A/N: Thanks for the reviews, She'sBatman and VintageRoseTaylor! :)

Tank didn't know it was lunch time in the teenage block. So the nurse was walking through the east door, looking for Dick, at the same time that Ron brought the unconscious boy through the west door. They saw each other immediately, and the head guard made an instant – and idiotic – decision.

Ron laid Dick on the floor and shoved him into the nearest cell. Pulling out his standard issue nightstick, he lumbered toward the nurse. He was bigger but not stronger, so he was hoping his weapon would negate the advantage Tank had.

As soon as he saw the nine-year-old in Ron's arms, Tank began sprinting. He didn't have a child to put in a cell, so he had a full head of steam before the guard had even started to run.

Ron held his nightstick in the air as he ran, ready to swing it at Tank's head. The nurse, however, wasn't an idiot. He went low, driving his shoulder into the guard's solar plexus and knocking the wind out of him. Ignoring the sound of Ron's head hitting the floor, Tank continued down the hall. Thirty seconds later, Dick was in his arms and he was stepping over the guard on his way back to the infirmary.

"Dick, Mr. Wayne is here, I need you to wake up."

To Tank's surprise, Dick obliged. Light-blue eyes instantly appeared, and Tank was dismayed to see the clouds floating through them.

"Did you hit your head, Dick?"

The nine-year-old thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Did you fall? Your cast is looking a little worse for wear at the moment."

"Yeah," Dick whispered.

"Well, let's get that fixed and then I'll take you to see Mr. Wayne. Sound good?"

Dick shrugged, and Tank sighed.

They had just arrived at the infirmary, so the nurse placed Dick on the bed the boy had recently vacated.

"Stay here, I need to get some supplies. Do I need to strap you down?"

Tank's voice was firm, and fear flitted across Dick's face. He shook his head and laid down.

"Don't go to sleep, either," Tank lightly commanded. "I don't know how your head is doing, and I don't want you going into a coma."

This time Dick nodded. The nurse went to the far side of the room, gathering supplies to fix the cast and wrap the shin. It took him only five minutes, then he began the process of removing the cast.

"Tank, have you seen our mutual friend?"

The nurse glanced up at the sound of Marcus' voice.

"If you went searching for him, you might find him in the teenage block," Tank answered with a slight grin.

"Do you need any help?" Marcus asked, motioning toward Dick.

Shaking his head, Tank replied, "No, just going to fix him up before taking him to the visiting area. Bruce Wayne is back."

"You want me to have a chat with Wayne?" Marcus asked, wanting to help the only man who cared about this particular child. "I don't know him, but it's what, his third or fourth time visiting this kid?"

"Go right ahead," Tank replied. "I need some time to fix Dick up, so you can keep Wayne busy while I finish. Thanks."

Nodding, Marcus turned around and left the infirmary. He gathered his thoughts as he walked, reviewing everything he knew and deciding how to present it to Bruce Wayne. All of his thoughts went out the window as soon as he walked into the room. The well-connected millionaire could be very intimidating when he wanted to be, and Bruce Wayne was extremely irritated with every guard in the detention center.

"Where is he?" Bruce demanded angrily as he stopped pacing and folded his arms across his broad chest.

"Grayson is with Tank right now, and Tank'll bring him as soon as he's done fixing him up."

"What happened this time?" Bruce growled.

"I don't know what Tank's working on, but Grayson has been in the infirmary for the last day or so. He looked okay..."

"He looked 'okay'. Do you care about anything that goes on in this place? Nobody else seems to, least of all the guards."

The last word was full of disgust, and Marcus folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"Yes," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I care. I'm the one that took him to Tank the first time, I'm the one that had a chat with Ron…"

"Who is Ron?" the millionaire interrupted. "Your tone makes it sound like it was more than just a conversation."

"Ron is the head guard," Marcus answered gruffly, "and whether or not it was just a conversation is none of your business."

"I'm on Dick Grayson's side," Bruce replied, anger still filling his tone. "If you did something to help him, I'm not going to ask about it. But if you are one of the guards who…"

"I am not one of them!" Marcus burst out. "Tank and I, we try to help. If you only knew how many…forget it."

The guard sighed and dropped onto the nearest chair.

"I checked him in…"

"You took him to the teenage block!" Bruce yelled, dropping his arms and clenching his hands into fists.

"I took him to the only spot we had, he's not even supposed to be here!" Marcus shouted back. "I told Ron to look out for him, I didn't tell him to let Grayson become a toy for his nephew to play with!"

