A/N: This story idea comes from Mysteryfan17. Thanks for the inspiration! Italics usually represent thoughts to oneself, but are sometimes used for emphasis. Thanks for reading! :)
"I hate picture day," sixteen-year-old Dick Grayson mumbled to himself.
He was in the library, waiting in line with his social studies class, and he was not looking forward to having another camera flash in his face. It was becoming a constant in his life: the bright lights of cameras and video cameras blinding him as reporters threw questions at him.
"Next!" the photographer called.
Dick tilted his head at the sound as the kid in front of him moved forward. The voice was somewhat familiar, but he couldn't place it. Closing his eyes, he focused on the tone and pitch of the words coming from the man's mouth. It was deep and gravelly, with a hint of an accent. British, maybe.
"Next!"
"Your turn, Grayson. Go!"
The large boy behind Dick gave him a shove, causing him to stumble forward while opening his eyes. Dick tripped on nothing and fell, but easily turned it into a forward roll and popped right back up. All the kids were laughing, but the photographer was staring at him with an expression that would bother Dick for the rest of the day. It was a mixture of amusement and intrigue, an unusual combination that the man pulled off with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow.
"That was impressive," the photographer stated, his tone outlined with curiosity. "Are you a gymnast? Sit right here on this box for me."
Dick shook his head as he sat down.
"Trampoline, cheerleading, a lot of tumbling experience? Turn your legs to the diagonal, please."
Dick wondered why the man was so interested in a forward roll. It wasn't like he had done a backflip.
"Chin down, tilt your head to the right, where did you learn how to do that?"
"He was in the circus!" exclaimed the big boy who had started the mishap with the shove.
"The circus, interesting. Smile, please."
Dick tried to smile, but something felt off about all of this. The voice, the expression, the interest in the small amount of ability he had shown. And why was the camera taking so long to flash?
The photographer watched the skinny boy trip on...whatever it was he had tripped on. To his surprise, the kid smoothly rolled his way out of the fall and effortlessly popped up to his feet. Raising an eyebrow, Jervis Tetch decided that this boy would be the one. He was obviously athletic, and he was lean enough to fit through the vent.
"That was impressive," Tetch stated. "Are you a gymnast?"
He began situating the boy's body while trying to find out where the kid had learned how to do the skill. It was obvious to Jervis that the teen could do much more than just a simple forward roll.
"He was in the circus!"
Jervis glanced up. The tub of lard who was next in line was grinning like he had just shouted out some big secret. Tetch moved behind the camera and flicked a tiny switch while making some inane comment about the information. The camera let out a quiet grumble as the hidden laser switched on.
"Smile, please."
Tetch punched the little button that activated the laser, sending an invisible beam into the boy's eyes right before the camera flashed.
"Come here, please, and write your name on this paper."
The boy shook his head slightly, then stood up and walked toward the camera.
"You will meet me at the Gotham Antiquities Museum at midnight," Jervis whispered as the teenager scribbled his name.
The boy nodded then turned and joined the rest of his classmates who had already been photographed. Jervis glanced down, then did a double-take. Dick Grayson was Bruce Wayne's ward! This was going to be better than he had anticipated. Wayne was going to be humiliated, and the press was going to have a field day.
"Next," the man called, his face lighting up with a grin.
Dick heard a buzzing in his head right before the camera flashed. A gray mist filled his mind. The photographer asked him to do something, so the sixteen-year-old shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. Standing up, he went to the table and began writing down his name.
"You will meet me at the Gotham Antiquities Museum at midnight," the man whispered.
Dick thought that was weird, but he agreed. Nodding his head, he wondered why he felt like there was no other choice.
The afternoon passed slowly. Dick was floating through a haze of semi-awareness, and several of his teachers called him out for not paying attention. The fog dissipated a little when he was forced to answer a question or give a comment, but it returned as soon as he stopped talking.
By the time he arrived at Wayne Manor, the teenager had a headache the size of Gotham City. His brain was tired of drifting off only to be yanked back and then allowed to drift off again.
"Master Dick, how was school?" Alfred asked as the boy walked in the door.
"It was picture day," Dick grumbled.
That was really the only thing he could remember about the day. Dick thought that maybe he had taken a test in math, but he wasn't going to make himself sound like an idiot by admitting that he couldn't recall anything except getting photographed.
"Do you have any homework, young sir?"
Did he? Dick couldn't remember. He usually had math, but if he had taken a test he wouldn't have homework. Hadn't they been writing an essay in ELA during the week? It was a good possibility, so he went with that.
"Yeah, I'll go do it now."
"Would you like a snack first, Master Dick?"
"No, thanks, not hungry."
Alfred's proper expression morphed into one of surprise. Dick, the athletic, growing, teenage boy, didn't want a snack?!
"Very well, Master Dick. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."
"Thanks," the sixteen-year-old responded as he headed for the stairs.
