A/N: Thanks for commenting, JessicaRae95 and VintageRoseTaylor! :) Sorry for the loooong wait; sometimes life happens. Thanks for sticking around and being patient.

The detention center:

Tank had been forced to let Dick go. There had been another fight, and all three boys were severely injured, even more so than Dick. There were only three beds, so a guard had taken the still-sleeping Dick back to his cell and laid him on the thin mattress.

Fortunately for the young boy, everyone else had also been asleep. Not even the 'clang' of the cell door closing had caused anyone to stir. For the first time in two nights, Dick slept peacefully through the night.

The next morning:

The loud sound of the bell woke him up. Dick groggily opened his eyes, only to see the angry face of Sam leaning over him.

"Breakfast, kid," he snarled. "Now, or you'll wish you were dead."

Dick already wished he was dead, but he reluctantly got to his feet.

"You look so cute with that tiny bandage on your nose," the teenager declared, "but you don't need it."

Grabbing the strips of gauze crossing the nine-year-old's nose, Sam ripped them off. Several tears of pain burst from his eyes, causing Sam to chuckle.

"Let's go, time to eat," he declared, taking Dick's arm and – again – practically dragging him to the cafeteria.

This time, Dick was allowed to eat. There was no shoving, or slapping, or accusations of starting fights. Just blissful oatmeal with chunks of something Dick didn't recognize but didn't even care.

When the door to the yard was opened, all the kids shuffled out, and Dick wondered why the teens were so subdued.

"It's your fault," Sam snapped in Dick's ear, startling him. "Chuck was off his game because of you."

For the first time, Dick noticed Chuck's absence. Unbeknownst to him, Chuck was one of the boys in the infirmary, currently unconscious and going downhill fast.

"If he dies, it's on you," Sam snarled. "The third person you've killed in three days. How does it feel to be a serial killer?"

Dick's eyes widened. He hadn't even known about the fight! How was it his fault?!

"Ready to play?" Sam snapped again, startling Dick back to the present. "This is Frankie," he motioned to the short teen next to him, "and he's your opponent. He's your size, let's see if you can actually win."

Frankie, although short, was exceptionally strong. Dick stared at him, fear again consuming his mind. The teenager's muscles had muscles, and the nine-year-old knew he was going to lose again.

"I'll even let you go first," Sam growled.

Dick was frozen in place, hoping that he would die soon so he could be freed from this horrific "game", but also hoping that he wouldn't die because he wanted to live.

Frankie grumbled impatiently and Sam shrugged. The shorter teen took that to mean he could start, so he did. His iron fist slammed into Dick's chest, forcing the breath to flee from the boy's lungs and knocking him back a full six feet. Dick landed on his back again, gasping, silently pleading for oxygen and feeling like he was never going to breathe again.

But suddenly he could, and Sam was shouting at him, and the other boys were throwing insults and accusations at him. Somehow, Dick forced himself to stand up. It was, after all, his turn. He was going to at least try to get himself out of this, because he was a Flying Grayson. Flying Graysons never quit, they never give up just because they're scared.

With that thought giving him a surge of adrenaline, Dick ran toward Frankie and threw himself as hard as he could into the teenager's chest. Frankie hadn't been expecting it, and he stumbled back. His left foot slid out from under him when he hit a slippery patch of grass, and he fell to the ground.

Dick grinned slightly, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Frankie was already back on his feet and advancing. The nine-year-old was relatively sure that the teen was going to use his fist again, and Dick was intelligent enough to realize that there would be some sort of movement before the small but strong fist would swing toward him.

Unlike Chuck, Frankie was intelligent. And very experienced. He internally laughed when he saw the younger boy carefully watching his fists. A fake was just part of a turn, so a fake was what the kid was going to get.

Frankie made an obvious movement, swinging his right arm behind him as if he was going to throw that fist into Dick's face. The nine-year-old stepped to his right, out of reach of Frankie's right arm, and directly into the teen's left fist. The rock-hard fist slammed into the side of Dick's head, and the younger boy dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Sam cleared his throat, so Frankie took another turn. He went on one knee and slammed his fist onto Dick's chest over and over until he heard the loud 'crack'. Frankie stood up, but Sam cleared his throat again. After all, Dick had thrown Chuck off his game yesterday by making him stumble. The boy needed to be taught a lesson.

Frankie looked at Sam in surprise, then shrugged. It was his job to win fights, not to determine when he had won. The teen stared down at the boy for thirty seconds, trying to decide how to finish him. He had already broken a rib and made the kid's obvious concussion worse. Sam wanted more, so Frankie had to think of something more.

His mind made up, Frankie knelt down again. In one swift, efficient movement, he grabbed Dick's left wrist and twisted it, snapping the bone in half. Dick didn't stir, a testament to Frankie's left hook, so the teen dropped the arm and stood up again.

"Drag him behind that tree and you're the winner," Sam stated softly.

All the other boys were completely silent. Sam had never continued a fight after someone was knocked out. The winner was immediately declared and the loser left for a guard to find. But Frankie had continued at Sam's instruction, and now he was shoving the boy's small legs into the shadows behind the skinny tree. The crown of the tree was large, and Dick's body conveniently fit in the shade of the plethora of leafy branches.

Wayne Enterprises:

Batman had gone to the detention center last night, but had left almost as soon as he had arrived. Riddler had escaped from the State Pen, and catching that villain before he could go on a giggle-filled crime spree had taken priority.

Besides, Bruce Wayne reflected as he sat in one of the most boring meetings of his professional life, Dick probably wasn't even in the detention center. Only an idiot would put an innocent child in a place like that, and social workers usually weren't idiots.