"Let me get this straight," Bruce growled as he, too, sat down. "Ron is the head guard, and his nephew is an inmate in the teenage block. Does his nephew happen to be named Sam?"

Marcus nodded and stated, "I guess there's a fight club – I'm on the second floor so I don't know everything that happens in the teenage block. But from what I've heard, Grayson was on the losing end of several fights. I've had a cell open on the second floor for a few days. Ron should have moved Grayson down there, he was the only one who could go anywhere during the lockdown and he knew I had space."

"Why, exactly, didn't Ron move him?" Bruce snapped.

"You'd have to ask him, but my guess is that Sam wants to keep Grayson by his side. Tank knows more about this than I do, but from what I've gathered it seems that Sam has control over the kid both mentally and physically. I heard Grayson tell Tank that Sam is always right. I may or may not have accidentally broken Ron's nose when I asked him about the situation."

"That's what I've gathered as well," the millionaire responded, his voice much calmer. "Dick has refused to tell me anything that's happened…"

"With all due respect, Mr. Wayne, you are a stranger and he is only nine."

"I'm aware," Bruce almost snapped. "The last time I talked to him, he wouldn't even do anything until I told him that Sam wanted him to do what I asked."

"What?!" Marcus snarled. "You son…"

"I didn't want to," Bruce quickly interrupted, "but I needed to know how he was doing."

"Why?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.

"I…don't know," Bruce confessed.

He was saved from further explanation when the door opened. Tank strode in with Dick nestled snugly in his arms.

"We're going to have to hold him," Tank said, the statement directed at Marcus, "because he already tried to run away twice. Hello, Bruce."

"I need to be with Sam!" Dick suddenly burst out.

Tank sighed, shook his head, and sat down at the same table as Bruce. He wrapped his arms around Dick's torso, pinning the boy's arms to his sides.

"Dick, this is Bruce Wayne. You've met him before, two or three times, and he wants to help you. All three of us are just trying to help you, okay?"

"Sam helps me," Dick said sullenly.

"How does Sam help you, Dick?" Bruce asked, attempting to keep his voice calm.

"He teaches me and lets me do stuff for him."

"What has he taught you?"

"How to play the game, and when to eat, and where to sleep. Important stuff like that."

"Those last two are important," Bruce agreed. "But Sam shouldn't be in control of things like that. Isn't there a schedule?"

The question was directed at Marcus, who nodded.

"All Dick has to do is follow everyone else to meals when the bell rings. And every cell has a bed; where to sleep should be obvious. Unless he's an idiot, which he clearly is not."

"How do you play 'the game', Dick?" Bruce asked, returning his attention to the boy.

"You play against one person, and you win when Sam says you win," he answered.

"That's very vague," Bruce commented. "How do you win?"

"When the other kid doesn't get up," Dick replied.

The nine-year-old's tone was full of disbelief, as if all three men should have known this and were idiots for asking.

Bruce was furious, but at least now he knew why Dick had black eyes and a broken wrist and a severe concussion and broken ribs and whatever else the boy had gone through.

Somehow, he was able to keep his voice calm as he asked, "Have you ever won the game?"

Dick dropped his gaze to the table and mumbled, "No."

There was a tinge of shame in his voice, but it was mixed with pride.

"I could have won against Carl, but Sam told me to lose because I killed…"

Dick slammed his mouth shut, glanced up at Tank, then dropped his eyes again.

"You did not kill Chuck," Tank snapped. "Or your parents," he added.

Bruce closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Dick still believed he was a murderer. The man wanted to yell at the guard to go get Sam, but Bruce Wayne wouldn't be interrogating a teenager. Batman, however, would be paying a visit to several people tonight.

Opening his eyes, the millionaire asked, "Why do you think you killed Chuck?"

Tank glared at the man, but allowed the question to hang in the air.

"Because I made him stumble and then he didn't win the next time he played the game," the nine-year-old muttered. "Then he died."

"You…"

Bruce was at a loss for words. Making a teenager stumble in a fight led to his death? How on earth had Sam convinced him of that?

"Dick," Tank finally said softly, "you had nothing to do with it. Chuck and a couple of other kids got in a fight later, and they all paid the price for it. You weren't even in the yard!"

The last sentence was much louder, and Bruce watched Tank's face darken in anger. But then the nurse took a deep breath, and his tense body relaxed slightly.

"Sam is always right," Dick stated stubbornly. "He said I did it, and he's always right."

"Sam is a son of a fricking biscuit eater!" Tank nearly yelled.

Dick, still trapped in the strong arms of the nurse, began trembling.

