A/N: Thanks for the comments TMNTGFKittySidekick01 and Blas!
Chapter 8:
The Batcave – late afternoon:
"There is nothing, anywhere, that says Richard Grayson never returned to the circus!" Batman stated loudly. "Why wouldn't they send the word out, let people know so they could look for him?!"
The Caped Crusader was sitting at the Bat-computer with papers both on the table and on the floor surrounding the machine. Inputting the name 'Richard Grayson' had given him more information about The Flying Graysons than he needed. There were newspaper articles, magazine articles, even a short children's book about the aerialists. But nowhere was there even a brief comment about the disappearance of the youngest member of the act after his parents' death.
Why would the circus cover it up? Had they ever even found him after he had run away that night? Did they just decide that he wasn't worth finding? He was, after all, the last living Flying Grayson and wouldn't be able to do a performance by himself. But leaving a ten-year-old to fend for himself in a strange city?!
"Sir?" Alfred's quiet voice drew the hero out of his thoughts.
"He said he wasn't worth it," Batman suddenly whispered. "They just left him here, Alfred! No wonder he thinks he doesn't matter!"
"How do you know…" the butler began but was immediately interrupted.
"He told me," Batman replied. "When you were up in the Manor, he asked me why I was helping him so much. Then he said he wasn't worth helping."
Alfred gasped in both sympathy and dismay. "That poor child!" he murmured.
"Why would they LEAVE HIM?! It was the only home he had ever known!"
"I don't know, sir, but I do know that we have to make sure he knows that he is no longer on his own."
"How?"
"I don't know, sir," Alfred repeated. "I really don't know."
Abandoned warehouse by the abandoned circus grounds – western outskirts of Gotham:
Joker was pacing. After bandaging his bloody nose, and finding out with relief that it wasn't broken, the villain had decided that the kid needed to be taken out for good. The pacing was helping him plan and he already knew several important things.
First, the kid showed up when there was real trouble. He had been there when Batman had been captured in Joker's fool-proof trap – although it had turned out to be not so fool-proof because of the kid. Somehow, he had known about the diamonds, worth millions of dollars, being carried through Crime Alley in the middle of the night. And Joker had heard about the large gang party that Batman had also attended.
So, the boy probably wouldn't show up for a simple mugging or drug exchange. It had to be something huge and noisy and dangerous. Like a bomb in downtown Gotham in the middle of the day. Or a violent bank robbery on a Friday, when most people received their wages and went to deposit them in a bank.
Second, the boy was a decent fighter. He wasn't as strong as The Bat, of course, but he had done some pretty impressive things. Joker didn't know if the boy had any actual training but, if not, he had natural talent.
Third, Batman didn't know him. The surprise in the eyes of the Caped Crusader when the boy showed up made that obvious. Not knowing The Bat meant not being trained by The Bat. So, if he did have training, it hadn't come from the nearly-unbeatable Batman.
Finally, he was a kid. Children were naïve and vulnerable and impressionable, especially those as young as the boy. Eight, maybe nine? The exact age didn't really matter; all kids were gullible because of their innocence. But, was the boy really that innocent? He was, after all, fighting criminals in his spare time.
An idea suddenly popped into the villain's brain. Maybe he could convince the boy to join him instead of fight him! He could be a valuable asset, once he was properly trained, and Batman wouldn't want to hurt a kid! Joker would send him after the Caped Crusader and the man wouldn't do anything to stop the boy. What a delightfully evil way to get revenge!
That would be his first choice. Before killing the kid, Joker would give him the chance to save himself by becoming the villain's sidekick. Then, if he didn't agree, the boy's death would be his own fault and Batman would have no reason to take it out on Joker!
Now all he needed was a way to get the kid to come to him….
Robin's house:
The usually bright, afternoon sunlight was muted by the gray clouds that littered the sky over Gotham City. A storm was brewing, both outside and inside a group of three crumbling shacks. Robin had decided to move and was swiftly packing. Staying in Crime Alley was too dangerous now, since Batman knew about the grocer and baker. Home would be farther away but keeping his secret safe would be worth the travel time.