Alfred filed away the strange conversation, fully intending to brief Bruce as soon as the man returned home.
Three hours later, that man walked in the door. Dick was still upstairs, and Alfred was slightly concerned. The butler didn't waste a moment, not even allowing Bruce to take off his coat before speaking to him.
"Master Bruce, something is wrong with Master Dick," he began.
"Wrong? In what way? Is he sick or injured?"
"No, sir, but he didn't want a snack when he arrived home, and he has been upstairs this entire time. He did not look happy, Master Bruce. I advise you to talk to him."
Bruce was already on his way up the stairs. Dick was never not happy – except on a certain day every year – and Dick was always hungry after school.
To his surprise, the door to the boy's bedroom was open. Bruce walked in and paused, waiting for his ward to acknowledge his presence. Dick didn't look up from his papers, so the millionaire took a silent moment to study him.
His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his clothes were somewhat rumpled. Dick's left elbow was on the desk, and his head was tilted to the left, allowing it to rest on his left hand. Bruce noticed the slow circles that his fingers were making and decided that the boy was attempting to rub away a headache.
"Dick."
The teenager was startled. He dropped his pencil and jerked his head up. Bruce was surprised again; Dick Grayson was never startled. Not enough to almost jump out of his skin, anyway.
"You okay, chum?" Bruce asked when Dick turned his head to look at the man.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, fine. Just working on my essay."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. There was a peculiar tone woven through the words, a combination of confusion and…fear, maybe?
"Talk to me, Dick. You don't sound like yourself."
Dick had no idea what to say. He felt like himself, except for the pounding in his skull and the soft mist dancing in his brain. There was something he should say, a slip of a memory flitting around the edges of his mind. But he couldn't catch it, so he couldn't say it.
"Dick."
Bruce's tone was now slightly commanding. It was sometimes hard to get Dick to talk to him, but usually once the boy started Bruce was able to figure everything out. And fix it, if necessary.
"It was picture day," Dick supplied, silently attempting to force his brain to remember something – anything – else about his day.
"Okay," Bruce responded. "Is that bad or good?"
"I don't like having my picture taken."
So, he was pouting. That was Bruce's assumption, anyway.
"Well, we all have to do things we don't like once in a while," the man responded. "At least it's over."
Dick nodded and picked up his pencil, fully intending to return his attention to his essay.
"You have a headache," Bruce commented.
The pencil returned to the desk, slowly this time, and Dick turned his entire body around to face Bruce.
"Yes, but it's fine. I'm not sick, or getting sick, or anything else. It's just a headache," he answered, an edge of irritation in his voice.
"Okay, no need to get upset," Bruce said, slightly taken aback at the teen's tone.
There was a long stretch of silence. An awkward tension hung in the room, a feeling that neither person knew how to extinguish.
"Are you sure you're okay, chum?" Bruce finally asked.
"It's just a headache," Dick repeated grumpily.
Turning around, he picked up his pencil again and began writing on the paper in front of him.
Bruce left the room, and the conversation began repeating itself in his mind. Alfred was right – something was wrong with Dick. And it was more than just a headache.
Midnight – Gotham Antiquities Museum:
Dick had used the excuse of too much homework and not enough time in order to avoid having Robin go on patrol. Bruce had been shocked – Robin never wanted time off! But he had agreed to the request, hoping that Dick having a night to himself would help fix whatever was bothering him.
So now here the boy was, in the parking lot at the Gotham Antiquities Museum, staring at the school photographer. The man was wearing a purple top hat that looked rather worn out, but Dick didn't think anything of it after an initial glance.
Jervis Tetch – currently the Mad Hatter – scrutinized the parking lot before beginning to speak. There was no sign of anyone. He briefly wondered how the teen had been able to get to the museum. Not that it mattered; all that mattered was that he was here.
"Look at my hat, boy," the man commanded.
Dick raised his eyes as the top edge of the hat suddenly sprang up. Two bright rays of yellow light shot out, straight into the blue circles of the teenager. The beams enveloped Dick's brain in shadow, and Mad Hatter's experiment began.
"You will go to the roof of this building, climb into the air vent, and make your way to the Egyptian room. Open the vent, drop to the floor, and retrieve the Golden Scarab. When you hear the clock strike one, you will attack whomever is next to you. Now go."
Mad Hatter didn't want the Golden Scarab; in fact, he couldn't care less about it. He just needed the kid to get arrested by a specific police officer. And the villain knew that specific officer was patrolling this section of the city. While the man was focused on arresting the boy, Mad Hatter would have the opportunity to whisk the officer's valuable hat right off his head.
The lad would spend the night in jail and the policeman would think he had lost his hat during the arrest. It was perfect. And the fact that Bruce Wayne would have to go to headquarters in order to bail his ward out of jail was the icing on the cake.
Mad Hatter grinned as he watched the teen climb the conveniently located ladder that led to the roof. He would make sure to call both the Gotham Gazette and the local news stations before Wayne retrieved the boy. The media was going to have a field day tomorrow.
