A/N: Thanks for reviewing, Stheno Gorgon and mystery guest! :)
Gotham City Department of Social Services – midnight:
Batman was currently in the office of one Victoria Valentia, sitting on her chair and sifting through her case files. There were teenagers and babies and one toddler, but no nine-year-old boy. Until he got to the end of her pile.
She had put him on the bottom, he was her last priority. Batman growled as he flipped open the folder titled 'Richard John Grayson'. There was a succinct, one-page description of what had happened, a quick note about his placement, and nothing else. Victoria had probably received more information from her search than she had from Jeff Sanderson.
Batman lifted the page and found a sticky note. Apparently, Victoria had been in a hurry, because it was more scribbling than writing, and the hero had to study it carefully in order to decipher it.
"Circus performer," he softly read, "not audience. Detention center, why, what horrible thing did he do besides being in a circus. Ask Jeff? Priority – zero, kid's in there for a reason."
The Caped Crusader slapped the file shut, he had read enough. Victoria obviously wasn't going to do anything to help the nine-year-old because, in her eyes, circus performers weren't "good enough" to receive help.
"In there for a reason," Batman softly snapped irritably, "besides being in a circus."
Angrily, the man restacked her files, tempted to put Dick's on top of the tall pile. A different thought entered his mind. Putting the thin file smack in the middle of her desk, Batman grabbed a sticky note and scribbled,
"Check your sources, check your orphanages, check your 'emergency' foster families"
With a sigh, he removed the note and slid Dick's file underneath the pile. Nobody could know that somebody had broken into the office, so everything had to be returned to its original place. Or…close enough. Carefully, he slid the bottom half of Dick's file out into the open, where she would easily see it and be reminded of her new charge.
The detention center – 6:30 in the morning:
Sam woke up to the sight of a young face staring at him through the bars of his cell.
"Stop staring," he grumbled, and was pleased when Dick turned around and walked to the other side of his small cell.
Sitting up, the teen suddenly noticed something that he thought he probably should have seen a day or so ago. The younger boy's body was shaking, like he was shivering even though it wasn't cold. Sam narrowed his eyes in thought, then realized that he hadn't allowed Dick to eat since the lockdown had ended.
"One more game and then you'll have proved your loyalty," Sam stated.
Dick didn't turn around, but he nodded and began pacing the short length of his cell. He looked like a caged lion, and Sam briefly wondered if the boy was still his.
"Come here, kid," he demanded.
Immediately, Dick whipped himself around and returned to Sam's side of his cell.
"You hungry?" Sam asked.
Dick nodded.
"You want to eat breakfast?"
This time the nine-year-old shook his head.
"Three times," he stated, his voice also trembling noticeably.
"Good boy," Sam replied with a grin. "Your last game to honor Chuck is after breakfast. You stay here until the guard comes to get you."
Dick nodded again and sat down on his bed. Two minutes later the cell doors opened and the teenagers headed for the cafeteria. Five minutes after that, Ron came to collect Dick. Taking him outside, the guard gave him the basketball and told him to start shooting until he made five baskets in a row.
"I don't…"
"Are you disobeying?!" Ron exclaimed angrily.
Shaking his head, Dick turned to the netless hoop and began throwing the basketball at it over and over. Rarely did he make even one, much less any in a row. It didn't help that he could only shoot one-handed. By the time all the teens were in the yard, Dick had been shooting for almost an hour with only a few short breaks. His torso was aching, his right arm was tired, and he was exhausted.
Sam, who was leaning against the tree and engulfed in shade, finally called the boy over. Dick slowly made his way to the older boy, stopping several times on the way to catch his breath. He was not sweating – there was not enough moisture in his body to allow that – and the fact slightly concerned Sam, who knew some things about dehydration and starvation.
"Ready for your final loss?" the teen asked.
Dick was bent over, his right arm wrapped around his torso and his lungs trying to pull in air that seemed to be nonexistent.
"Ye," he managed to reply in between gasps.
"Stand up, your opponent is here."
Closing his eyes, Dick wished for Carl. Opening his eyes, he straightened up and was surprised to see nobody but Sam.
"You look surprised," the teen stated, anger swirling around in his eyes. "Did you really think you wouldn't have to play me? New rules: no retaliation, no letting yourself get knocked out, stay up until I win. Got it?" he snarled.
Dick felt the familiar feeling of terror wash over his trembling body. Sam was always right, and Dick knew what was coming. Sam was mad, and it was Dick's fault. Dick deserved this…right?
A thought flashed through his mind, followed by a vaguely familiar face. He wasn't supposed to be here, that's what whomever the face belonged to had told him. But Sam was never wrong, so the face had to be the one who was wrong.
