Later that day:

Tank had tried to talk some sense into Dick, but the boy had stayed firm. In his eyes, Sam was – and always would be – right. Everything the teen said or did was always going to be right, and Dick wasn't going to make him mad.

A younger kid had thrown up at lunch, so Tank had again been forced to send Dick back to his cell. He wished he had access to the video cameras in the teenage block, but he was 'only' the nurse. Tank had thought about calling the warden himself, but knew Lissa wouldn't even consider giving him the man's number.

And so Dick was back in his cell, sitting on the ground facing Sam. He had a cast on his left wrist and his ribs were well-wrapped. Breathing was still difficult, as was thinking. But the nine-year-old didn't care about that, because Sam would do all the thinking for him.

"Your next game is after dinner tonight, surprise opponent," Sam stated. "Using the cast as a weapon is not allowed, and you promised you would lose the next three anyway."

Dick had to concentrate hard to figure out the meaning of the sentences. It took him several minutes, but once he had made sense of them he nodded.

"I want you to play for a while, to show me your loyalty," the teenager continued. "Don't drop down and lose after your opponent's first turn."

Patiently, Sam waited for Dick to put the words in order and understand what they meant. He could be patient; after all, the boy was going to do whatever he was told to do.

"How long?" Dick quietly asked.

"At least three turns," Sam replied. "If you go down before that, it doesn't count."

After almost a minute, Dick nodded again.

The dinner bell suddenly rang, and all the cell doors popped open. Dick slowly got to his feet and joined Sam in the hall. He was still somewhat dizzy, and the edges of his vision were slightly fuzzy, but he followed his leader into the cafeteria and sat down at a table.

Sam brought one tray of food to the table. Dick took that to mean they were going to share, so he reached for a carrot. The teenager grabbed the nine-year-old's chin and turned his head so he could look into the blue eyes.

"Did I say you could eat?" he asked darkly.

Dick managed to get the word 'no' through his closed mouth.

"You don't eat until you lose the three games. After all, you killed Chuck. You don't deserve to eat until you have honored his memory. Got it?" Sam finished with a snarl.

Again it took almost a minute for Dick to figure out the meaning, but once he did he mumbled out a 'yes'.

Sam let go of the boy's chin and began to eat. Dick stared longingly at the food, but he understood why he wasn't eating. Chuck had been Sam's right-hand man, and Dick had killed him. The nine-year-old didn't remember how he had killed Chuck – or his own parents – but Sam was always right. Sam didn't make mistakes.

Bruce Wayne was in the visiting area for the third time in one week. He had heard the dinner bell, so he assumed that he would be waiting for at least half an hour. The guards would have Dick eat before being brought to visit someone, especially when that someone was Bruce Wayne.

To his surprise, Dick entered the room only ten minutes after the bell. Not surprisingly, the nine-year-old stood by the door with his back against the wall, the same position he was in every time he stepped – or was shoved – into the visiting room.

Bruce eyed him critically. The bruises encircling his eyes were gone, the one around his throat was nearly invisible, and his left wrist was encased in the white plaster of a cast. Dick's breathing was still an unhealthy sound, but the man suspected at least one broken rib so he wasn't surprised. Tank had obviously been able to fix him up, and Bruce was relieved.

"Hi, Dick, do you remember me?"

The fact that Dick had a severe concussion had not escaped Bruce's memory. There was nothing Tank could do about that except wait, so Bruce had decided to test the boy's brain.

"No," the nine-year-old replied quietly.

"I'm Bruce, and I'm here to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine."

The boy's words were clipped, making him sound like he was deeming this visit an inconvenience.

"How is your head? Any headaches, dizziness, spots in your vision?"

There was a pause, then Dick asked, "Are you a doctor?"

"No, but I do have some medical knowledge."

Another pause, this one shorter, and then, "I'm fine, Sam helped me."

A lightbulb clicked on – Batman was, after all, the World's Greatest Detective.

"Does Sam help you a lot?"

"Everything."

"Does Sam tell you what to do?"

"He's always right."

Batman internally growled at this new piece of knowledge.

"Do you ever think for yourself?" Bruce snapped.

"Why should I?"

"Because you are not a slave," the man stated angrily.

His anger was not directed at Dick, but he couldn't keep it out of his voice.

"Thinking hurts, so Sam does it for me."