"Sorry," Tank mumbled, although he wasn't at all sorry.

"Dick, I really need to know how to play the game," Bruce interjected. "What do you actually do?"

"Um, Sam might not want me to tell you that. He said the game is just for kids and that adults wouldn't understand."

"What if we bring Sam in here? Then you'll know if it's okay with him," Bruce suggested.

Both Tank and Marcus stared at the millionaire incredulously.

"I don't know if that's…"

"We can talk to him, too," Bruce stated, interrupting Tank's statement with a look that said he had a plan.

"Marcus, go find Sam," Tank directed. "If you see Ron, tell him that Sam has an important visitor, but not who it is or who else is in here."

The guard turned his gaze to Tank, disbelief still in his eyes. Tank flicked his eyes to Bruce, and Marcus understood. He had no idea what kind of plan would involve bringing the teen who had control over the kid into the same room, but Tank apparently trusted Bruce Wayne. Marcus stood up and went to find Sam.

"Marcus seems like a competent man," Bruce commented.

"Best guard we have," Tank agreed. "He should be in the teenage block; there would probably be a lot less fighting going on."

"We don't fight," Dick stated, "we play games."

"Because most games end up with a kid on the ground beaten halfway to death," Tank answered, sarcasm filling every word.

"No, just ours," Dick replied without thinking.

The men looked at each other, and a slight grin slid across both faces. They finally had their first real answer.

The teenagers had just finished lunch, and Sam was currently supervising a game between Carl and Frankie. The former had just fallen to the ground, and he quickly closed his eyes and went limp.

Shrugging, Sam said, "Frankie is the winner."

The two boys walked away in separate directions. Marcus suddenly materialized beside Sam and placed a hand on the teen's back.

"You have a visitor, and he really wants to see you."

"A visitor?" Sam asked incredulously. "I never have visitors!"

"He asked for you," Marcus said with a shrug. "Let's go."

Sam was suspicious, and he glanced around the yard.

"Ron is currently occupied, which is why I came to collect you."

Either taking care of some injuries or unconscious, courtesy of Tank's strength.

The thought brought a smile to the face of the guard, an expression that Sam didn't miss.

"What's going on?" the teenager snapped.

"Why do you think something is going on?"

"You're smiling."

"Is that unusual with you teenagers? Good thing I'm not on your floor, because I smile a lot. Life is pretty good. But it's probably not good for you, so not smiling makes sense."

"Shut up," Sam muttered as he turned toward the complex and began walking.

Six minutes later, they were standing in front of the visiting room door.

"You can't go in with me, that's the rule," Sam said snarkily.

"Never said I was," Marcus replied, grinning as he opened the door and allowed the teen to enter. "Enjoy your visit."

Marcus closed the door and leaned against the wall, fully expecting Sam to try to run right back out once he saw who was in the room.

Sam was snarling in the direction of Marcus, so he had no idea who was there until he turned around. His eyes widened when he saw the scene: Dick was sitting at a table, picking at the wood, and Bruce Wayne was right beside him. Tank was casually standing in a corner, partly hidden by the lack of light in the area.

"Sam?" Bruce inquired.

The teenager nodded as Dick raised his head.

Jumping to his feet, the nine-year-old said, "I've been trying to get to you, they wouldn't let me go, I really tried!"

Sam held up his hand, and Dick immediately dropped back onto the chair.

Bruce kept his expression neutral, but his eyes darkened with anger. Sam hadn't said anything, but Dick had automatically reacted as if he had been given a command. Complete control, and Batman wanted to take the kid down immediately.

Wait for tonight.

Bruce appeased Batman with the thought, and the millionaire motioned to Sam. The teenager slowly walked to the table, moved a chair back far enough that Bruce couldn't reach him without standing up, and sat down.

"What do you want?" Sam asked.

"I just have some questions."

Dick frantically shook his head and almost yelled, "I didn't say anything, I promise!"

"Shut up," Sam commanded, and Dick dropped his eyes to the floor.

Bruce almost slammed his hands on the table, but knew he needed to remain calm. Instead, he folded his hands and rested them on the creaky wood.

"How are you feeling today?" the millionaire inquired, his voice casual. "I heard you were sick."

"I'm fine, not that it's any of your business," Sam snapped. "What do you want?"

"As I said, I just have a few questions. Are you willing to answer?"

The thinly-veiled implied threat hung in the air, and Sam swallowed tightly.

"Yeah," he replied sullenly, glaring into Bruce's eyes.

"How old are you?"

Bruce had decided to start easy.

"Fifteen."