Confusion began dancing in his eyes as different thoughts began chasing each other around in his mind. The face…he was nice, he had tried to help. Maybe. But that would make Sam wrong, which was wrong because Sam was never wrong. Was he?
A large fist slamming into two of his broken ribs made the conflicting thoughts fly out of Dick's head. Automatically, the nine-year-old curved into himself, attempting to lessen the pain and protect his torso. That earned him a sharp kick to his right shin. He didn't hear the slight crack, but he did feel the spike of fire that shot up his leg.
"Stand. The. Frick. Up."
That was Sam's voice, and Sam was never…
Never what? Dick couldn't remember. But Sam was obviously furious, so Dick forced himself to straighten up. Because he had to obey Sam…right? What was he supposed to be doing?
A flat hand hitting his broken nose reminded him. Chuck – no, Sam – was teaching him a lesson, and Dick was supposed to stay standing up.
I'm trying to help you.
That voice belonged to the slightly familiar face that again presented itself in his mind. Why did the face want to help him?
The series of punches that flew around his torso shattered Dick's will to obey. He dropped to his hands and knees, the pain overcoming the knowledge that he was trying to stay standing up for some reason.
Sam growled, furious that Dick was being disobedient. A tiny thought in the back of his mind warned him that the boy couldn't take any more hits, but Sam didn't care so he shoved the thought away.
But Dick was, literally, saved by the bell. Yard time was over and Sam didn't have a chance to do any more damage. The teenager stalked away, leaving the nine-year-old on his hands and knees gasping for air.
"Come on, kid, let's go see Tank."
Marcus, the very first guard Dick had met at the beginning of his incarceration, was crouching in front of the boy. The man cupped the small chin and gently lifted Dick's head.
"Dang, you're a mess," he commented quietly as his gaze landed on the fresh blood dripping from Dick's nose. "Can you walk for me?"
"Yeah," Dick answered, then proceeded to lower himself onto his stomach.
"Nope," Marcus stated, "wrong way. Forget about walking."
Without waiting for a response, the strong guard scooped Dick off the ground and strode toward the other end of the complex. Twelve minutes later, he walked into the infirmary. To his surprise, every single bed was empty.
"Is this good or bad?" Marcus asked as Tank walked out of his office.
"Depends on who you are," the nurse replied. "If you're in Josh's gang, it's bad. But if Sam is your leader, it's good."
"They're both dead," Marcus stated softly.
With a heavy sigh, Tank nodded. Three deaths in one week, it was a new record. Plus a nine-year-old who would probably be dead soon.
"No rest for the weary," Marcus said apologetically as he laid Dick down on the nearest bed. "Pretty sure you've seen him before…"
Tank glanced at the bed with a grimace.
"Too many times," he retorted. "But at least now I have room."
Marcus didn't know any details, but he had heard one of the kids talking to the head guard about keeping the sick bay full. An inkling of an idea popped into his brain.
"Say, Tank, how long has your place been full?"
"Off and on for over a week," Tank responded. "Mostly on, especially since the first time I saw this one."
"Something's going on…" Marcus muttered.
"Say again?"
"A few days ago, I heard Sam tell Ron – head guard Ron – that the 'sick bay' had to be full. It was a few hours after that big fight, the one that put three boys in comas."
"Sam, of course it's Sam," Tank snarled. "I think Sam might be coming down with the flu, Marcus, you should bring him to me when you have a chance."
"Sure thing, Tank," the guard acknowledged with a nod. "And I'll make sure he comes alone, just in case he's contagious."
"Good idea. Maybe after dinner, so Dick here can get some shut eye first. He's in deep water, Marcus, and barely staying afloat. He's nine, and he thinks Sam is always right. For a while it was touch and go physically – he almost died in my office – but now I'm losing him mentally. And he's not even supposed to be here!"
"This is Sanderson's kid?! It was supposed to be for a night or two at the most!"
"How do you know him?"
"I checked him in. Jeff got an emergency call and had to leave so I checked him in and took him to the teenage block. It was the only cell we had, but I told Ron to keep an eye on him and that he should be moved as soon as something opened up. I've had a bed open on the second floor for almost four days now!"
"Piece of fricking crap," Tank growled. "You mean he could have been out of there before the lockdown?!"
Marcus thought for a moment, working out the timing, then nodded. Tank shook his head as he began examining Dick.
"I'm going to have a chat with Ron," Marcus stated, anger wrapped around the words, "and don't be surprised if one of us comes in here needing your services later today. This is a sh…"
The guard paused, glanced at the nine-year-old, and then finished, "…crappy situation."
"You can say that again," Tank murmured as he shined a penlight in Dick's eyes.
