A/N: So here we are, after much struggling and writer's block. First the boys wouldn't cooperate, then Alfred wouldn't cooperate... I ended up having to get out a bullwhip (many thanks to Master Warious for that) and a crowbar *hinthint*. Anyhow, finally, here is the next chapter. Though I don't know why I just said "finally" because I'm actually notorious for not updating for like forever... Thanks so much to my two reviewers, Eavis (yeah, I'm trying to bring him down a notch, but it just ain't workin so far. And I'll try not to do so much strangling...) and Athena Puget (yay epic win! And yay amusement!). Hope you guys like this next chapter. It's gonna start getting really interesting now. Like, I'm getting excited thinking about it.

Chapter 3: Dark Secrets

Just before we'd left New York, we'd started hearin' stories from Gotham 'bout dis Batman freak. News 'bout Dent an' da clown had just hit da headlines when Cowboy came back for us. I dunno 'bout nobody else, but when I heard he was headin' in dat direction, it only made me all da more curious.

Mosta what hit da papes in New York was speculation – who is da Batman? Is he a good guy or a bad guy? Does it really matter? To us newsies, it didn't. He sold papes fer us wit' dose headlines, and he made fer some pretty good late-night ghost stories at da lodgin' houses. But udder'nat, weren't none of us really cared much who he was or what side he was on.

Boy, if we – Spot, Blink, and I – if only we'd known how much we'd come ta care. If only we'd known how much da whole t'ing was 'bout to affect us all. Maybe we woulda stayed in New York after all. In the end, though, I'd like ta think I'd do it over again…

"Listen ta dis," Race announced, lounging on Spot's large canopy bed with the newspaper opened up in front of his face. Spot was leaning over Kid Blink's shoulder as the blonde orphan read the same article in the second copy, the two of them seated comfortably on the floor. Race went on. "'The masked vigilante known as the Batman has finally come to the attention of Gotham City Police, it seems, as newly appointed Commissioner, James Gordon, named the caped crusader as the prime suspect in recent murder cases, including those of two officers from GCPD, late Monday night in an emergency press conference. The murders, Gordon stated, were closely tied to the Harvey Dent case, though whether the Batman himself also murdered the late District Attorney, he wouldn't say.'" He leaned forward so he could talk over the paper and shoved a cigar in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "You b'lieve dat?"

"It's in da papes, ain't it?" Spot muttered, not taking his gaze from the article.

"Yeah, but you an' me both, we know dat don't mean nuttin'." Race shuffled the pages of his paper and leaned back once more, scanning through the article. "Whaddaya t'ink a dis… dis Bat-guy? I mean, whaddaya know about 'im?"

"Just what da papes say."

The door gave a groan as it opened, and Race jumped at the unexpected sound. Hot ashes fell from the cigar into his lap due to the sudden movement, making him yelp as he jumped clear off the bed. "My apologies, Master Drake," Alfred chuckled as he strode in with a tray of sandwiches. "In the future, might I suggest not smoking?"

"Yeah, yeah," Race muttered, snagging a sandwich before Alfred set the tray down on the desk in the corner.

While the boys were momentarily distracted, the butler disposed of the cigar out the window. "Master Wayne seems to be in a rather sour mood since your return from the city," he commented casually. Blink muttered something about stating the obvious, so Race knocked him upside the head. "Apparently you boys got into some mischief down in R&D. Or so he tells me."

"We didn't mean ta cause no trouble," Spot growled.

"You kiddin'?" Race interrupted. "Of course we did. I'm sick'a bein' lied to. I wanted ta get even."

"Ain't he apologized enough fer dat? Come on, Race, ya got even. Now let it go."

"Naw, I ain't close ta gettin' even." The little Italian's face was practically livid. Alfred just stood aside and watched, waiting for the tension in the room to settle.

"If ya ask me, I'd say ya got you's a trust problem." Blink ducked this time when Race made a swing at him. "Whaddaya say, Spot? You'd almost think he takes it some kinda personal or somethin'. Like he was the only one got his feelins hurt." Spot brought his cane down between the two before things could get out of hand. There was murder in Racetrack's eyes as he sat on the floor, glaring at them.

It was then that Alfred finally spoke up, his voice ringing out in the spacious room like an old British grandfather. "If you ask me, bringing you three out here and showing you his life should more than make up for any hard feelings. And it proves just how much he cares for you. He's been trying very hard to help you boys adjust, and he doesn't make it a habit of letting anyone close to him these days. To hear him going on about you, one would think you were long-lost brothers of a sort. So, in a way, you should feel honored."

