"Fantastic," seventeen-year-old Dick Grayson muttered sarcastically.
He stared at the jumble of electronics on the street in front of him, remnants of what used to be his three-day-old phone.
"Bruce is going to kill me."
Especially since he was now stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to get ahold of anyone.
It had all started because he had decided that half a tank of gas could get him to the gala being held in Bruce's honor. The banquet hall was only twenty-five miles away from Wayne Manor. Dick had decided that he would get gas after the gala, because he was already going to be late.
Basketball practice had lasted thirty-three minutes longer than it was supposed to. Bruce had left a message on Dick's phone, telling him to take the old sedan since the man had to be at the gala early. The seventeen-year-old had hoped for the Mustang, but at least Bruce was trusting him enough to let him drive.
And now this had happened. All because he had underestimated the amount of gas the old sedan needed to go a measly twenty-five miles. Then, to top it all off, his phone had flipped out of his hand when he had angrily yanked it out of his pocket. Dick had tried to catch it, diving for it as he watched it fall in slow motion, but his foot had hit the edge of his open door. His dive had turned into a flop, right on top of his scratched – but not broken – phone. The weight of his athletic body smashing directly onto it, however, had crushed it to pieces.
"Bruce is going to kill me," he repeated.
Dick slammed his door shut and shifted his gaze from the mutilated phone to the western horizon. The sun was sinking fast, and the banquet hall was almost ten miles away. If he ran, he could probably make it by the time the gala ended. That would be a great entrance for the ward of the guest of honor: rushing into the ballroom, breathless and sweaty, as the clapping subsided after Bruce's probably-amazing speech.
But then he heard a sound that gave him a tiny flicker of hope. It was a horn, and not just a simple car horn. The kind used by semi-trucks, the ones that yelled at other cars to get out of the way before they were run over by giant wheels.
Grinning, Dick turned around. The semi's bright lights flared to life as the sun melted below the horizon, causing him to raise his hand in order to shield his eyes. He stuck out his thumb as the truck rumbled closer. If the driver picked him up, he might make it before Bruce was even introduced.
The brakes squealed as the truck began to slow down. And then something happened that neither Dick nor the driver could have anticipated. Two of the back wheels on the passenger side of the truck suddenly popped apart. Rubber flew into the air, followed by small chunks of asphalt torn up by the bare rims of the tires.
Time slowed down again. But this time it wasn't his phone falling to the ground that caused Dick to dive. The back end of the semi was skidding, and the driver lost control. The truck folded in toward itself, and the cab missed sweeping Dick out of the air by only two yards.
Dick sighed in relief as he rolled out of his dive. But his relief was short-lived. The end of the trailer smashed into Bruce Wayne's old sedan, sending it rolling straight to where Dick was just getting to his feet. He wasn't quick enough this time.
The car's final roll happened to be as soon as it landed on the seventeen-year-old. His arms flew over his head as the windshield exploded. Glass rained down on him, slicing any piece of flesh it found. Luckily, he was wearing a suit, which was going to be a lot worse for wear when he got out of this new mess. Another reason for Bruce to get mad at him.
That wasn't the worst part, though. Dick was now pinned under the car. His head was poking through the shattered windshield, which meant his arms were free, but his right leg was buried under the collapsed metal of the roof. Pain was radiating from his hip – trapped against the steering wheel – all the way down his entire leg. His left leg had somehow shoved itself through the front passenger window, impaling itself as it crashed through the glass.
"Hello?"
The driver had climbed out of his truck and was searching for the person he had seen on the side of the road. It was too dark for the naked eye, so he climbed back into the cab and grabbed the flashlight out of the glove compartment. It didn't take him long to find the crushed car.
"Holy…oh, crap, you're Dick Grayson!"
Dick attempted to smile at him, but his brain demanded that he focus on trying to breathe through the pain that was now circulating around his entire body.
"Oooooh man, I am going to be in so much trouble. Dang it, what are you doing out here?! This is bad, this is very bad. I'm going to die. Bruce Wayne is literally going to kill me when he finds out about this."
There was a long pause. The man stared down at Dick, who stared right back and wondered why he wasn't attempting to help him out of the car, or at least calling somebody.
"Maybe he doesn't have to know."
Panic shot through his brain when Dick heard the murmured idea.
