A/N: Thanks for the review, VintageRoseTaylor!
Twenty-five minutes later:
Bruce had been in the lobby for what seemed like hours. The guard at the desk had called the infirmary and talked to the nurse. Apparently, the man had explained, Tank had his hands full but would be happy to talk to Mr. Wayne when he had a chance. If the millionaire didn't mind waiting, of course.
The image of Dick Grayson's battered face wouldn't leave his mind, so Bruce had said he had no problem with waiting. Two questions reverberated around his brain. First, did the nurse, Tank, know about this? Second, if he did, why hadn't he done anything?
"Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce was pulled out of his thoughts by an authoritative voice. He raised his head and instantly understood why the man was called 'Tank'. He was around six feet and well-built with what was all muscle. How had this man come to be the nurse in the infirmary in the detention center?
Tank introduced himself and held out his hand as Bruce stood up. The millionaire reciprocated, and the nurse asked if he wanted to talk here in or his office.
"It's a sensitive matter, so your office is preferable."
Nodding, Tank led the way through a few locked doors and up a set of stairs. They walked through the infirmary and Bruce raised his eyebrows. There were three beds: two occupied by injured teenagers, and the third stripped of bedding and surrounded by blood.
"Looks like you've had a busy day," Bruce commented as they entered Tank's office and he closed the door.
With a sigh, the nurse replied, "You have no idea how busy these last two days have been. A beating, a stabbing, and two fights – the second leaving those two out there in near-comas and the other participant dead."
"Wow," Bruce said quietly, realizing that maybe Tank hadn't had time to see a boy with 'just' a broken nose and wrist.
"But, I'm sure you're not here to talk about that, Mr. Wayne. How can I help you?"
"You can call me Bruce, and you're correct. I'm here about a younger boy, Dick Grayson."
Sighing again, Tank stated, "Bruce, you probably know that I'm not supposed to give out specific medical information."
"I've already seen him, Tank. It's not like you'll be telling me anything I don't know."
Shaking his head, the nurse replied, "I can't tell you, but if you want you can tell me."
"Okay," the millionaire acquiesced. "Feel free to stop me anytime. He has injured ribs on the right side, a broken nose, bruises around both eyes, and probably hasn't had a shower or combed his hair since he arrived here."
Tank was unintentionally confirming everything by nodding, so Bruce continued.
"His eyes are clear, but he has a probable concussion, he's both pale and slightly sunburned, he has a broken wrist…"
"What?!" Tank nearly shouted, standing up so quickly that he knocked his chair over.
"To which part?" Bruce asked.
Picking up his chair and sitting down again, Tank angrily responded, "I've seen everything except the broken wrist and the sunburn. I fixed up his nose, he's pale because he's tired and – I don't know this for sure, though – hungry. His bottom two ribs on the right side are bruised, but his breathing was okay so I didn't wrap them up."
Holding up his hand, Bruce replied, "When did you see him?"
"Yesterday, twice. The first time he couldn't even keep his eyes open and he was shaking from, probably, lack of food or water. The second time is when I iced his eyes and patched up his nose."
"Why didn't you bandage his nose?" Bruce asked, a tinge of anger outlining his voice.
With a look of surprise, Tank replied, "I did."
"I just saw him, Tank. He has no bandages, a hitch in his breathing, a broken left wrist, and I think his ribs are more than bruised."
"Dang it," Tank muttered. Slamming his hands on the table, he nearly shouted, "I haven't seen him today! If it's that bad, why didn't the fricking guards bring him in?! I need to talk to the warden," he stated, his voice slightly calmer. "Again."
"Again?" Bruce asked curiously.
"Dick came to me from the fourth floor. I may have yelled at the warden and, conveniently, the boy's social worker yesterday evening."
"What wrong with the fourth floor?" Bruce inquired, narrowing his eyes.
"It's the teenage block!" Tank exclaimed. "Dick's social worker put a nine-year-old in the teenage block!"
This time it was Bruce who knocked his chair over when he jumped to his feet.
"Why the heck did he put him there?!"
"He said it was the only cell we had." Standing up, Tank asked, "Do you want to come with me to talk to the warden? You've got a lot of clout in this city, it might help."
Bruce was already at the door and turning the handle.
"That's exactly where I'm headed," he responded, more than a tinge of anger in his voice now.
"I just have one question," Tank said as they strode through the infirmary. "I'm assuming you have no connection to the boy. So, why are you here?"
"I paid for his parents' funeral…"
"Plural," Tank muttered, then added sarcastically, "fantastic."
With a quizzical glance at the nurse, Bruce continued, "He wasn't there, so I came to check on him."
Tank stopped and his expression darkened.
"Did you just say he wasn't there?" the man asked, his even voice belying his anger.
"Unless he was hiding behind a tree," Bruce responded.
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Tank growled. "Sanderson said he was going to pick him up at nine. Are you telling me the guy forgot to take a new orphan to his parents' funeral?!"
Bruce's anger now bordered on fury, and he was struggling to keep Batman away.
"I don't know if he forgot or just didn't want to go," he growled right back. "I just know that Dick wasn't there."
Both men knew the anger being displayed wasn't directed at each other, but they were also having trouble continuing to have a discussion without it turning into a shouting match.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, Tank suggested, "Let's save the yelling for the warden. We're almost there, the next right and two doors down."