Everything had been bundled up into the large blanket again. The only thing he left was the weapon sitting on the shelf. If Batman began asking around in Crime Alley, eventually the trail would end up here. So, Robin was leaving the bat-shaped thing for its original owner to find. He wasn't a thief but he also wasn't going to try to find Batman in order to return it. A short note was shoved behind the weapon and then the young crime-fighter picked up the heavy blanket.
Robin glanced around one last time. The shack had been good to him, providing shelter, a family – even if they were just rats – and a sleeping bag. It had been hot in the summer and cold in the winter but he was alive because he had somewhere to live.
Walking out the door, the eleven-year-old strode to the old tree. He touched the bark and ran a finger down one of the streaks of dried blood from his hands. That made him look down at his knuckles – the scabs had been gone for a while but there were faint outlines of scars where he had torn the skin off night after night. Using the tree as a practice dummy hadn't been the smartest idea but the lack of anything else made it necessary.
"Thanks for the help," Robin whispered to the tree as he lightly patted the trunk. This was where he had created and practiced tricks, where he had figured out how to use his body as a weapon.
Turning away when he felt a warm mist in his eyes, Robin began walking south. He was not going to cry about a stupid old tree. South was toward Crime Alley but Robin knew a place a few miles west of the southern border. There had to be something left that would provide shelter.
The Batcave – ten o'clock at night:
"I'm going, Alfred, and nothing you can say will stop me!"
"I'm not trying to stop you, sir, you are old enough to make your own decisions. I'm merely attempting to remind you that he does not fully trust you and going to his…living quarters…will undoubtedly push him away."
"He practically asked if we could meet up again!"
"No, sir, he did not. He told you that he might see you later. He might see you, not you might find him."
Batman threw his hands in the air and strode away from his faithful butler. A slight frown slid across the older man's face but he immediately erased it.
"He's coming back with me, Alfred, whether he wants to or not. I'm not giving him a choice, he's too injured to fight."
"As you wish, sir. Please do not take your anger out on me, however, when he fights you in order to escape. Fighting, Master Batman, is fighting, no matter the combatants."
Growling angrily at that astute observation, Batman climbed into the Batmobile and roared away. Alfred had made an excellent point but Robin was going to return to the Batcave, even if Batman had to knock him out to get him there.
Seventeen minutes later:
There they were, the old, crumbling shacks that Alfred had described. Batman parked the Batmobile nearly fifty yards away, hoping that the element of surprise would work to his advantage. After climbing out, he quietly covered the distance in less than twenty seconds, pulling up short when he was five yards away.
The Caped Crusader thought he had a pretty good picture of Robin's living situation but discovered that he had been way off. It was worse than Alfred's detailed description. The door was no longer hanging by a hinge, it had completely fallen off. One of the walls had collapsed, leaving a hole the size of Batman himself. The shelter that was protecting Robin from the elements had decreased dramatically.
The boy wasn't home, Batman could see the entire room thanks to the hole, so the hero walked through the entrance. There was the Bat-a-rang on the shelf that Alfred had told him about and…nothing else. No sleeping bag, no journal or pile of fabric in the rusty sink, not even any rats! The only evidence Robin had left was a large, rectangular outline on the north wall that was less dirty than the rest of the walls. That must have been his poster of The Flying Graysons.
Batman sighed in frustration. Alfred had been right; Robin wasn't even close to trusting the Caped Crusader. The boy was intelligent and knew he had given away too much information when he had mentioned the grocer and baker. So, obviously, he had decided to move. But where would he go? And why did he leave the Bat-a-rang, a valuable weapon?
It took him two short strides to get to the shelf and the hero immediately noticed the tracker on the inside edge of the left wing. How had he missed it when he had pulled the Bat-a-rang out of his utility belt?! Would he have thrown the weapon if he had seen the tracker? Probably not. Luck and an unusual lack of observation had allowed them to find the boy. A slip of paper floated away when Batman grabbed the Bat-a-rang. Snatching it out of the air, he straightened out the wrinkled sheet and read it:
Sorry I took your bat-shaped weapon. I thought it was cool and I wanted to see if I could make some of my own. But I'm not a thief and I should have returned it right away. I hope you're not too angry with me. Please don't try to find me anymore. It's bad enough having to hide from criminals who want to repay me for their numerous injuries. I don't need the world's greatest detective on my trail, too. I'm not worth the time it will take for you to find me; you have an entire city to protect. I'll be fine on my own. Thanks for the help you and your friend gave me. And thanks for not making me tell you who I am, and for letting me go. Maybe someday we'll cross paths again, when I save you from another trap….