That piece of truth, the fact that trying to think while dealing with a severe concussion would cause a headache, calmed him slightly. Bruce inaudibly sighed and changed tactics.

"Is it hard for you to concentrate?" he asked.

The pause was much longer this time, almost a minute, so Bruce tried again.

"Is it hard to focus?"

"On what?" came the immediate reply.

Ignoring the question, the millionaire continued, "Is it hard to see?"

"No."

Bruce recognized that the smaller the words and sentence, the quicker Dick was able to answer.

"Do you see spots?"

"No."

"Is anything blurry?"

A pause, so Bruce changed it to, "Is anything fuzzy?"

"Sometimes," Dick answered with a tiny shrug.

"Come sit down, kiddo," Bruce lightly commanded, ignoring the fact that, again, a nickname had popped out.

Dick hesitated, his eyes both thoughtful and laced with pain. Hating himself for doing it, Bruce changed tactics again.

"Sam wants you to do what I ask."

That made the boy's decision easy, so he immediately walked to the table and sat down.

Bruce clenched his jaw and his eyes grew dark with anger. Sam had complete control over this innocent child, and Dick didn't even know it. The teenager had given the boy a beating and then taken advantage of his inability to think clearly because of that beating.

Take a breath, test his memory.

Batman didn't want to back down, didn't want to take a breath and test Dick's memory. But Bruce needed to know the extent of the damage.

"What did you have for dinner just now?" the millionaire asked.

"Nothing," Dick replied.

Hoping he had heard incorrectly, Bruce echoed, "Nothing?"

"I killed Chuck, I don't deserve food," the boy replied with a shrug.

"You don't deser…"

Bruce couldn't continue. Shoving his chair away from the table, he stood up and strode to the door. He pushed the buzzer and, as the door automatically opened, threw a quick glance in Dick's direction.

"I will be back. And I will get you out of here."

"Why?"

Bruce couldn't answer because Batman was about to fly into a rage. His body trembling with fury, the man strode out the door and glared at the guard who was ready to check him out.

"Tell me," he growled, "do you make it a habit of allowing teenagers to exert control over other kids and forcing said kids to skip meals?"

"Sorry?" the guard replied, real surprise in his tone. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm just the guard who checks people in and out of the visiting area."

"There is no rotation?"

"No, Mr. Wayne, of course not. Every guard has their own section, mine is here."

"So what goes on inside the blocks doesn't matter to you," Bruce nearly snarled.

"I was hired to check people in and out, that's it."

Bruce grabbed the pen the guard handed him and signed on the check-out line. He was so furious that the pen ripped through the paper. Turning around, the man stalked away, knowing the guard was probably glaring at him as he left.

"Not my job," the guard muttered when the millionaire was out of sight.

Dick was still sitting at the small table, confusion dancing on his face. The man had left so quickly, and the boy didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. He decided to just sit and wait, because trying to figure out what to do brought back the pounding headache.

Ten minutes later, Ron came in to take Dick back to his cell. The guard was surprised at the lack of a millionaire in the room, but he shrugged it off. Mr. Wayne probably didn't care anymore, because Ron knew that Dick wouldn't give anything away. His loyalty belonged to Sam; he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that relationship. Which meant he wouldn't say anything bad about the teenager, which meant Bruce Wayne would have no reason to suspect that anything was amiss.

Grinning, Ron pulled the boy up to his feet and led him out the door. He didn't know why the millionaire had such an interest in this nobody kid, but he assumed that the interest would now fade away since Dick would stay quiet.

Ten minutes later, Dick was in the yard with the rest of the teenagers, standing in front of Sam and listening to instructions. He understood that he was going to lose this game, and that he needed to stay up for at least three turns. The cast was forbidden, and Dick knew he would have to keep it behind his back to keep himself from automatically using it.

A new boy, Carl, was introduced to the nine-year-old. Carl was thirteen, about the same size as Dick, and was nowhere near as strong as Frankie. If Sam hadn't instructed him to lose, Dick knew he would have been able to win this time. Or at least come close to winning.

Sam had decided to go with an easy opponent for Dick's first loss. The nine-year-old was capable of staying upright for a while with Carl – maybe even winning – so Sam told him to stay up for at least ten rounds. Dick had, of course, easily agreed.