"Do you have friends in here, are you being treated okay?"

"Yeah and yeah," the teen muttered.

"Do you like to play games?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"The type of game. Don't like board games."

"What about video games?"

"Sure," Sam answered with a shrug.

"Action games?"

"Whatever."

Bruce raised his eyebrows at the vague answer, and Sam tried to amend his answer.

"Action games are better than girlie games."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I don't play girlie games!"

"I didn't tell them anything, I promise," Dick whispered, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Are you my friend, kid?" Sam snarled, causing the nine-year-old to lift his head.

"Yes."

"Then what are you doing over there? Friends support each other, and this guy is asking me questions."

"Sorry," Dick said softly, immediately standing up and limping around the table.

"No," Bruce snapped, "you don't get to command him to do something. He is not your toy, or your little lemming, or your slave."

Bruce took a deep breath, then looked at the younger boy and said, "Dick, you're limping. Did something happen to your leg?"

"I'm fine," Dick answered, forcing himself to stand with his weight on both legs.

Everyone heard the quiet 'crack' in the silent room, but Dick clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists.

"I'm fine," he repeated, trying but failing to keep the pain out of his voice.

"You're not," Bruce observed.

"Sit down," Sam commanded, and Dick dropped onto the nearest chair with a soft sigh of relief.

"Why're you talking to this guy, kid?" the teen demanded.

"I don't know, sorry."

"He doesn't care about you, he's just trying to trip you up and make you say things that aren't true."

Bruce almost jumped to his feet and almost allowed Batman to fly at the teenager.

Tonight.

Ignoring the expression of dejection on Dick's face, and the fact that the boy was guiltily slumping into himself, Bruce sent a dark glare into the pride-filled eyes of Sam.

"I will ask you only one more time. What kind of games do you like to play?"

Silence filled the room until Dick couldn't take it anymore.

"I…told them we play games," he whispered.

"You what?!" Sam yelled, jumping to his feet.

Before anyone could react, Sam slammed his fist into Dick's head. The nine-year-old tumbled off the chair, his head hitting the ground with a 'thunk'. Bruce shoved his chair away from the table and pulled the teenager off the limp body of the boy, but not before Sam smashed his fist into Dick's broken ribs.

"You're an idiot, kid, you hear me?!" Sam exploded. "A fricking idiot who needs to be taught another lesson!"

Dick was already unconscious. Bruce was holding the struggling teen, and almost tossed him across the room at the words. Both Tank and Marcus were suddenly by his side, the guard wrestling Sam to the ground and the nurse pushing the millionaire away from the scene.

"You won't get Dick out of here if you do something like that," Tank advised, his voice firm enough to burst through the rage in Bruce's mind.

His body was trembling with fury, but Bruce gave a short nod and forced himself to sit down on the nearest chair.

"He's mine, Wayne!" Sam mumbled through the arm across his face. "Even if you take him, he'll always be mine!"

"Get him out of here," Tank snapped.

Marcus had already slapped handcuffs on the teen's wrists. Pulling him to his feet, the guard shoved Sam toward the door.

"You'll pay for this!" Sam yelled over his shoulder, right before Marcus slammed the door shut.

Tank was kneeling on the floor next to Dick, examining him and making a list aloud.

"Leg probably more than fractured, ribs back to where they were – dang it, they were healing so well – most likely a new concussion, this is fantastic," the nurse finished sarcastically.

"His leg is fractured, too?!" Bruce almost yelled.

"I don't know," Tank replied, frustration filling his voice, "because I don't have an x-ray machine. And the dang warden isn't here, and the interim warden doesn't have the authority to release anybody for any reason, and…"

"Can't the warden give permission to whoever is in charge right now?!"

"Not verbally, has to be in writing. I have to get Dick to the infirmary."

Scooping the unconscious boy into his arms, Tank strode out the door. Bruce dropped his head into his hands. This last assault was his fault. He had hoped the sight of Sam would cause Dick to confess, which it had, but he hadn't expected Sam to retaliate so swiftly and violently in front of an adult.

"Any new injury is on me," he whispered, wishing he had been quicker. "I have to get him out. Tonight."

Keeping that thought in mind, Bruce stood up and waited to be buzzed out.

"I hope you're not thinking about breaking him out, Mr. Wayne," the guard who pressed the button stated. "Everything in here is recorded, so you pretty much just confessed. That kid is not worth going to jail, if you don't mind me saying."

"I do mind," Bruce snapped as he marched out the door. "Idiot," he muttered to himself. "Of course everything is recorded."