"If I just leave, nobody will know it was me."
Your company will know who was driving this truck!
Dick wanted to yell at the man, remind him that truck companies kept records, and drivers had to sign in and out, and Bruce would definitely find out that it was him. But his voice wouldn't work, no matter how hard he tried to force words through his clenched jaw.
"Sorry, kid, but I can't afford to get in trouble. Lucky for me I didn't sign this rig out because I wasn't going far. Unlucky for you, I guess, but it is what it is. Somebody will find you soon, I'm sure. Good luck."
With that, the driver turned around and began running back the way he had just come. The flicker of hope in Dick's chest faded as quickly as the man's silhouette. There was no easily recognizable way that he could get out of this situation by himself.
However, he was Dick Grayson – he was freaking Robin! – and he wasn't about to give up. His arms were free, which was better than nothing. And they were strong from years of training as both a trapeze artist and a crimefighter. There had to be a way, there was always a way.
Bruce Wayne glanced at his watch for the fifth time in two minutes. Dick should have been here by now. Unless basketball practice had gone late, which it sometimes did. If that had happened, it would probably be another ten or fifteen minutes before Dick showed up.
A dark feeling of foreboding filled his chest, but Bruce attempted to ignore it. Dick was a capable, responsible, and mature seventeen-year-old. If something had happened, if he was in trouble, he would call or text Bruce. He was fine; he would be here soon. Bruce would say something about talking to the basketball coach about lengths of practices, and Dick would laugh it off because he knew Bruce wouldn't actually talk to the coach, and then they would join the throng of people now heading toward the dining room.
"Master Bruce, you cannot just stand here. Everyone is waiting for you, sir."
Bruce was drawn out of his thoughts when Alfred's words, their tone ever-proper, slipped into his ear. He looked at the throng and was surprised that it was already gone. The host of the event was standing at the empty doorway, waiting for Bruce to join them. Bruce glanced at his watch again.
"Sir, he will be here soon," Alfred assured him.
Bruce nodded, then turned toward the door that led outside. The door that Dick would walk through at any moment, apologies flying out of his mouth as soon as he saw his guardian.
"Bruce, won't you join us?"
Turning back toward the host, Bruce nodded again and strode toward the dining room. He would give Dick ten more minutes. Pulling out his phone, the man sent a quick text.
Hurry up.
Dick planted his hands on the jagged edges of the windshield, not caring about the pain that raced through them as small shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes and pushed against the metal as hard as he could. He only succeeded in knocking the breath out of himself when his hip joint was stretched away from its socket.
Deciding to try something else, he repositioned his hands, sending a short shower of glass onto his face. Luckily, his eyes were still closed. Taking a deep breath, Dick pushed up with all of his strength. He felt the roof of the car tremble slightly before the pain overwhelmed him and he fell into a painless abyss of darkness.
It had been ten minutes with no sign of Dick. Bruce was very concerned, although he was doing his best not to show it as he chatted with people around him.
"Mr. Wayne, where is your delightful ward this evening?"
A short, squat woman next to him asked the question, and it suddenly seemed like the entire room was waiting on his answer.
"Dick had basketball practice; I'm sure he'll be here soon," the man replied smoothly.
But then he glanced back at Alfred, who immediately saw the concern in the dark-blue eyes. With a short nod, the butler exited the room and headed for the car. There were several roads leading to this particular banquet hall, but Dick would have taken the one that was almost a straight shot from Wayne Manor. Alfred was certain that he would find the boy on that road, unless the young master had fallen asleep after basketball practice.
Ten miles later, Alfred was proven right. He saw the giant silhouette of the broken truck first, then his headlights hit the twisted form of the old sedan.
"Good heavens," he whispered as he pushed on the accelerator.
Alfred stopped by the cab of the truck, keeping the car on so the headlights would shine on the mess of metal in front of him. He immediately saw the dark hair of his younger charge when he climbed out of the vehicle.
"Master Dick!" he exclaimed as he traversed the small space between them as rapidly as possible. "What on earth happened?"
Dick didn't answer, because he was unconscious. He was breathing, and he had a pulse, and all the other important things were okay, so Alfred shifted his focus to the car. The teenager's legs were trapped, he realized as he searched for a way to pull the boy out.
Alfred returned to the car and picked up the mobile phone. His first call was to the paramedics, and his second to Bruce Wayne.