Carl went first, his small fist connecting softly with Dick's left cheek. Dick's retaliation was just as gentle, and Sam chuckled. The small fist of the thirteen-year-old landed on the nine-year-old's right shoulder, so Dick carefully pushed his fist against Carl's collarbone.

For Carl, this fight was a breath of fresh air. He had been playing for almost two months, and had lost every single game. But he had always gone down quickly, saving himself from further damage by sacrificing his pride. Slightly encouraged by the soft retaliations of the younger boy, Carl decided to use his feet.

Back when he was in elementary school, Carl had won every single footrace in field day. His legs were strong, so the kick he threw into Dick's stomach made the nine-year-old's eyes widen as pain burst through his torso. But it was only round three, so Dick refused to allow himself to ease the pain by bending over. Instead, he tapped his fist on Carl's shoulder.

Carl grinned; he was going to win his first game! He threw another kick into Dick's solar plexus, and this time the nine-year-old couldn't stop himself from curving his torso in and releasing a gasp of pain.

"Kid."

The angry comment came from Sam, so Dick immediately stood up and lightly pushed his fist into Carl's stomach. Carl raced around so he was behind Dick and kicked him in the lower back. It was a lucky shot, hitting the kidney of the younger boy and forcing him to drop to his hands and knees.

Sam growled, but Dick couldn't move. He was gasping in pain, and had forgotten what round they were on. Was he allowed to be done yet?

"That's five," Sam suddenly snarled.

The sound gave the nine-year-old motivation. He slowly stood up and turned around. Carl was waiting, so Dick took a step forward and gently kicked him on the shin. Grimacing at the slight spike of pain, the thirteen-year-old repeated the action on Dick's leg. His kick was much more forceful, but not hard enough to leave anything more than a bruise. With a matching grimace, Dick tapped Carl on the shoulder again.

Carl went high this time, swinging his small fist toward Dick's head. Instinct kicked in, just as it had in his first fight, and Dick ducked. He threw a quick uppercut into Carl's chin as he stood up. The nine-year-old still didn't know how to fight, but Chuck had left some painful reminders of reacting to hits. His uppercut was weak but effective, knocking Carl back several feet and almost causing him to fall.

"Stop," Sam commanded, so Dick dropped his arm and stood still. "No more turns, you're done. Carl, three turns in a row."

Dick nodded and waited for Carl to regain his balance. Carl grinned at his good fortune and advanced toward the younger boy. The thirteen-year-old had learned something from this fight, so he kicked Dick in the solar plexus again then ran behind him and shoved his foot onto Dick's lower back.

The moves left Dick on his hands and knees again, his eyes squeezed shut and gasping in pain. This time, Carl's foot landed on the back of his head, and Dick collapsed completely. He wasn't knocked out, but he got a mouthful of dirt and the beginnings of another headache.

"Carl wins," Sam declared, and Carl shouted in delight as he celebrated his first win.

Dick breathed a sigh of relief. He had lost, as he had promised, but this loss had not been as bad as his previous ones. Maybe Sam would allow him to play Carl again tomorrow.

"Stand up, kid," Sam demanded. "Your next game starts in five minutes."

Surprise filled his eyes as Dick obediently stood up. He had lost, he wasn't supposed to play again. But, he realized, he hadn't been knocked out. And, of course, Sam was always right. If Sam said play again, Dick would play again.

"You're playing Frankie," Sam stated. "Three rounds, you gotta stay up for three rounds otherwise it doesn't count."

Dick nodded and began rubbing his lower back with his right hand. Hopefully, Frankie would stay away from his torso. But Frankie was standing ten yards away and watching the younger boy attempting to lessen the obvious pain in his back. Grinning, he decided to focus all of his hits on the vulnerable torso.

The Batcave:

Batman had been researching Dick's new case manager, Victoria Valentia. There was not much to go on: age twenty-six, recent graduate of the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, one year of experience, and a caseload of fourteen kids. Fifteen, now, since Dick had been added to her pile. She lived alone, but was dating a rich socialite from a different city.

"She seems fine, sir, although a little young," Alfred remarked.

"Sanderson seemed 'fine', too," Batman grumbled.

The butler, although he could have reminded Batman of no open beds anywhere and a family emergency, let that comment go. He, too, was upset with Jeff Sanderson, who had 'simply neglected' to find someone else to take Dick to the funeral of his parents.