Dick was startled when two yellow beams of light suddenly shot into his eyes. He didn't have time to react, however, because his brain was instantly covered by a thick curtain of darkness. The teenager felt empty and was grateful when a ghostly voice told him what to do. Following directions was easier than trying to think.
Turning away from the man in front of him, Dick quickly found a ladder. Hopefully it would lead to the roof. If not, he would climb back down and find another way in.
It didn't take him long – the museum was only three stories high – and when he got to the top he immediately saw the ventilation shaft. The cover was already off, so Dick crouched down and crawled inside. He had no idea which way to go, so he chose to go straight. Two dead ends, three wrong rooms, and twenty frustrating minutes later, he found the Egyptian room.
Slipping the cover off the vent, Dick grabbed the edge and slid his legs out. He let go and landed lightly on the ground that was only eight feet away.
Down in the lobby of the museum, a buzzer began beeping as the motion sensors were triggered. The guard on duty glanced at his six monitors and quickly found the location of the would-be thief.
Dick glanced around and quickly found the Golden Scarab. It was in a glass case with no lock. There was no other way to get it, so the sixteen-year-old balled his right hand into a fist and punched the glass. It shattered, shooting shards onto the floor and shoving splintered pieces into Dick's knuckles.
Down in the lobby of the museum, a loud siren began wailing. The guard on duty, already on his way to the third floor, pulled out his gun as he increased his speed.
The piercing scream of the siren startled the teenager. He panicked, grabbed the ancient artifact, and raced toward the door that said 'stairs'. Dick threw open the door and ran straight into the chest of the burly night guard.
"Gotcha," the man said grimly.
He wrapped the thief in a strong, one-armed hug, holstered his gun, and pushed a button on his belt to silence the siren. Then he spun around and shoved the criminal against the wall, pinning him there with one arm while retrieving his cuffs with his other hand. The Gotham Antiquities Museum didn't pinch pennies with security.
"What do you want with the Golden Scarab?" he asked as he pulled the thief's arms behind his back and secured the metal around the thin wrists.
The scarab fell to the ground, and the blood trickling down the right hand did not go unnoticed. Grabbing his shoulders, the guard twisted the criminal around. His eyes widened in surprise. The thief was a boy. Not just any boy, though. Dick Grayson, youthful ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne!
"I hope you have a mighty good excuse, son," the guard growled. "Let's go downstairs and I'll take care of those knuckles while we wait for the police."
The guard took hold of Dick's shoulders and marched him down the hall to the elevator. Thirty seconds later they were on the ground floor in the security office. He removed the handcuffs so he could take care of the still-trickling blood, then turned the boy around and pushed him onto a chair. Crouching in front of him, the man pulled the teen's arms in front of his body and put the handcuffs back on.
"They'll clean these better for you at headquarters while you get processed," he explained as he grabbed the first aid kit off a shelf.
He didn't receive a response from the boy, so he shrugged and wrapped the knuckles in gauze. When he finished his ministrations, he looked into Dick's eyes, expecting anger or fear or at least concern. What he saw was a deep emptiness in glazed eyes that appeared to be staring at nothing.
"Everything okay in here, Skip?"
The voice echoed in the reception area just outside the office. Skip, the guard, grabbed Dick's right arm and pulled him up then walked him through the open door.
"Yeah, I caught him," Skip replied when the policeman came into view.
"Holy cow, that's Dick Grayson!" the officer exclaimed. "Why…"
"He hasn't spoken, and his eyes look like he could be on drugs or something."
The policeman pulled out his flashlight and shined the beam into Dick's eyes. Dick didn't even flinch.
"Wow, yeah, he's on something. It's like he's looking right through me. Man, Wayne is going to be so mad, and the media's gonna have a field day with this one. Glad I'm not him right now."
"Yeah," Skip replied. "Well, he's all yours now. See you later."
The officer nodded and led Dick toward the front door.
"Hey, Luke!" Skip suddenly called.
The officer, Luke, paused and then turned around.
"He punched the glass to get to the Golden Scarab. Take care of his knuckles when you get him to headquarters."
"Sure thing," Luke replied.
Turning back to the door, he mumbled, "Never thought I'd see the day that a millionaire's kid would turn out to be a thief."
As he led Dick out the door, the old clock inside the museum struck one. Dick immediately balled his hands into fists and shoved them into the officer's stomach. Luke was caught by surprise, and he stumbled but didn't loosen his grip. It wasn't his first day on the job, and he had been punched much harder by much bigger criminals.
"That wasn't smart," he snapped, wrapping a muscular arm around the chest of the now-struggling teenager. "Let's add assaulting an officer and resisting arrest to the list of charges."
As Luke worked on attempting to calm the boy down so he could get him to the car, the Mad Hatter quietly walked behind them. He slipped the hat off the distracted man's head and just as quietly crept away.