"How are you feeling, Dick?" he asked.
"Fine," the nine-year-old replied.
"I need to check your torso and take a look at your wrist. You okay with that?"
Dick hesitated, and Tank didn't miss the questioning glance he threw at Sam before nodding in response.
"Your wrist is broken, do you know how that happened?"
Dick shook his head, and Tank knew he wasn't going to receive any honest answers if they stayed in the cell.
"My supplies are in the infirmary. I need you to come with me so I can reset the bone and wrap your ribs."
Tank stood up and watched Dick glance at Sam again before answering.
"Okay."
One word answers and silent responses that were always preceded by a glance at the teenager in the cell next to him. Tank was worried, and hoped he could pull some truth out of Dick once they were alone in the infirmary.
Ten minutes later, Dick was sitting on the only empty bed while Tank gathered supplies. The two comatose teens were still there, but the third injured boy had been able to go back to his cell when the lockdown had ended.
"So," the man began conversationally as he picked up Dick's left arm, "do you remember what happened to this?"
He held up the limp wrist, watching as Dick grimaced and then clenched his jaw.
"No," the boy answered truthfully, and Tank wasn't surprised.
"How many games have you played, Dick?"
"What kind of games?" the nine-year-old inquired, his voice trembling noticeably.
"You know, the one you played with Chuck that landed you in here with a broken nose."
"I didn't mean to kill him."
Tank was dumbfounded. He knew for a fact that Dick hadn't been anywhere near the fight that had ended Chuck's life.
"You had nothing to do with it," the nurse stated.
He waited for a response, but Dick merely shrugged. Shaking his head, Tank laid the small arm down and probed the boy's torso.
"I'm going to wrap your ribs – three of them are broken – and then I'm going to reset your wrist. It's going to hurt," he warned, "but I can give you a shot if you want."
Dick thought for a moment, then decided that he deserved the pain because he had killed Chuck. That would make Sam happy, and Dick's purpose in life was to make Sam happy.
"No shot," he said.
Tank raised his eyebrows, but nodded and began wrapping the nine-year-old's torso. It took him less than two minutes, and then he turned his attention to the wrist.
"Are you sure you don't want a shot?" he asked, searching Dick's eyes for any sign of doubt or fear. "You won't feel it when I fix the bone."
Both doubt and fear were filling the boy's eyes, but he remained firm in his decision.
"No shot," he repeated.
"You're making a mistake," Tank commented. "This is really going to hurt. I'm going to have to straighten your wrist, then manipulate it around, then splint it into the correct position."
"That's, um, a lot to do," Dick whispered, the fear in his eyes manifesting itself in his voice.
"Yep," Tank agreed, "so I recommend that you take the shot. Last chance, Dick."
Dick's resolve wavered. Maybe Sam didn't have to know about the shot, maybe he could keep that part to himself. Little details like that probably wouldn't matter, right?
"I won't tell anybody that you agreed to get a shot," Tank stated. "Not even Sam."
A hint of relief raced through Dick's eyes, and Tank wanted to grab the boy's shoulders and shake some sense into him. It was now obvious that the nine-year-old was completely under Sam's control, and it had happened in less than a week.
"Dick," he said as he began preparing the shot, "don't let any kids in here tell you what to do. You are your own person, and you can make your own decisions. I know that you aren't even supposed to be here."
"Gotham City doesn't make mistakes," Dick immediately replied. "He is always right."
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Tank muttered. "Dick, 'he' is not always right. Nobody is ever 'always' right."
"He is," Dick said stubbornly.
"We'll take about this after you wake up."
Tank slid the needle into the crook of the nine-year-old's left elbow and waited for him to fall asleep.
"The warden and I are going to have a long talk about Sam when he gets back," Tank mumbled to himself.