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As they pulled back up at the manor, Dick stared resignedly at the forlorn windows of the mansion, less than half of them lit. It was a beautiful house, but it was cold and empty, like a bare hearth where a flame should be flickering. As they walked up the steps, he remembered a question that he'd wanted to ask Alfred. "What was the errand that you had to run for Mr. Wayne?"

"Ah," said Alfred uncomfortably. "Bank business. He actually does quite a lot of that himself, but this was my charge, and well… let's just say that I got it done just in the nick of time, thank the Lord."

"Oh." They entered the silent atrium. "Where is he now?"

"Sleeping. As you should be."

"Alfred, it's only nine."

"And you're only twelve." But Alfred was smiling. "Is there anything that you require?"

"Um…no, not really, Alfred."

"Then I must go. There are other things I must see to… a butler's work is never done." Alfred started to move away when Dick decided to take a shot in the dark.

"What kind of work are you doing? Do you want any help?"

Alfred looked back, and seeming to stumble as he tried to get his words out of his mouth. But he eventually straightened out his face and laughed, albeit a tad nervously. "Oh, just little bits of cleaning. And really, there's no need, Master Grayson."

"But I want to help."

"Oh, no sir. You really should be in bed. And besides, if you did all the cleaning, I'd be out of a job. Good night, sir." It was not rude at all—Alfred said it with the utmost politeness. But there could be no doubt that he was avoiding him. Dick watched as Alfred strode off, rather quickly, in the direction of the kitchens.

And without really thinking, Dick decided to follow him.

He didn't want to think that he'd find anything, because he didn't want to be disappointed if he didn't. But based on how Wayne and Alfred acted, he knew that they were both somehow connected, very closely, to the Batman. It would be very easy for the Wayne family to somehow help him out—fund, supply, etc. But what Dick really believed—even if he tried not to think about it, since it seemed…weird—was that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Bruce Wayne managed to get in contact with him, and fast. Alfred left the house when the 911 call involving the Batman came in. Wayne always disappeared when it started to get late. And when did the Bat show himself?

At night.

Halfway down the first floor hall, he pulled off his shoes and hid them in an alcove. After that, he was able to pad along swiftly, but silently. He paused by the kitchen doorway to hear Alfred moving inside. Then he heard a muted noise like an automated door opening. Sticking his head around the doorframe, Dick was greeted with… an empty room. With something that may have been a flash of movement on the floor by the stove. He crept inside and flattened himself on the ground to look at the tile. There didn't seem to be any imperfections, and it didn't sound hollow.

So, Dick thought, looking around. Buttons. Look for activation buttons, anything that would open a door. His eyes settled on the stove dials. He started turning them on, moving them into different positions relative to each other, to no effect. Turning off the stove, he tried buttons on the blender, dishwasher, and the microwave. Then his eyes settled below the microwave keypad, on the simple spring mechanism button that you pushed in order to pop the door.

It couldn't be that simple.

He hit it and heard a latch release underneath his feet. A two-foot by two-foot square of tile popped up an inch above the rest, and Dick immediately seized it and shoved it aside. A round tunnel with a ladder attached to the side led straight down into darkness.

He grabbed the rungs and descended. What he saw when he dismounted the ladder and turned around would change his life.

The cavern was monumentally huge. The ladder had let off somewhere near the top—below him he could see models of the Batmobile parked, jets prepped, various water craft floating in channels that cut through the cave's stone wall. Next to the vehicle-fest was a jumble of computer consoles with a chair at the center, and a set of huge screens attached to the cavern wall. He could also see a work station scattered with various welding tools not too far away from what appeared to be the newest incarnation of the Batmobile.

The next level up, the one below him, looked as though it had been set up to mimic a hospital room. That's where Alfred was standing, blood drained from his face, looking up at Dick. But the boy was more concerned with the burned, broken human form that Alfred was standing over. Of Batman.

Of Bruce Wayne.

It's been a couple of hours since I woke up in the Batcave, with Alfred hovering over me, looking panicked. Broken bones, he'd informed me. Lots of them. A couple of burns. Near suffocation.

I'm infuriated that a couple of children were able to do so much damage. I'd avoided using those explosives because they could result in a death—and since it was my first time fighting those two, I didn't know what to expect. But I can't just sit and make excuses; I have to prepare for the next encounter.

After, of course, I talk to Dick. Alfred just came down to check up on me—needlessly—when I see Dick drop from the ladder behind him and start to look around in both awe and shock. When he finally notices me and Alfred notices him, there's a moment of long, deafening silence.

I decide to end it. "Hello, Dick. Come down. Forget to lock the door, Alfred?"

