Author's Note

Chapter One Summary: After the murder of his circus aerialist parents, Dick Grayson is taken from the circus and everyone he has ever loved and placed in a "temporary" shelter while waiting for a foster home to become available.

Acknowledgement: I'd like to thank Cat for her assistance; her encouragement kept me going when I thought I'd just shuck it all and quit.

Feedback goes to efrancis@earthlink.net.

Disclaimer: All the characters are owned by DC Comics and Time/Warner; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!

Copyright 1999

Little Boy Lost

By Syl Francis

"What's done to children, they will do to society."--Karl Menninger

Prologue

The day following the murder of his parents, the Gotham State Child Welfare Services arrived to take Dick from the only home he had ever known.

"I'm afraid, Mister Haly, that Richard John Grayson, a minor child, has been declared a ward of the state," Dr. Cunningham said. "Gotham State C.W.S. feels that an itinerant circus is not an appropriate place for a child, and therefore Richard will have to be removed from here and placed in the first available foster home."

Dick, still clearly in shock after having witnessed his parents' plunge to their deaths, clung desperately to Pop Haly. He couldn't understand why he had to be taken from the circus and everyone he loved.

"No! Please! Pop, don't let them! I want to stay with you! Please don't let them take me away . . . Please!"

Haly hugged Dick closely to him, ready to fight if necessary to keep his godson. Unfortunately, the CWS agents came prepared. Cunningham gestured casually, and immediately, a squad car that Haly hadn't noted before flashed its blue lights. Two uniformed police officers got out of their car and walked up to the small group.

"Is there a problem, Doctor Cunningham?" A policeman with sergeant stripes spoke.

"I don't think so, officer," Cunningham replied. "*Is* there a problem, Mister Haly?"

Feeling like a traitor, Haly shook his head.

"No, officer . . . no problem," Haly said regretfully. Kneeling down so that he was eye level with Dick, Haly continued, "Dicky . . . son . . . listen to me, boy. You've got to go with these people . . . do you understand?"

Dick set his jaw stubbornly and shook his head.

"The law says that you have to go with them . . . Please, Dicky, I'm sorry. But I promise that it will only be for a short time . . . I promise you, son, that I'm going to do everything in my power to bring you back home . . . Do you believe me?"

Head and eyes downcast, Dick nodded mutely.

Later, his few possessions packed, and clutching Elinore, his stuffed elephant, Dick said good-bye to his extended circus family. Haly promised again that he would do everything in his power to get him back, but Dick had already given up hope. Mom and Dad were dead, and now the circus had abandoned him, too. He had no one left.

Chapter One

The nightmare is always the same . . .

First, he watches helplessly as his Mom and Dad fall forever.

Then *They* come, the mysterious nameless powers that be, and take him away from Pop Haly whom he loves like a grandfather. *They* say that a circus is no place for a boy. So *They* bring him here to this place.

Dr. Cunningham (overheard): "The Gotham State Juvenile Detention Center is for the most incorrigible juvenile offenders in our justice system. The Center includes several education and job-training programs intended to reduce recidivism.  Furthermore, because of a current shortage of foster families, we must also temporarily house a small number of minor children who are awaiting foster homes."

He wants to ask what "incorrigible" means, but a grim JDC aide gives him a threatening glare.

JDC Aide: "No questions, juvie. You'll be told everything you need to know. Lock down is at nine forty-five p.m.; reveille at oh-six-hundred. Don't be late . . . you won't like the consequences."

His door slams shut behind him, and he hears a bolt being thrown into place. He tries the door handle . . . locked. He's a prisoner. Why? What did he do? He's not sure, but it must have been something really bad. He curls up on the bed alone and frightened, hugging his stuffed elephant.

Maybe he shouldn't have told that policeman about overhearing Mr. Zucco threaten Pop Haly. Maybe he wasn't supposed to have been eavesdropping, but he hadn't meant to. He'd gone to Haly's trailer to ask if he could ride in the circus parade on the real Elinore, the circus's star elephant. That's when Zucco stepped outside and almost tripped over him on the trailer's stoop.

Pop Haly (waving an angry fist): "Get off the grounds, Zucco, or I'll have you thrown off!"

Zucco (threateningly): "Pay up, Haly, or someone's going to get hurt . . . real bad!"