"She didn't know anything about him," the Caped Crusader murmured as he stared at the search history from her computer. "I need to see Dick's paper file. Sanderson has to have more information than what she read in the Gazette. I'm going to DCS tonight."

"I wholeheartedly agree, Master Batman," Alfred replied.

"Alfred, he's broken. That teenager, Sam," Batman spit the name out in disgust, "has broken him. Dick doesn't think for himself, he only does what Sam tells him to do."

"Sam told him to talk to you, sir?"

"No," Batman stated, then hesitated. "Well, yes, in a way."

Alfred raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation.

"He wouldn't come sit down, so I told him…" Batman paused again.

After almost thirty seconds of silence, Alfred gently prompted, "You told him…"

With a heavy sigh full of regret, the hero admitted, "I told him Sam wanted him to do what I told him to do."

"Master Batman!" the old butler exclaimed reprovingly.

"I know," the younger man snapped, "but the conversation was going nowhere. So then I asked him what he had eaten for dinner, to test his memory."

"And…" Alfred prompted again, after another twenty-three seconds of silence.

"Nothing."

"What?!" the butler exclaimed again, aghast at the thought of a growing boy not eating dinner.

"He said he had killed Chuck, so he didn't deserve food. I left, Alfred, I couldn't continue without something drastic happening."

"Understandable, sir," Alfred responded, regaining his proper composure in an attempt to calm his charge. "You cannot return as Batman, sir. Bruce Wayne must go through the proper channels in order to release young Master Grayson from…"

"Death," Batman finished. "In order to save him from death. Physical, emotional, mental, and any other kind of death you can think of."

"Have you made a decision, sir?"

Batman remained silent. He had been thinking about it for what felt like every minute of every day. But he couldn't decide. Batman wanted to rescue Dick, but Bruce was hesitant. What if it everything went wrong? What if everyone hated it?

Conversely, Bruce wanted to protect Dick, but Batman was unsure about his ability to protect both Gotham City and a young child. And what if Dick found out that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same person? What nine-year-old could keep a secret like that?!

"Sir?"

Batman shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that Alfred had been patiently waiting for him to answer.

"I don't know," the hero finally confessed quietly.

Calmly, Alfred responded, "I advise you to make a final decision soon, sir. Especially since Master Grayson is already loyal to a dangerous teenager. It will be hard to break him out of that, but it will be even harder the longer he stays there. Be that as it may, I am not trying to tell you what to do, Master Batman."

"I know," Batman growled, annoyed with himself because of his indecisiveness. "What if I do become his guardian, but he hates it here? Or what if he finds out that I'm Batman? No child could keep that quiet! What if I'm too busy all the time, and everything falls on you?"

"Sir, everything you have just mentioned is a negative. Have you given any thought to the positives?"

"Like what?!" Batman exclaimed.

"Master Batman, if you can't think of any positives, then you have already made your decision," Alfred stated wisely.

"But…" Batman began.

After nearly a minute of silence, Alfred decided to move on from the conversation. Picking up his duster, the butler began cleaning the Bat-computer.

But…what?

Batman didn't know 'what', but the thought of leaving Dick in the detention center, practically sentencing him to death, caused something to constrict in the man's chest.

What if we get along well? What if we actually like each other?

In his mind, Batman could see the dazzling grin of Dick Grayson, the aerialist. But the image immediately switched to that of Dick Grayson, the detention center inmate. That Dick Grayson didn't have any kind of grin, and it reminded Batman of his eight-year-old self.

"What if I can help him?" the man unintentionally asked the air around him.

"That, sir, is a very good question. I feel confident that your similar background is part of why you are drawn to him," Alfred answered. "Dinner will be ready in an hour, sir."

With that, Alfred turned around and headed for the service elevator. Both Batman and Bruce needed time to think, because the butler was fairly certain that his charge hadn't yet made a final decision.

The detention center:

Dick had stayed up for three rounds with Frankie, but just barely. He had accidentally used his casted arm to defend himself in round two, and that had resulted in a fourth turn for Frankie. The nine-year-old had been taken out by the strong left hook again, and was now being carried to his cell by Ron.

The head guard plopped the boy down on the hard bed and left the cell. Sam stood quietly by the bars between their cells, waiting for Dick to wake up. It would be seven hours later, early in the morning while Sam was asleep, before that time would come.