Batman could practically see a smirk at the end of the last sentence. He had only seen it on the boy's face once but it was memorable. Carefully folding the sheet of paper, he slid it into the front pocket of his utility belt and turned around.
"I'll find you again, Robin," he promised loudly as he strode out the door. "You're more than worth it, kiddo."
Abandoned warehouse by the abandoned circus grounds – western outskirts of Gotham - midnight:
"This is stupid," a man whined to his companions. "Why can't we just rob the bank right now?"
"Because, you idiot, the boss says we have to wait until Friday! There will be more money, people get paid!" a second man replied.
"Will you guys shut it?!" a third man yelled. "I'm tryin' ta sleep!"
"That is not the proper way of asking," the final man in the group stated. "What are you asking them to shut? 'It' can represent anything in here."
"'It' will be you if you don't stop talking with that ridiculous accent," the second man snarled.
"You're just jealous because I'm classy and you three are rough and tumble street rats."
"I'll show you what a 'street rat' does to a 'classy' fella like yourself if you continue to annoy me! Now all of you SHUT UP so I can sleep!"
The four men were wearing identical outfits – black pants with a light-green, long-sleeve shirt. A short word was printed across each chest in dark purple letters. The first one, Chiste, was tall and muscular, with jet-black hair and a baby face. The second, Scherzo, was short and squat but deceptively strong. His hair was the color of carrots and his jawline was completely covered by a wild, scruffy beard. The third was Gracejo, a shrewd-eyed, short-tempered, blonde-haired man built like a fireplug. The final one was Jest – tall and thin with hazel eyes, a small button nose and a light-brown, well-groomed goatee.
"But won't Batman be expecting us to hit a bank on a payday?" Chiste muttered, keeping his voice low. He was strong but Gracejo was quicker and could take any of the other men down in a matter of minutes.
"I don't know," Scherzo muttered back. "It's just what the boss ordered."
"I'm sure he has a plan to defeat Batman," Jest stated loudly, his tone condescending and his haughty expression full of both arrogance and scorn. "He is, after all, one of Gotham City's most brilliant villains."
"This is the last time I'm gonna say it," Gracejo growled from his makeshift bed. "The next person to speak gets an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich!"
"Good," a young voice replied from the door on the other side of the room, "because I'm starving!"
Twenty minutes earlier:
Robin, after leaving Crime Alley, had retraced his steps from a year ago. The path led him to the small forest behind the old circus grounds, where he had hidden on the night of his parents' death. He stopped at the edge of the trees and placed his bundle on the ground, staring in shock at the sight before him.
They had left the trailer. Mr. Haly had packed up his entire circus and moved on except for the small trailer belonging to The Flying Graysons. Several different emotions swelled in Robin's chest, the strongest being betrayal. Apparently not even the trailer was worth their time and effort.
Anger took over and Robin sprinted to his former home. He jumped over the small steps, flung the door open and flipped up the switch on the battery-powered lamp right beside him. Everything was just as he had left it, except for a layer of dust and five or six large cobwebs. The pants from his performance costume were still lying crumpled on his bed, the shining sequins faded and falling off, and a small mouse was curled up on the elastic waist band. Glancing left, he noticed another difference – a pale yellow envelope on his mother's pillow. It took him two steps to get there and he stared at the familiar, graceful handwriting of Leona, wife of Wilhelm the lion tamer. There were three words: Richard John Grayson.
He glared at the envelope for a full minute before picking it up and opening it. There was a single sheet of white paper, about half of which was filled with the recognizable swirls of Leona's cursive. The other half was made up of a small map with four tiny circles.