Bruce felt the vibration in his pocket, but he was currently in the middle of a conversation with the host regarding the millionaire's upcoming speech. The call was most likely from either Dick or Alfred, making it difficult for Bruce to concentrate on what his host was saying.
"Is that you or me?" the other man asked, dipping his hand into his pocket when he heard a vibration.
"It's mine," Bruce replied. "Excuse me, please?"
"Of course, we can finish this conversation later. You still have half an hour before your speech."
With a short nod, Bruce stepped away and snatched his phone out of his pocket. It was the number of the Wayne family car's mobile phone. The concern that had faded slightly when Alfred had left immediately increased significantly.
"Alfred."
"Sir, there has been an accident. Master Dick is trapped under the sedan. The paramedics are on their way."
The last sentence was unnecessary, because Bruce had already snapped his phone shut and turned to find his host. It took thirty seconds longer than he wanted.
"Antony, my ward has been in an accident. Can I borrow your car?"
Without hesitation, the host nodded and went to find his keys. If Bruce Wayne asked to borrow your car, Bruce Wayne would get your car. No further explanation was needed, although Antony did wonder why the millionaire's butler wasn't taking him in the Wayne car.
"Thanks," Bruce said, grabbing the keys out of Antony's hand before turning around and racing out the door.
Bruce traveled the same ten miles Alfred had, but much quicker. He gasped when he saw the giant semi looming over the much smaller sedan. Jumping out of the car immediately after parking, the millionaire raced to Alfred's side.
The butler was kneeling by the shattered windshield, attempting to awaken the seventeen-year-old. Bruce dropped to his knees on the other side and began examining the flattened roof.
"What happened?!" Bruce exclaimed as he tried to find some way to get the car off his son.
"I don't know, sir, he was already like this when I arrived."
"Where's the driver of the semi?"
"Again, sir, I don't know. I've been rather occupied with something more important, Master Bruce."
Bruce nodded and grabbed the edges of the windshield.
"Shoot!" he exclaimed as he felt glass slide into the skin on his hands.
Pulling his own hands away from the windshield caused Dick's hands to slide into view. Bruce wasn't surprised to see glass shimmering through the blood on the boy's palms. He reached for the Bat-wrap in his utility belt…
"You are Bruce Wayne, sir," Alfred reminded quietly.
The loud wailing of the ambulance siren drowned out the younger man's reply. Bright lights flashed around the scene as the paramedics arrived. Dick was soon surrounded by emergency personnel. Bruce and Alfred were pushed aside and could only watch.
"What happened?"
One of the paramedics had joined the two men. Neither one had the answer to his inquiry.
"We have two ambulances, seven paramedics, a police car en route, but only one body. This is strange, to say the least. This your son?"
The man tilted his head toward the mangled car. Bruce hesitated, then nodded. A radio squawked, and another man stood up and joined the trio.
"We can't move him until the car is off."
Obviously.
Bruce shoved the snide thought away.
"Have you done anything to help him?" he asked, allowing anger to mask the fear in his tone.
"The only thing we can do is wrap his hands and his head, which we have. Pretty sure his right leg is broken, but we can't know for sure until it's free. His left leg somehow crashed through the side window – your boy is impressively flexible – and a shard of glass is embedded in his calf. It didn't hit an artery, so we can leave it for now. I'd much rather take it out in a clean hospital setting."
"Wait, you're…this kid is Dick Grayson," the first paramedic suddenly stated. "Maybe that call we got twenty minutes ago was about him."
"What did the caller say?" Bruce demanded.
"Said a kid was weaving around the road, like he was drunk or something. Guess I don't need to ask what happened now. But where's the other driver?"
The aforementioned police car pulled up between the two ambulances. A woman exited the vehicle, surveyed the scene, then strode to the group of four men.
"We don't know for sure what happened," the second paramedic stated. "But we got a call about a drunk kid driving erratically. Probably hit the semi and…"
"I'll do the investigation, you take care of the injured," the woman retorted. "Detective Mason," she stated, turning to Bruce and pulling out her badge. "How old is your son, Mr…?"
"Wayne," Bruce answered.
"Ah, that explains some things," the woman replied.
Ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne. Of course he's drinking and driving. Just another entitled rich kid.