Usually.

The word echoed in his brain, but Bruce shrugged it off. It was his paranoia, that's all it was. Batman recognized that he was often paranoid, although why he was feeling that way about an orphan still didn't make sense.

It was almost nine-thirty, and Bruce was impatient. He wanted to be at the funeral early, to…be there for the kid or something?...but this meeting was lasting longer than anticipated. Finally, the man had enough.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but you'll have to excuse me. I have a…"

Why was 'family event' the first thing that had come to his mind?

"…previous engagement," the millionaire finished lamely.

A chorus of "I understand" and "of course" and other farewells followed him as he strode quickly out of the room.

Jeff Sanderson had forgotten about his newest charge. The family emergency that had caused him to leave Dick with a guard at check-in had worsened. Dick, therefore, was a tiny memory in the back of Jeff's brain. And that fact that he was supposed to take the young orphan to his parents' funeral had slipped completely from his mind.

The detention center:

The warden had called Jeff's phone when the man hadn't arrived at the pre-arranged time of nine o'clock. Jeff hadn't answered, but the warden wasn't concerned. Perhaps the social worker had his phone on vibrate and didn't hear it. Perhaps he heard it but was driving and chose not to pick it up. Perhaps the funeral had been postponed. Whatever it was, the warden was certain that Jeff Sanderson knew what he was doing.

Assuming Dick was still with Tank, and not wanting to tangle with the nurse again regarding the boy, the warden pulled out a file and began filling out some paperwork. When Jeff arrived, he would send word to Tank, who would bring the boy to the lobby.

Ten o'clock came and went. Dick, still lying unconscious in the fading shade of the leafy tree, had no idea that he had just missed the funeral of his only relatives. Most of the guards didn't notice his absence, and the one who did deliberately ignored it.

Sam spent an hour staring at the two empty cells next to him, his emotions alternating between anger at the boy and concern for his second-in-command. Not a single second of the fight that had landed Chuck in the infirmary was Dick's fault, and Sam knew that. But he needed someone to blame, and the new kid made a good scapegoat.

The Wayne Family burial plot – 10:10:

Commissioner James Gordon arrived at the site of the funeral, embarrassed by his tardiness. He was surprised when he joined Bruce Wayne and the preacher, because there was no little boy or social worker.

"Bruce, this is…"

"Where is he, Jim?" Bruce interrupted quietly.

"I don't know, that's Jeff Sanderson's job. I don't even know where the boy is living right now."

The millionaire glanced around, hoping that a car would pull up, or a pair of people would be walking his way. But the area was empty except for the three of them and Alfred.

"Mr. Wayne," the preacher said apologetically, "I have another funeral at eleven, on the other side of town. It's almost a quarter after ten, do you mind if I begin?"

Yes, I mind. The child that belongs to these two people is not here, and he should be here. Why isn't he here?

Alfred discreetly cleared his throat, and Bruce looked over at him. The old man's eyes were sympathetic, but he nodded slightly. Bruce glanced at his watch – 10:14. The 'other side of town' was nearly thirty minutes away with good traffic, and traffic was rarely good.

"Jim?" Bruce questioned softly.

Commissioner Gordon nodded, so Bruce took the advice of the older men.

"Go ahead," the millionaire murmured.

The service took only ten minutes – the preacher was in a hurry and nobody knew enough about John and Mary Grayson to say anything. As the caskets were lowered into the ground, Bruce saw himself as an eight-year-old, watching his parents being laid to rest. It hadn't given him closure, but at least he had been able to say goodbye. Nine-year-old Dick Grayson had just missed that chance. The last image he would have of his parents was going to be their mangled bodies lying on the dirt of the circus floor.

"Where is he?" Bruce demanded as he climbed into the car.

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," Alfred replied. "But we do know that his social worker is Jeff Sanderson. I'm quite certain that Batman can find information on the boy's whereabouts, Master Bruce."

Seven minutes later they arrived at Wayne Manor, and four minutes after that Batman was inputting the names 'Dick Grayson' and 'Jeff Sanderson' into the Batcomputer. Thirty seconds after that, the familiar 'ding' signaled the arrival of a card.

Batman picked it up, took one glance, and angrily crumpled it into a ball. Apparently, Jeff Sanderson was an idiot.

The detention center – noon:

The bell rang for lunch and all of the teens ate quickly. Yard time began early, because everyone had finished within fifteen minutes. When the door opened, every teenager ran to the tree, where the broken body of Dick Grayson was still lying on the ground. The leafy shade had moved to the other side of the tree, and the nine-year-old's skin had a pink tint.

"Come on, boys, go play," a guard said as he strode toward the group.

The teens scattered and the man was surprised to see a small body on the ground. It was the fight-starting kid, the guard realized as he bent over the boy.

"Great," he mumbled sarcastically, "just great. He starts fights but can't finish them."

Growling, the guard carefully picked up the limp form of the nine-year-old. He saw the broken nose, the bruised eyes, and heard the slight wheeze in Dick's breathing. But, he knew Tank had taken care of those yesterday. The kid had probably just taken a good punch right before the guard had broken up the group.

The man started walking while those thoughts bounced around in his brain. Since Tank had seen all of this, maybe the kid didn't need to be taken to the infirmary. It was, after all, on the far side of the detention complex.

Deciding that the boy could just sleep it off, the guard took Dick to his small cell instead. He carefully laid the nine-year-old on the bed, then left after closing and locking the door. The kid would be fine, Tank didn't need to re-evaluate what he had already evaluated yesterday. Tank would probably be grateful, since the nurse had his hands full with yesterday's fight.