Dick: We don't want to leave you but we have searched the entire surrounding area and found no clues that could lead us to you. We fear you are either lost or dead. We are leaving your family's trailer, your home, in case you are alive and can make it back here. This map shows where we will be stopping, we stay in each area for one month. After the fourth month, we are going to Europe, where our performances will begin in Paris and go south to Rome, stopping in several smaller cities on the way. Hopefully, someday, you will find your way back to us. If not, please forgive us for not staying. Harry and I waited here for two more days after the circus pulled out but you didn't return. We, your circus family, will always love you and know you will grow up to be as sensitive as your mother and as strong as your father. If you are reading this you are alive so…stay safe, little one.
Robin gently folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. Tears filled his blue eyes and he sank to his knees by his parents' bed. He should have come back; he shouldn't have even run away! The envelope fell to the floor as the young boy crossed his arms on the soft mattress, laid his forehead on his arms and began sobbing quietly.
After three minutes the sobs became silent tears and two minutes after that he was beginning to wipe the moisture off his face. It was too late to find the rest of the circus but at least he had a place to stay.
Shaking his head in sorrow, Robin picked up the envelope, slowly pushed himself to standing and walked out of the trailer, flipping the light switch down as he passed the lamp. He made it to the trees and tucked the letter into the safety of his knotted blanket. Just as he was about to lift his bundle, a loud 'bang' assaulted his ears from the direction of a large, metal building that was about fifty yards away. Light suddenly burst into the darkness of the night but immediately disappeared.
The boy decided to investigate. The building looked as abandoned as the trailer and the rest of the circus grounds so whatever was going on in there probably wasn't legal. Or, at least, leading up to something that wasn't legal. He was currently dressed in his regular, quickly-wearing-out clothes but his tunic, leotard and tights were always on underneath. Slipping his shirt over his head and pulling off his jeans was slightly painful but easily ignored. Quickly grabbing his mask from the bundle of supplies, he tied it around his head and raced toward the building.
The door wasn't completely shut and the crack of an opening was big enough for Robin to walk inside. However, he needed to assess the situation first, so he crouched by the thin stream of light shining out of the building and listened carefully.
Men, four of them if Robin was separating the voices correctly, were arguing loudly. The eleven-year-old didn't catch every word but what he heard was enough.
"…rob the bank…Friday…tryin' ta sleep…street rats…SHUT UP…defeat Batman…brilliant villains…"
At the last word, Robin stood up and stepped through the door without making a sound.
"The next person to speak gets an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich!"
Folding his arms across his chest, Robin stood up as tall as he could and declared, "Good, because I'm starving!"
Four pairs of surprised eyes stared at him. Then one of the men, who was lying on a crate using his jacket as a pillow, began to laugh.
"Come on then, little kid, it's time to eat!"
Gracejo jumped to his feet and Robin narrowed his eyes. The man wasn't the largest one in the room but he was muscular and carried his weight well. Carefully studying his opponent's movements, Robin decided that going high would work better because the man's legs were like small tree trunks. He wouldn't fall easily unless his center of gravity was thrown off. And the best way to throw off a person's center, Robin knew, was to force the body to twist around itself with no warning.
Taking two short, quick steps forward, Robin threw himself into a round-off followed by two quick back handsprings and a high back tuck. His calculations of the distance between himself and the man were perfect, as was his timing. The flip took him over Gracejo's head as the thug turned around and swung a large fist toward the boy's upper body.
But Robin had already rotated past where the hit was aimed and he kicked out hard, slamming both feet into the thick neck of Gracejo. The man, off-balance from the rapid turn-around, couldn't adjust his feet in time. His head snapped back as Robin pushed off and he immediately fell to the ground. Robin arched out of the flip, piked his legs down and easily landed in a crouch. Without hesitation, the boy stood up, raced to the man's side and finished him off with a swift kick to the side of the head.
"Next?" he asked with a smirk. He folded his arms across his chest again to both support his already-throbbing ribs and attempt to look intimidating.
Jest suddenly ran straight past Robin and out the door without looking back. The smirk turned into a grin but Robin was secretly wishing it had been one of the stronger ones instead. One less criminal, however, was one less fight.
