Bruce glanced at his watch for the sixteenth time – 7:38. It had been exactly twenty-three minutes and – he glanced again – forty seconds since he had been deposited in the small room designated for visitors. He had arrived at the detention center at precisely seven o'clock, hoping breakfast would be over and Dick would be brought to him right away.

To his consternation, breakfast didn't even start until seven. So now here he was, almost forty minutes later, wondering why it was taking Dick so long to eat. Especially since the guards knew that Bruce Wayne was waiting to speak to the boy.

"Uh, Mr. Weyn, sir?"

Bruce automatically stood up when the door opened, expecting to see a child entering with the guard, but no child appeared.

"Where is Dick Grayson?" Bruce demanded. "I've been waiting in here for over twenty minutes!"

"Showa," the guard mumbled, quickly exiting the room and slamming the door shut.

Bruce slowly sat down. He was angry and frustrated, but at least Dick was able to take a shower. But what if the water was too hot? Or too cold? Or…

"Stop," he whispered to himself.

You have to make a decision sometime. Preferably soon.

It's a big decision, I have to think about the pros and cons, I have to look at it from all possible angles.

The sooner you start the sooner he'll get out.

What if it doesn't work out? What if we both hate it?

"Stop," the millionaire repeated quietly.

But the discussion in his head raged on while he waited. Bruce had nothing else to do, so working on making a decision was a good use of the time.

There was a sound outside the door, and Bruce glanced at his watch again – 8:01. The door slowly opened and nine-year-old Dick Grayson slid through the small opening. As soon as he was in, the door shut.

Dick was staring at the ground, so Bruce quietly observed him. His hair was wet, but he had just taken a shower so that was to be expected. His clothes were also wet, which was unexpected because he should have dried off before getting dressed again. The boy's arms were folded tightly across his chest, and Bruce made note of the fact that the broken left wrist was being supported by hiding under the right arm. Briefly, he wondered why Tank hadn't taken care of that yet.

"Hi, Dick," Bruce said softly. "I told you I would come back and here I am. Do you want to come sit down?"

The nine-year-old didn't respond, he didn't even acknowledge the fact that Bruce had spoken. He was like a statue; the only reason Bruce knew the boy was alive was because of the quiet wheeze that was his breathing.

"Dick, I'm here to help, okay? Can we talk, like we did yesterday?"

The boy remained quiet and unmoving. Bruce didn't know what to do. Should he stand up and go over there or should he wait, like he had yesterday?

"Um, will you at least look at me, kiddo?"

Again, why was he using a nickname with a child he barely knew? That question raced out of his mind when Dick slowly lifted his head.

The broken nose and bruised eyes he had expected, and probably something more recent. But Bruce had not anticipated seeing so many new injuries. He narrowed his eyes, anger already boiling in his veins. A bruise on the boy's left cheek, a dark ring around his throat, and a cut on his forehead that was lightly bleeding.

Whipping out his handkerchief, Bruce stood up and strode to the boy. Kneeling down in front of him, the man offered the material as he looked into the light-blue eyes. Eyes that were darting around and slightly glazed.

"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," the millionaire muttered, echoing Tank's words. "Your probable concussion is now a severe one. Fantastic," he ended sarcastically.

Dick hadn't taken the handkerchief, so Bruce took the initiative.

"You have some blood on your forehead, so I'm just going to clean it up, okay? I'm just going to use this to wipe away the blood."

Dick didn't answer, and Bruce wondered if the boy even knew there was someone right in front of him. He slowly raised his right hand and carefully patted the small forehead with his white handkerchief. Gently, he held it against the injury to completely stop the bleeding.

"Do you know who you are?" Bruce asked, removing the now-light-pink handkerchief.

No response.

"Do you know where you are?"

Silence, and the man quietly sighed.

"Do you even know I'm here?"

He received a tiny nod in response to that question.

Slightly encouraged, Bruce continued, "Can you tell me what happened?"

This time it was a tiny shake of the head.

"Someone doesn't want you to talk," he muttered, frustration evident in his voice.

"Idonno."

The quiet words slid into each other, and Bruce became very concerned.

"You forgot what happened?"

Another tiny nod.

"Okay, what's the last thing you remember?"

"You."

"No, before right now. What's the last thing you remember before you came in here?"

"Brrrr…fssssst."

"Breakfast?"

"Yesssss."

"Okay, what happened at breakfast?"

"Donno."

"Can you tell me something specific? What did you eat, who did you sit by, something like that?"

"No."

"No because you don't remember, or no because Sam or a guard or whomever it is doesn't want you to tell me anything?"

"Don…memer."

Dick was struggling to get even those short answers out, and that – combined with the fact that almost every word was slurred – made Bruce want to yank the door open and demand that the guard take him to see the teenagers in order to interrogate them. And then to the warden's secretary to shake a smidge of compassion into her body. And then to the warden himself, who would later be receiving a visit from Batman. A very angry visit.