Marcus left, and Tank began his examination in earnest. Nose again, but that would just take time. He gently probed Dick's torso and decided to re-wrap the ribs. Cast was still intact, so the wrist was stable. There was a large bump on the boy's right shin. Tank gently pushed on it, and was rewarded with a pain-filled murmur from the exhausted nine-year-old.
"I don't think it's broken, Dick, but I can't be sure without an x-ray. I'm going to try to get you out of here again, but don't get your hopes up."
Dick mumbled something and then closed his eyes, slipping into the healing depths of unconsciousness.
Tank stepped into his office and picked up the phone. He took a deep breath, then dialed the familiar number.
"Warden…"
"Hi, Lissa, it's Tank," he began calmly.
"No, I can't get anyone checked out of here. No, the interim warden can't sign off on even a medical release. No, some kid inmate is not going to spend the night in my office," the woman immediately snapped. "If you're so keen on harping to someone about that boy – because I'm assuming it's the boy you want to talk about – then you should just harp to the warden. His number is 581-369-2470. He's not going to be happy if you call, since his son is in the hospital, but I'm washing my hands of that darn boy."
There was a short pause and then she continued in a much calmer voice, "Now, if you're calling about anything other than that boy, what can I do for you?"
"You already gave me what I need," Tank replied then slammed the receiver down so hard that the phone rattled.
Two minutes later, a phone in the pocket of a man in California began vibrating.
Mercy General Hospital – Sacramento, California:
Warden Brandon Wiskin ignored the vibration in his back pocket. That was easy to do, since he was currently standing against a wall with Batman in his face. The Caped Crusader had arrived less than five minutes ago, fresh from a sleepless night and four hours on the Bat-jet. And the hero was obviously furious, although the warden wasn't quite sure why. Especially since the hero hadn't said a word yet. Batman was just standing there, glaring.
"Are you going to answer that?" Batman finally demanded.
The warden shook his head, indicating that Batman had his full attention and there would be no interruptions.
"There is a boy – Dick Grayson."
The warden immediately recognized the name, and a lightning bolt of relief shot through his chest. This wasn't about him allowing the detention center to remain in lockdown, it was about an orphan who had stayed there for only two or three days.
"Jeff Sanderson is in charge of him. The kid probably isn't even in the center anymore."
"You should just shut up and listen," Batman growled.
This time the warden nodded, so the hero continued.
"He has been in there for a week, in the teenage block. He has been beaten, starved, and neglected for the entire time. He is your responsibility, he should not be in there, and I know you know that fact. I need you to sign this," Batman shoved a paper in the man's face, "so he can be released."
Brandon's eyes widened in shock as he listened. The young kid had spent a week in the teenage block?! He took the paper and began reading. It was the normal form that the warden signed every time a kid was released, but this time he couldn't sign it.
"Have you cleared this with Jeff Sanderson? Because if he says no, I have to say no."
"I haven't found him yet," the hero admitted angrily. "Family emergency…"
"Wait," Brandon interrupted. "You do know that his 'family' consists of three cats and a parakeet, right? He's had something going on with a pet for a week?!"
"Three cats," Batman snarled, "and a parakeet?! He doesn't have a wife, girlfriend, kids, siblings…"
"Only child, wife died two years ago, no kids, don't know about a girlfriend. Have you gone to his house?"
"That is the first place I looked," Batman snapped, the implied 'do you think I'm an idiot' hanging darkly in the air.
Shaking his head, the warden replied, "Not Jeff's house, his cats' grandmother's house."
"Why would I…how do you even know…what are you talking about?!"
Brandon was surprised. He had heard of the Batcave and its infamous machinery that knew everything. But Batman didn't know about Jeff's cats' maternal grandmother's country cottage?
Flipping the paper over, the warden pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote down an address.
"Try looking there. If you find him and get him to sign his form, I'll sign mine. I know the kid shouldn't be there, but my hands are tied without his signature."
Batman snatched the paper, glanced at the address, shoved the paper back into the Brandon's hands, then turned around and strode away without a word. Another four hours on the Bat-jet and then he could begin the process of getting Dick out by finding the missing social worker. And if Sanderson didn't want to talk to Bruce Wayne about it, Batman was going to step in and 'help'.
I will be back. And I will get you out of here.
Bruce Wayne's words echoed in his head. A promise, even though he hadn't actually used the word. Batman doubted that Dick currently had the mental capacity to catch the implication, though. But the lack of understanding meant that the boy wouldn't say anything to Sam, so the teenager wouldn't have any idea of what was coming.
"Hang on, kiddo," the hero said as he prepared the Bat-jet for takeoff. "Batman always keeps his promises."