Chiste and Scherzo glared at the young crime-fighter. Eliminating Gracejo so easily was impressive but the kid had taken their companion by surprise.
"Flank him?" Chiste whispered as he glanced to his left. Scherzo, his older brother, nodded. They had done this many times and completely trusted each other. Separating themselves, Chiste strolled toward Robin's left side while Scherzo went right.
Of all the criminals he had faced in the past year, only Bull and Bear had been smart enough to attack together. Robin was suddenly nervous as the memory of how that had turned out entered his mind.
Pay attention to both sides, don't allow traps, don't trust obvious clues, protect ribs.
Bull and Bear had closed in on him, leaving him no room for tricks, so Robin feinted toward Chiste, who stopped walking. He did the same thing toward Scherzo, with the same result. Robin was now exactly between the men, with about six feet of space on each side. He wasn't sure which way he should go, or even if he should attack first.
Scherzo suddenly rushed at him and Robin quickly dove into a front handspring. Immediately rebounding into a back handspring, the boy shoved his feet into the side of the man's torso right as he stopped in Robin's former position. Scherzo grunted and folded in slightly but was aware enough to throw a strong fist, which connected solidly with the back of the boy's head.
Robin stumbled forward and automatically tucked into a forward roll. Popping up to his feet, he turned around into an uppercut from Chiste. This time he folded into a backward roll, spitting blood out of his mouth as he stood up again. The young crime-fighter could feel stickiness on the back of his head but didn't have time to check the severity of the wound.
There were four men striding toward him now and Robin, not realizing he was seeing double, was confused. How did two other men get here so quickly and why hadn't he seen them before? The questions fled as Scherzo went low with a leg sweep and Chiste went high with a right hook. Robin jumped over the sweep and was able to execute a sloppy backflip that made the hit miss his chin by four inches. But the men were quick and by the time he landed they were already upon him again.
A large fist whipped Robin's head over his right shoulder as a meaty hand shoved itself into his ribcage. His ears were ringing and his ribs were burning and, as he stumbled backwards again, Robin thought that maybe he should run from this one. But his father was not a coward and Leona had written that Dick Grayson could grow up to be as strong as his father. So, instead of taking his own good advice and running, Robin threw himself into a painful back handspring. The crate that Gracejo had been lying on was right behind him and the boy had noticed the formation of several other crates.
Another sloppy backflip followed the handspring and he landed on the lowest crate. Chiste growled and ran at the boy with a fist pulled back and ready to fly. Robin, hoping his tired legs had enough energy, jumped up. His hands just barely caught the top edge of the crate that was five feet above him and his ribs protested the stretch. Survival, however, was his main goal so the pain was blocked out as Robin struggled to pull himself onto the crate. Immediately standing up, he jumped left to the crate farthest away from the door he had entered. The landing was unsteady but he was two boxes higher than Chiste, who was still running towards him.
Chiste had easily followed the boy's movements. He slammed his body into Robin's tower of boxes, ready to knock the kid into oblivion when he fell off the top crate. Grinning slightly in relief – the guy had taken the bait – the boy jumped into a front flip as the man's momentum stalled. Just like he had in the first fight Batman had seen, Robin landed hard on Chiste's upper back. The man grunted and tumbled to the ground with the tower of crates. The young crime-fighter thought that the criminal was probably unconscious but turned around and kicked him in the back of the head, just to be sure.
"That's my little BROTHER!" Scherzo roared and Robin wearily turned around.
A loud drum was pounding in his left ear and the boy was sure that all the fixing Batman's friend had done was now un-fixed. But there was one more guy and Robin didn't really have a choice.
"Do you like having a brother?" the boy whispered, fatigue evident in his tone. He was attempting to stall and also hoping that a conversation would cause the man to lower his guard.
The question surprised Scherzo. Why would this kid ask something like that? His eyes suddenly lit up – the boy didn't have anyone to back him up if he got in too deep.
"Yes," the man replied with a devious grin. "He's smart and he's always got my back. You don't have anyone to watch your back, do you?" he sneered.