He stands mutely by while Zucco threatens Haly. He's too frightened and upset to remember why he's there. Zucco walks off still spewing threats.

Haly (noticing him standing there): "Dicky, you're on in another few minutes, son. You'd best go on home and get ready."

He nods and hurries to his trailer. The familiar logo, "The Flying Graysons," gives him a warm welcome. He tries to tell his Mom and Dad about the man, Zucco, but they are too busy getting ready for the act.

Dad (ruffling his hair): "Get a move on, champ! We're almost on."

Mom (giving him a light peck on the cheek): "Come on, little Robin. It's almost show time."

Less than an hour later, John and Mary Grayson are dead; their trapeze wire has been sabotaged as a warning to others who fail to pay for protection. He kneels between them where they fell in center ring. The Flying Graysons hold a captivated audience one last time.

The rest of the dream is lost in a haze. A shadow swoops out of the darkness, a frightening figure in the form of a man-sized bat; surprisingly, instead of a terrifying voice, the monster's tones are remarkably gentle.

The memory begins to fragment . . . bits and pieces echo in the night: the police, doctors, photographers . . . lots of questions he can't recall as soon as they're asked . . . lots of flashing lights that blind him temporarily . . . insistent voices masked in false kindness . . . asking . . . demanding . . . "Do you remember anything?" . . . "Just one more question" . . . "Can you describe him?"

He shakes his head, no, but is unable to do much else. He starts backing off; his instinct is to run as far away as possible. The voices follow . . . "Just one more question" . . . Eventually he cries out and awakes.

****

It was morning . . . he'd just survived his first night at the Gotham State Juvenile Detention Center, or JDC. As he slowly came to awareness, he felt his senses being assaulted by the smell of disinfectant and other vile odors that reminded him of the animal cages before they were cleaned out.

Dick looked down at Elinore. The stuffed elephant had been his constant companion since the day he was born, a gift from Pop Haly, proud godfather and surrogate grandfather. The countless numbers of hugs she'd been subjected to, and wet tears that her soft, fading gray material had absorbed down the years showed in several worn spots. Some of her stuffing peeked through, threatening to escape.

Dick had always confided in her and told her his deepest secrets. He turned to her now for comfort. He allowed his tears to come and pressed his cheek on Elinore's head. He told her of his pain and loss in soft whispers and asked her advice.

Elinore's black button eyes looked solemnly back at him. No answers were forthcoming. At nine and a half, Dick's childhood had ended abruptly when his parents' trapeze wires broke. He was alone now; he had no one on whom he could depend. Whatever happened, he only had himself to rely on.

Dick began to feel a cold, hard anger settle in his stomach. His parents had been murdered--probably by that rat, Zucco! And *he'd* been put in jail! He had to get out of this place and find Zucco. Dick wasn't sure what he'd do when he found his parents' killer, but he knew that he'd never rest until he did.

"Okay, Dick . . . let's see what you learned from Uncle Carl."

Uncle Carl was The Great Carlo, star magician and escape artist. He'd taken Dick under his wing and taught him several of his tricks. A quick study, Dick's favorite lessons had involved the art of escape. With each succeeding lesson he'd been able to escape from greater and more complicated traps. Uncle Carl's regret was that his best pupil was someone whom he'd never be able to include in his act because he was already spoken for.

Dick got out of bed and stood in the middle of his small, darkened cell. His internal clock told him that reveille was still about a half-hour away. He and his parents were normally up way before now and well into their morning routine.

He studied his immediate surroundings, searching for weaknesses in the room's security. He carefully ran his fingers lightly along the walls, feeling for cracks or soft spots. He found a pipe that disappeared into the shadows in the ceiling. He'd have to wait until the lights came on before he could continue. The almost imperceptible illumination from his room's sole window told him that dawn would be breaking shortly.

"Might as well do my workout while I wait," he said.

Dick went down into the classic push-up position and quickly knocked out a hundred; he immediately followed this with a hundred crunches. Next, he jumped up and grabbed hold of the windowsill. He took a deep breath, released slowly, and then began to pull up. By dawn, Dick had finished as much of his morning workout as his primitive conditions permitted.

"Use it or lose it," he said, echoing his Dad.