But, instead, the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to remain calm, for the sake of a terrified, injured, nine-year-old child. Bruce counted to ten, then reopened his eyes.

"Dick, I need you to look at me."

"Am."

"No, I need you to look into my eyes and count to five without looking away. Will you do that for me?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm trying to help you. Please just trust me."

"Don trusssssss any…bawdy."

"That's fair," Bruce responded. "I probably wouldn't either, if I was in your situation. But will you at least try to trust me?"

Dick dropped his head again. Bruce raised his hand, intending to gently cup the boy's chin and lift his head back up. That was a mistake, he realized, when Dick flinched and tried to step away. The nine-year-old tripped on himself and fell sideways.

Bruce threw his arms out, but Dick had already fixed the situation. He was, after all, an acrobat. His world was spinning, so adding another spin by doing a forward roll didn't mess anything up. He ended up on the other side of the still-closed door, his back against the wall and his eyes squeezed shut.

Bruce watched in amazement as Dick turned the fall into a forward roll and stood right back up. He wasn't surprised when he saw the boy's eyes closed, correctly assuming that Dick was attempting to stop himself from throwing up.

"I'm going to talk to Tank," Bruce stated as he stood up. "Why don't you come sit down at one of these tables, and I'll go find Tank. Do you know who Tank is?"

Dick opened his eyes, and Bruce saw a flash of hope race through them.

"Nrsssssssss."

"You're right, Tank is the nurse. Do you need some help walking over…"

The door suddenly burst open, startling Dick and surprising Bruce.

"Warden's calling a practice lockdown, Mr. Wayne. I gotta take the kid back to his cell."

Without giving Bruce a chance to respond, the guard grabbed Dick and practically shoved him through the door before slamming it shut.

Bruce stood stock still, a million thoughts swirling through his mind. To Batman, it was not a coincidence that the guard had appeared right after Bruce had mentioned Tank – the only person he had met so far that had shown any concern for Dick.

"If this is a practice lockdown," he said after almost two minutes, "why isn't there a siren going off? Why haven't I heard the heavy sound of automatic bolts instead of just the quiet click of regular locks?"

Turning around, Bruce strode to the door on the opposite side of the room and knocked, ready to be let out. The door was buzzed open, and he stepped out.

"Does the warden not use a siren or automatic bolts during a practice lockdown?" the millionaire asked conversationally as a guard began checking him out.

The guard looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"A practice lockdown?" he asked, a tinge of disbelief in his tone. "We've never done a practice lockdown, so I have no idea."

Bruce raised his eyebrows, also, and inquired, "How long have you been here?"

"Almost twenty years," the guard replied.

"Have you ever had training for one?"

"A lockdown? Yeah, of course. But I've never even heard the words 'practice' and 'lockdown' used in the same sentence. What makes you think that's what's going on, Mr. Wayne?"

"The boy I was visiting, Dick Grayson, was taken back to his cell less than ten minutes after he arrived. I was told that the warden had called a practice lockdown."

Shaking his head, the guard offered to call the warden to find out what was going on. Bruce nodded and leaned against the counter, indicating his intention to stay and find out.

"Lissa," the guard began after only a moment of silence, "is Bra, uh, Warden Wiskin holding a practice lockdown?"

He waited, then replied, "That's what I said, too."

Another pause, then, "Mr. Wayne is here to visit a kid and was told that the kid had to go back to his cell because of a practice lockdown. Has he ever even brought the idea up to you or anybody that you know of?"

The pause was a little longer this time, then, "For two weeks?! We have somebody to step up?"

Bruce clenched his jaw, hoping that his guess regarding that statement was incorrect.

"Okay, I don't know but I'll let him know. Thanks."

The guard hung up the phone and stated, "Lissa asked me to tell you this: the warden is gone for at least two weeks – she said his son is in the hospital in California – and the interim warden doesn't have the authority to sign a kid out of here so please don't come to her office and start yelling at her and please especially don't ask Tank to go see her."

His guess had been correct, and Bruce immediately wanted to sprint to her office and start yelling at her. But she had no control over the situation, so he took a deep breath and silently counted to ten.

"Not really any of my business, Mr. Wayne, but are you trying to get Grayson out of here for a day or so? Like a vacation or something?"

Bruce shook his head and straightened up. He wanted to slam his hands on the counter and yell at the guard, but he knew that the man had no control over the situation, either.

"He doesn't belong in here," Bruce nearly growled. "He's innocent."

The guard chuckled and asked, "Did he tell you that? Because that's what all our kids say – they're innocent, they've done nothing wrong, or they made a mistake that should have only ended in a suspension or community service or something like that."

Shaking his head again, the millionaire practically snarled, "His social worker put him in here because he had nowhere else to put him. No room in any orphanage, no emergency family to take him for a few days, nowhere. He's not supposed to be here!"

The last sentence was yelled, and the guard was taken aback. An inkling of a memory popped into his head: there was a kid whose family had died. But Ron, a guard in the teenage block, said the kid had killed them.