Robin's eyes turned thoughtful. If he allowed him to, maybe Batman would be willing to watch his back. But then Batman would want information that Robin wasn't ready to give. Besides, the hero was busy enough taking care of an entire city. He didn't need another back to watch, even if it was a small one, especially since Robin could take care of himself.
"Maybe someday, but not right now," the boy replied with a shrug. His ribcage objected to the movement and Robin flinched slightly.
The muscular man burst into loud laughter and the young crime-fighter wanted to cover his ears. The noise wasn't helping his pounding headache.
"You're bloody, your eyes are unfocused, you're panting and you don't have backup!" Scherzo scoffed, the statement full of both amusement and confidence. "Admit it, kid – you're screwed. My strong little bro won't be out for long and I'll just keep you occupied until he can get up."
"Then do it," Robin demanded defiantly. "Let's see how long you can keep me occupied."
Scherzo was right, though. Robin was having difficulty breathing, the man was blurry and the boy could feel blood running down his left cheek. He vaguely remembered feeling a sticky substance on the back of his head, also, and wondered how much blood he could lose before he would pass out.
Robin hadn't been paying attention to the fact that the man was slowly moving closer. Suddenly the criminal was in his face again and the eleven-year-old, with his almost-nonexistent energy and slower-than-normal reflexes, couldn't react in time. Scherzo's powerful uppercut connected with Robin's chin, snapping his head back, and he collapsed on top of Chiste's motionless form.
"Get off my brother," Scherzo demanded quietly. He grabbed Robin by the hair and tossed him across the room. The boy landed on his right side, two yards away from the door. This time he felt instead of heard the cracking of his rib.
It was unfortunate, Robin mused dazedly, that he could now recognize the feeling without having to hear it or even think about it. Loud footsteps were pounding toward him and, with an exhausted sigh, the boy decided to go to sleep. Closing his eyes, he saw an image of Batman fighting eight large men. Batman was a real hero and Robin was just a former aerialist running around in a stupid mask and pretending that he could protect at least a small part of Gotham City.
Two large hands wrapped themselves around his neck and lifted him into the air. Robin mentally shrugged – he couldn't breathe through his broken ribs anyway so the lack of air didn't really affect him. But then he was slammed into a wall, hard, and muscle memory took over. Adrenaline rushed in and Robin opened his eyes, lifted his arms, wrapped them around the arms of his opponent and scratched at the bearded face.
His nails caught both skin and hair and Robin was suddenly lying on the floor. From somewhere deep inside him, extra strength came to his aid and he slowly stood up. Scherzo's hands were pressed tightly against his face, blood trickling through his fingers and tears of pain threatening to drip over his lower eyelids.
Robin kicked his right foot into the man's stomach as hard as he could which, at the moment, was not at all hard. Growling, Scherzo tightly grabbed the boy's ankle with his left hand while leaving his right hand on his face.
"Thanks," Robin whispered groggily, grateful that the criminal was unknowingly stabilizing him. He jumped off his left foot and swung it into the side of Scherzo's head. The man dropped the boy's ankle and shook his head to rid it of the slight spike of pain.
Robin used his momentum to twist his body around and land shakily on both feet. Turning to face the wall, he planted his hands and jumped, kicking out as soon as he was off the ground. His feet hit something hard, he heard a loud 'thud' and this time Robin landed on his knees. Exhausted and in a large amount of pain, the boy rolled to his left and sat down with his back against the wall.
"Your little bro isn't awake yet," he whispered to the man who was now unconscious on the ground. Blood was running down Scherzo's left cheek, a product of the broken nose Robin had managed to give him.
Headache, throat throbbing, ribs broken, bloody head, sore right ankle.
Robin went through the list of his injuries and was surprised that he was still awake. He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes. There was a moaning sound from across the room and the boy's eyes popped open.
Fear – no, panic – raced through him and Robin unsteadily stood up again. It was time to get out of here, the faster the better. The door was three yards away and the boy stumbled toward it, almost tripping over himself as he shuffled through the opening. Wrapping both arms around his torso, he curved in toward his chest and staggered to the safety of the shadowy forest.