To his dismay, as the sun's rays began to peek in, Dick saw that the window was barred. Scratch that exit, he thought. His eyes then followed the heating pipe up to its point of entry in the ceiling. No good. Dick couldn't make out a seam, much less a possible way out. No convenient air vents to crawl through.

His only hope then would be to leave through the door, but it was locked from the outside. His eyes narrowed as he studied the problem. He went to his small carryall and quickly searched its contents. Because of his state of mind at the time, Dick hadn't packed his own bag; therefore, he wasn't sure if he'd find what he needed.

He ran his fingers along the lining of his carryall. Yes! He carefully extricated a three-inch metal sliver with irregular, perforated edges: a skeleton key. It was graduation gift of sorts from Uncle Carl. Dick had successfully executed one of The Great Carlo's death-defying escapes in less than twenty seconds.

He walked over to the door and inspected the handle mechanism. After a few fruitless minutes, Dick leaned back on his haunches. No go. The locking device was accessible only from the other side.

Uncle Carl's words rang in his head: "There's always a way, Dick. You just have to know where to look."

"Well, if *I* can't open the door, then I'll have to wait until someone else does it for me." Dick allowed himself small smile.

****

During the next two days Dick waited for his chance. Each morning he closely observed the reveille procedures: First, the lights came on. Then, the door buzzed and the lock clicked as it was thrown open. Immediately outside in the hallway, there were several closed circuit television cameras mounted along critical junctures. Two JDC aides posted at opposite ends of the corridor reinforced the security.

Getting out of the room is easy, Dick thought facetiously. Getting off the grounds . . . that's the challenge! Too bad Uncle Carl's not here to give me any suggestions . . .

By the third day, Dick had the inmates' routine down.

Mornings began with reveille. This was closely followed by personal hygiene, breakfast, classes/study period, and lunch. The afternoons began with a one-hour outdoor recreation period, which was soon followed by afternoon classes/study period, personal time/visitation hours, the evening meal, then a combination personal time/hygiene period.

Lockdown was at 9:45 p.m. and Lights Out followed promptly at 10:00 p.m. Both were strictly enforced.

There was little opportunity to slip away during the day. The JDC aides were placed in prominent positions throughout the facilities. The classes always had a teacher and two aides as monitors. To cap it off, the facilities had CCTV cameras placed at regular intervals throughout.

Dick decided that he had to learn about the operation of the facilities themselves, such as, pick-up and delivery schedules . . . alternate routes that led to the outside . . . JDC aides who were most likely to slack off on the job . . . anything that might provide a chance for escape.

Dick moved silently among the other JDC inmates, a small, inconsequential addition to the population. He avoided direct contact with anyone else, preferring to observe his surroundings from the sidelines. During the outdoor rec period, while the rest of the inmates, or "juvies," hung out with their friends, joined pick-up games, did weight training, or just milled about bored, Dick worked out on a small jungle gym.

As soon as he saw the jungle gym sitting in the cool October afternoon on his first day, Dick moved quickly towards it. None of the other juvies were particularly interested in it; most probably thought of it as a child's activity. But Dick's spirits immediately soared.

He leaped to the highest bar, then proceeded to execute what to his fellow inmates appeared to be a miraculous feat. He pulled himself over the bar, released and went flying to the next bar. He caught it one-handed, brought his feet up, and released his hand while effortlessly catching the bar with his ankles.

Eventually, Dick ended positioned straddling the bar on his hands. He smoothly split his legs, keeping a perfect gymnast form, then slowly brought his body up into a handstand. Dick brought his legs over and behind his head until his feet and body were in perfect alignment along the one-inch bar. He stood easily on his toes, his arms out to maintain his balance. Then he quickly executed three back somersaults, and as he reached the edge of the jungle gym, dismounted with a flourish . . . a triple tucked spin.

The other juvies applauded--an unusual occurrence in itself. Several came up to Dick to slap him on the shoulders and back, but soon the excitement faded. By the second day, no one paid any attention to the intensely concentrating young aerialist, although, he'd earned a nickname, "Acrobat."

It seemed to Dick that no one but a few went by their given names here. A nickname was almost a badge of honor. Dick could only shake his head chagrinned. So much for not being noticed.

Dick soon realized that the JDC inmates were divided into the hunters and the prey. 