Nodding, Bruce motioned for the nurse to lead the way. It took the men only two minutes to reach the outer office, where the warden's secretary was on the phone.
Tank strode right past her, intending to burst through the door like he had before. To his consternation, it was locked.
The secretary, who had just hung up the phone, stated, "The warden has left for the day. He has a family appointment."
"Is there a way to get a boy out of this place without the warden here?!" Bruce demanded, making no attempt to hide his anger.
"No, sir," the woman replied. "You need his signature."
Turning away from the secretary, Bruce almost punched the wall in frustration. Quickly catching himself, he turned back and growled, "What time will he get here tomorrow morning."
"I don't like your tone, sir," the woman replied. "He will get here when he arrives. Good day to you both."
Turning her attention to the computer in front of her, the secretary began typing.
"Lissa, we've got a nine-year-old in the teenage block and he's not doing so well," Tank said placatingly.
"Tank," she sighed, "you know there is nothing I can do about it. Keep him with you, if you're so worried about him."
"I will, as soon as I can get a bed free. Yesterday was…bad, Lissa, it was really bad."
"I heard one died," she said quietly.
This time it was Tank who sighed as he dropped onto the nearest chair.
"Chuck," he replied softly.
Bruce, who had begun pacing, stopped.
"Did you say 'Chuck'?" he asked. "When I talked to Dick, he said something about Chuck."
Tank shook his head and said, "Then he probably played a game with Chuck. We need guards who care, Lissa, you have to tell the warden."
I don't like games.
Dick's words echoed in Bruce's head.
"What kind of game?" the millionaire asked. "Tank," he demanded when the man didn't immediately answer, "what kind of game?"
"It's like a fight club, from what I can gather," the nurse replied. "The boys take turns until someone can't get up. I've tried talking to the warden…"
"So have I," Lissa interrupted.
Shooting her a skeptical glance, Tank turned to Bruce and continued, "The warden says he has competent guards who can take care of things. He said I should do my job and let the guards do their jobs. The guards aren't the ones who get to handle the results of the 'games', though. I can see that they aren't doing their jobs."
Bruce was surprised, but realized that he shouldn't be. They were juvenile delinquents in what was basically jail. Of course there would be a fight club.
"An innocent nine-year-old wouldn't just decide to participate," Bruce commented.
"Enter Chuck," Tank responded, "and probably Sam."
"Dick mentioned his name, also. You have that empty bed now, Tank. You can keep him there until his social worker finds another situation."
"Yeah, as long as that bed stays empty. I need to see him again anyway, take care of that wrist and everything else that's wrong with him."
"I'm coming back tomorrow," Bruce declared.
Shrugging, Tank replied, "Fine with me, but I don't run the place."
"Thank you for your help, Tank," the millionaire said, holding out his hand.
Tank stood up, reciprocated, and they want their separate ways.
Dick, meanwhile, was back in his cell. He had a new bruise on his left cheek, courtesy of Sam's uncle. The guard had seen the boy slap his hand across his own mouth, which he knew meant the kid had said something bad about somebody. So, he had done his own slap across Dick's face.
Unfortunately, Sam was also in Dick's cell. His uncle had told him what had happened, and Sam needed to know exactly what the nine-year-old had told Bruce Wayne. So, he was currently holding Dick against the back wall, his left arm across the boy's throat and his right hand planted on the wall for leverage.
Black spots were dancing through Dick's vision. Sam's head was blurry, and Dick could feel his airway closing. He had known he was going to die in here, and now he knew how. Dick had tried to struggle at first, but that had earned him a punch in the solar plexus.
"Answer me you fricking idiot," Sam demanded. "What did you tell him?!"
Dick couldn't answer even if he wanted to. He couldn't pull in enough air to form words, and he didn't even remember what he had said.
Sam suddenly released Dick's throat, and the latter boy dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for air.
"What. Did. You. Say?!"
"I…I don't…'mem'er."
It was a struggle to get the words out through the pain in both his throat and his ribs.
"Don't lie to me, kid," Sam snarled. "What did you tell him?!"
"That, uh, everything, um, fine?"
Dick really couldn't remember, so he was saying what he assumed Sam wanted to hear.
"You're asking me what you said," the teenager commented.
The younger boy remained silent, so Sam threw a kick into Dick's ribs. It folded Dick in half, and now he was lying on his side with his arms wrapped around his torso and his eyes squeezed shut.
Sam knelt down and rolled Dick onto his back. Grabbing the left wrist, the teen squeezed and waited for a reaction. He wasn't disappointed.
Dick's eyes flew open and he screamed. Sam slapped his hand over the nine-year-old's mouth, just as Dick had done to himself earlier, effectively cutting off the piercing sound.
"This is what happens when you disobey," the teenager snapped. "And now you get to stay here for the rest of the day. I'll let everyone know that you talked, and they will all want to play the game with you tomorrow. And I'm going to make sure that every bed in the sick bay is full until I decide you have learned your lesson. Tank's not getting his hands on you for a while. So, you just lay here and think about what you've done."
Dropping the boy's arm, Sam stood up and moved to Dick's bed. He snatched the flat pillow and shoved it through the bars connecting his cell to that of Dick. Then he grabbed the thin mattress and took it with him to the cell door.
Sam's uncle was just outside the locked door, watching the exchange. The guard unlocked the door, and Sam strode through. Dick listened to the familiar 'clang' and 'click', then closed his eyes and followed a purple dragon into a black ocean.