Alfred stutters for a few seconds before saying, "I believe I did."

"It's fine. We have more important things to discuss." I beckon to Dick, who's at the bottom of the ladder. "Come here. I've got a lot of important things to tell you."

"If one of them is the fact that you're Batman," he says, "I think I've figured that out."

I smile humorlessly. "Yeah, you probably have. First and foremost, I want to thank you for pulling me out of there."

He stops, looking confused. "How did you—"

"I listened to the 911 call, Dick. I could recognize your voice. And you've got a burn mark on the bottom of your pants."

He looks down at his pants for a second before snapping his head back up to look at me again. "But what happened to the jesters?"

"Apparently they like to call themselves the 'Players'. And I don't know. I take it they were gone when you got there?"

Dick recounts everything that he saw, and I sit up to use the computer screen near the bed, despite the fact that I can feel the bones grinding in my chest. "They must have had outside help. There are plenty of alleys, but my guess is they had to use a car to get two unconscious people out. I'll see if the cops saw anything—"

"No need, sir," says Alfred. "I believe you're looking for a grey pickup truck, license number 339OR8F. It passed me on my way to the grounds."

I type in 339OR8F and find it registered to Clarence Reed. I search for Clarence Reed and find that he's been dead for quite some time. His old house had been torn down to make room for a warehouse by the water's edge.

"I need to go and look for—" I grunt with pain as I try to sit up, but I force myself to anyway. "—for the truck. I'll check the warehouse first."

"Sir," Alfred interjects sternly, "while I understand your hatred of waiting, I must insist that you rest. There is only so much that the body can do. If you push yourself too hard now, you'll be of no use to us later."

"I know my limits, Alfred, and I haven't reached them yet."

"I'm well aware of what you believe—"

"Alfred, how about I rest for one day? By then, the osteoprogenitor regenerator will have done its work and I'll be good to go."

Alfred gives me a long look, before saying, "All right, but you stay in that bed until then."

"I will. You should get some sleep."

He sighs through his nose. "Good night then, Master Bruce, Master Grayson."

I watch as he takes the lift back into the house, and it's only then that I slide out of bed and gingerly test my ribs. The OR is designed to quicken the healing pace of bones, so I should be in fighting condition within two hours. But I won't wait any longer.

I limp over to the table nearby and pick up my batsuit, ripped and burned from last night's encounter. Still, most of the technology from my utility belt seems to be unscathed. I'm sorting the gear into piles—working, damaged, and broken—when I remember that Dick's still down here.

"You should probably be getting some sleep too, kid. Unless there's anything else you need to tell me?" I weigh a partially melted batarang in my hand, before flicking it at a board nearby and finding that it still handles nicely.

"I'm going to come with you."

"No, you're not." I pull the batarang out of the board and toss it into the 'damaged' pile. I expected Dick to want to come with me, and I wasn't going to waste any time being polite about my refusal.

"You think I don't know what they're capable of? They killed my parents. Damn it, look what they did to you. I know the risk and I'm willing to take it, and if anything happens to me, I'll take full responsibility."

"I don't doubt it."

"So what's the problem?"

"Everything's connected, kid. You say that you don't care if anything happens to you. But I do. I protect people. And if you're in danger, I will protect you, even if it jeopardizes what we're trying to accomplish."

He looks irritated. "Well, that's your problem. I don't want your protection. I just want to bring these people down. You worry about yourself, just let me come."

"I can't."

"It's my life, can't I decide for myself—"

I turn on him. "Think, kid! You're all that's left of your family. What do you think your parents would have wanted? For you to risk getting yourself killed in some insane quest for vengeance?"

He looks surprised. Then, softly, he says, "Mr. Wayne, are you talking to me, or to yourself?"

I run my fingers through my hair and turn away, walking a few steps back towards the infirmary area. It's then that I notice the photo that Alfred must have put on the table next to the bed. It was taken on my sixth birthday, of me sitting in front of my glowing cake while my parents stood proudly behind me. I quickly knock the picture face down, leaning on the table and exhaling deeply. This is why I hate emotions.

"No. And that's final." I don't look back as I hear him ascending the ladder back into the house.

Crossing over to one of the computers, I put a lockdown on the entire house so that he can't try to follow me. After all of my gear is sorted and mended to the best of my ability, I start stretching carefully. At the end of the two hours, I gingerly test my ribs to find them sound. Only a temporary solution, but good enough. Nodding with satisfaction, I start pulling on my gloves.

I've got a score to settle. And this time, we're playing by my rules.

(Batman and related characters are property of DC comics)