"But even if he killed them, he shouldn't be in the teenage block," the man murmured to himself.

"WHAT?!" Bruce exploded. "You think he killed his own parents?!"

"I heard it from a good source," the guard said defensively. "Why do you even care, Mr. Wayne? Are you related to him or something?"

Bruce was shaking with anger and didn't trust himself to respond. Instead, he turned around and stalked toward the door leading to the outside world, a place where a certain nine-year-old boy should be residing but was not. Because he was locked in a cage, after having done nothing wrong, and was paying the price.

Swearing under his breath, the millionaire strode out of the detention center to the Wayne family limo, where Alfred was patiently waiting. The butler immediately noticed the storm brewing on his charge's face, so he quickly climbed out and opened the back door of the vehicle. He needed to get Bruce away from the place, because Batman was probably planning on turning around and going right back inside. And Bruce was struggling to keep Batman inside so that his identity wouldn't be compromised.

Bruce climbed in and Alfred instantly shut the door and swiftly returned to his side. Entering the already-running car, the butler shifted and pushed hard on the accelerator. The limo shot out of the parking lot and three minutes later they were on the road that led directly to Wayne Manor.

"They're saying he killed his own parents," Bruce finally commented after almost ten minutes. "They're telling him he deserves to be there, and somebody is threatening him if he talks to me about anything that's happening. He needs to get out, and it needs to be done now."

The all-knowing butler immediately deduced the meaning of his charge's last sentence.

"Master Bruce, I know you are angry…"

"I'm a lot more than just angry, Alfred!" the millionaire yelled.

"I know, sir," Alfred continued calmly, "but Batman cannot go and steal the boy away."

"Why not?!" Bruce demanded furiously.

"Because then he becomes a fugitive, Master Bruce. Even though he is innocent, breaking out of what is essentially jail makes him a criminal."

"How is he a fugitive if he's innocent?! He's not running away to escape a deserved punishment, he's doing it to save his life!"

"The Gotham City Police Department will not see it that way, sir. They are bound by law to follow the rules of the Department of Child Services, which give social workers some leeway when placing children who are in their care."

"Even in they're placed in the da…ng jail for kids?! How is that right?!"

"As you know, Master Bruce, I have been doing research. The only thing that may help Master Grayson is the fact that there is no precedent. I have not found any indication of this happening before."

"I have 'clout', as Tank said, with the police and the mayor. Maybe Bruce Wayne's clout is enough to get Dick out of there."

"That is a much better idea than allowing Batman to help a young boy escape. Especially since Batman has no connection to the boy, while Bruce Wayne has a small one."

They were approaching Wayne Manor, and Bruce made a decision.

"Turn the car around, Alfred. I need to speak to the commissioner in person."

With a slight nod of both approval and relief, the old butler turned the car around and began the fourteen mile drive to Police Headquarters.

The detention center:

Dick didn't know what a practice lockdown was, or even a regular lockdown. All he knew at the moment was pain, a feeling that he decided he would have for the rest of his life. There was nothing but pain, there hadn't been since the night his parents had died, and there never would be, the nine-year-old was convinced of that.

Sam was right, Dick deserved to be here. He deserved the pain, he had killed his own parents. Dick didn't know how, he couldn't remember much about that night – or even things that had happened since then – but Dick decided that Sam was always right.

The boy was back in his cell, sitting on the floor and watching the world spin around him. Sam was talking to him, lecturing him about making better choices by obeying, but the words were spinning even faster than the world and Dick couldn't catch up to them.

"Ssssssorry," the nine-year-old finally mumbled.

Sam stopped speaking, surprised that the boy had actually said something.

"For what?" the teen demanded loudly.

"Donno, buyou al'ys ite."

"Good boy," Sam responded approvingly. "You're learning. I'll let you skip the game, just for today, because you finally admitted it. You can eat lunch and dinner, everyone will leave you alone when I tell them to. Now, what did you tell Wayne?"

"N'ding. Ssssssep don trusssss."

Sam was now impressed.

"Okay, kid, you did a good job. Take a little nap; I'll wake you up for lunch."

"K," was the only thing Dick got out before melting to the floor and closing his eyes.

Three hours later, the bell rang for lunch. Sam did everything he could to wake Dick up – yelling in his face, shaking him, slapping him – but the boy didn't respond.

"Piece of crap," Sam whispered, a little worried about having to go to solitary for knocking the kid unconscious. "Wake up, kid," he said a little louder. "Come on, it's time to eat."

Dick didn't even flinch, so Sam left him lying on the ground and went to the cafeteria. Soon, word spread that the new kid was probably dead in his cell, causing one of the guards to go verify the rumor.

He wasn't dead, the man determined as he crouched beside the boy. His breathing was slow, as was his pulse, but the guard decided that he was just really tired and needed sleep. However, he didn't want to get in trouble, so the man stood up and headed for the infirmary. Tank would know what to do.