"Honored dat he lied to us?" Race spat.

"Honored that he let you in so soon after a tragedy, instead of shutting you out." When this elicited no immediate response, he went on. "He's not likely to tell you this himself, but I think it's something you boys should know. He's a lot closer to this whole Batman business than he lets on." This caught the boys' full attention, as he knew it would. "Rachel Dawes was a childhood friend of his, and very dear to him. She was killed by the Joker during the whole Harvey Dent incident."

A somber silence fell in the room. Race suddenly found the rug very interesting. "He love her?" Spot asked softly.

Alfred paused a moment, glancing between the three of them. "Very much so." As he turned toward the door, his voice took on an admonishing tone. "Might I also suggest, Master Drake, that you focus less on 'getting even', and perhaps a little more on helping him to adjust."

After the door closed behind him, there were a few more moments of silence before Spot went back to browsing through the newspaper articles. Race hoisted himself up onto the edge of the bed and sulked. Blink was just opening his mouth to say something, when Spot's excited voice cut him off.

"Hey. Hey, hey! C'mere. C'mere, lookit dis." He was pointing frantically to a blurry photo attached to an article about late-night sightings of the Batman.

Race scowled at the picture for a moment. "Looks like some kinda black car or somethin'," he muttered. "What you so excited for?"

"It's da thing," Spot hissed. "From R&D."

Race's eyes went wide as he snatched the paper from Spot's hands, holding it close to get a better look. "Naw…" he whispered. But there was no mistaking it. He quickly scanned the article, searching for something, anything, to disprove it. The description matched up.

Blink just shook his head. "Well, Al did say Cowboy was closer to this whole Batman thing than he let on. Maybe that's what he meant."

"Wait a minute. Maybe what's what he meant?" Spot asked suddenly. "What exactly are we sayin' here?" Race was completely speechless.

"Well, I mean, I ain't sayin' nothin' til I see somethin' more solid. I's just sayin' what it looks like, that's all. You's the one that pointed it out in the first place."

"Ya wanna go snoopin' t'rough here lookin' fer proof? Whaddaya, stupid? He'd t'row us out right quick."

Proof. Without waiting for Blink's response, Race tossed the paper aside and slipped out of the room, muttering something about heading to bed.

Heart pounding in his ears, Racetrack stood in the center of the large study and stared at the old grandfather clock. It was too easy. There had to be something more to it. It was just too easy! And yet, with his bedroom directly across the hall, how many times had he heard those chimes softly clanging in the middle of the night? "Dis is such a bad idea," he mumbled as he stepped forward. For several moments he just stood there in front of it, heart racing, trying to quiet his breathing as he listened for any noise that might give him away.

When, after several long, agonizing minutes, the silence hadn't been broken – even by so much as a tick from the clock – he reached his hands up to the left side of the wood paneling, hooked his fingers around the back, and pulled. The wood groaned slightly as it budged away from the wall. He froze, straining his ears to pick up any other sounds. Nothing else stirred. He gave another yank and the clock rolled free from the wall – revealing the hidden doorway he'd been looking for.

The passageway was low and narrow, leading a few feet back into the wall to an old pulley-system elevator made of metal grating. Race leaned forward and gazed through the floor of the elevator into darkness. A shuddering chill ran up his spine. "Such a bad idea," he growled to himself as he stepped onto the elevator and threw the lever to lower himself into the dark chasm. The metal creaked a little, but gave no further noise as it lowered him slowly into the inky blackness.

A/N: I didn't know where else to go with it, so I figured I'd just end it there and pick it up in the next chapter. Kid did a bit more talking this time around (as opposed to just getting slapped constantly... I honestly don't know where that comes from), but I think Race is also stepping up to his role as the main character in this story, which is good, because I was starting to worry for a while there. I'm sorry, I think Nightwing is great, and Jason is an incredibly interesting character, but Tim Drake has always been my favorite Robin (I sound like a total dork now...). Anyway, I promise it will get more interesting. The first person narrations at the beginning will also probably get much longer. And for the record, I've already started on a sequel... *sheepish* I just couldn't help myself, the prologue just kinda popped into my head, so I had to write it down before it went away again. But yeah, hope you liked this chapter. Please review, it keeps me going!