"What is that supposed to mean?!" Bruce snapped, causing Alfred to lay a gentle hand on the millionaire's arm.
"It's his ward," the first paramedic interrupted, "not son."
"He's not an 'it'," Bruce fired back heatedly. "And he's seventeen."
"Has he ever been drunk before?" the detective asked.
"What?!" Bruce exclaimed. "No, of course not!"
"Okay," she replied, internally rolling her eyes.
Yeah, right. Protect your wayward kid.
"Jaws of Life are on their way, so we have some time," Detective Mason continued. "I'll take a look around, get the other driver's statement."
She glanced around, then inquired, "Where is the other driver?"
"I don't know!" Bruce yelled in frustration while the two paramedics responded evenly.
"He's waking up," a female voice stated from the group surrounding Dick.
Bruce tried to make his way to the boy's side, but the two talkative paramedics pushed him out of the way.
"Name?" the same female voice inquired.
"Dick Grayson," Bruce supplied.
"Not asking you," she stated sharply. "What's your name, hon?"
"Dick. Uh, Grayson."
The words were so quiet that Bruce almost missed them. He sighed in relief; Dick was awake, and could talk, and knew his name.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Okay, hon, can you tell me what happened?"
"Ran out of gas."
Bruce berated himself for not checking the car before leaving Wayne Manor. He ignored the pesky thought that Dick would have seen the gauges and should have decided to get gas before attempting to drive twenty-five miles.
There was a pause, so the woman encouraged, "So what did you do?"
"Broken phone."
Bruce glanced at Alfred quizzically. That phone was only three days old! The older man shook his head.
"What else happened, son?"
This time it was a man talking.
"Semi, driver ran."
"Stay awake, hon, stay with me. We're going to get you…dang it."
Bruce tried to get close again, but the detective stepped in front of him.
"A hit-and-run," Bruce declared, glaring at her. "Not a drunk teenager."
"Well, there are no cameras around here, Mr. Wayne. The driver either ran into the desert," she gestured to both sides of the road, "or back toward Gotham City."
Turning to the group, she asked, "Did anyone see a single person running or walking in the opposite direction?"
There was a 'nope' and a few negative-sounding murmurs. Returning her gaze to Bruce, Detective Mason shrugged.
"No way to find out who the driver was until your so…ward can tell us. And he went back to sleep."
"What the…?"
Bruce and Detective Mason looked over at the mangled car just in time to see it rise into the air, leaving Dick motionless on the ground. Alfred quietly cleared his throat, causing the millionaire to glance back at him. The butler smiled slightly and tilted his head toward the small group.
"Superman!" someone exclaimed.
Again Bruce glanced at his butler, who nodded. Of course Alfred had called Superman. The millionaire dipped his head in gratitude, then watched as the paramedics began their real examination of Dick.
"Broken tibia right leg, possible fractured femur same side, careful with his left, don't want that shard tearing anything else apart, breathing steady but pulse becoming thready, get him on the stretcher, we don't have time to stabilize his leg…"
The paramedics were becoming louder, and their voices a little more frantic, with each new direction. Bruce knew what that meant, and a lightning bolt of fear shot down his body. Dick was going downhill fast.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said quietly as he stepped to the younger man's side, "Superman would like to know if you want him to take Dick, ehm, somewhere else."
"No, he's Dick Grayson, let's stay with the hospital."
Alfred nodded, then added, "I assume you'll be riding with him?"
Bruce returned the nod and decided to immediately claim his place by climbing into the ambulance that was parked closest to Dick. Sixty seconds later, the seventeen-year-old was loaded into that same vehicle. Three paramedics crowded in with him.
"Stay out of the way," the woman commanded, "and you can ride. Get in my way and I'll have no qualms kicking you out of a moving vehicle. I don't care that you're an influential millionaire, I only care about my patient. Got it?"
Bruce nodded and squeezed himself in the back corner, as close to Dick as possible while making sure he was out of the way. The paramedics hooked Dick up to various machines as the vehicle rumbled to life. Bruce saw one last glimpse of Alfred through the closing doors of the ambulance. Superman was by his side, both of them staring at the vehicle with concern etched on their features.
The doors closed, the sirens blared, and the ambulance began its fifteen-mile journey to Gotham Central Hospital.
TO BE CONTINUED…