This division among his fellow juvies helped to graphically illustrate to him the meaning of the word "incorrigible." The more vicious ones terrorized the others, and no one on the staff did anything to stop them. Indeed, Dick noticed that some of the JDC aides actually enjoyed the fights that often broke out between the boys.

To Dick's annoyance, a young pickpocket, Jamie (Fingers) McEwan, decided to make him his new best friend.

"Hey, Acrobat!" Dick looked up, saw McEwan and instantly looked for a way out. He was in the cafeteria sitting alone in a corner table. 

McEwan plopped himself next to Dick effectively cutting off any hope of escape. He had a mop of brown hair that constantly fell over laughing brown eyes that always seemed alight with a secret merriment. He was wearing his trademark Gotham Knights leather jacket.

"How many times do I gotta tell ya, kid? We indies have to stick together . . . we're pals, remember? Safety in numbers, see?"

An "indie" or an "independent" was a juvie not aligned to any gang. Ironically, McEwan was a sort of "indie leader"; he kept trying to recruit the nonaligned juvies for mutual protection. Dick was just the latest; so far, McEwan had managed to form his own underground network of sorts. It was comprised of the more timid amongst the juvies--dweebs, nerds, and losers mostly, but useful nonetheless.

Dick kept on eating.

If I ignore him, Dick thought hopefully, maybe he'll leave me alone. Dick grimaced. The JDC food was worse than lousy--sawdust would taste better--but he had to keep his strength up in order to escape. That is, if he didn't throw it up first.

McEwan kept on talking. He blithely ignored Dick's efforts to ignore him. Almost seventeen, this was McEwan's third (and last) time here at the JDC. Any further arrests or convictions would result in a stay at Blackgate Prison. He had three long months left on his current sentence. If he survived. So far, McEwan had done everything possible to avoid the local juvie kingpin, a dangerous young sociopath called Blade; however, he knew that it was only a matter of time before Blade found out he was here.

Twelve months ago, Blade's gang the Vigils had been strong-arming the good citizens of Gotham's crime alley. One night, just as Blade was about to waste some immigrant Korean shopkeeper for failing to pay protection, the Bat showed up and interfered with his business transaction. Blade found out that a certain loser pickpocket known as "Fingers" had been the stoolie who'd called the cops.

Blade swore revenge on the day of his sentencing, and McEwan didn't doubt the gang leader's sincerity. Blade had reason to violently dislike McEwan, and McEwan knew that Blade would take extreme pleasure in showing his dislike. McEwan admitted that Blade and his goons terrified him. He'd seen what they were capable of doing, and he didn't want to be found face down in the shower one morning, his blood streaming down the drain.

A pickpocket, McEwan had never carried a weapon of any type in his life. Rather, he'd relied on his wits and skills for survival--a regular Artful Dodger, he thought wryly. Yeah, yeah, yeah, so he picked the pockets of the rich, the naive, and the unwary. He figured he was doing them a vital social service. Sort of a teachable moment on the mean streets of Gotham with him acting as professor emeritus.

Once McEwan gave his "students" a hands-on demonstration of what could result after a single moment of carelessness--i.e., lost wallets, billfolds, money clips, jewelry--McEwan felt confident that they'd learned their lesson and would never fall victim to "Fingers McEwan" or his kind again.

Heck, he'd heard that corporate America paid millions a year in order to help educate their executives on how not to be a victim. And here *he* was doing it practically free of charge! Wayne Enterprises should hire me as a personal security consultant, McEwan thought proudly.

McEwan originally attached himself to Dick because scuttlebutt had it that the kid was just one of those overflows from the foster program, and therefore, in need of protection. Furthermore, Dick was someone McEwan could maybe talk out of joining a gang. Besides, Dick reminded him of his little brother, Bobby.

"So, how about a friendly pick-up game to work off this delectable meal, buddy?" McEwan waggled his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx imitation. This more than anything else broke through Dick's defenses and he finally laughed--his first since his arrival. John Grayson had had a love of old movies and he'd passed that love onto his son.

"Hey, that's all right, Acrobat. You'n me, kid, we're gonna be great pals together!" He stuck out his hand. Dick took it, and they shook.

That afternoon, McEwan finally ran into Blade.

Dick had observed the brutish seventeen-year-old Blade and his gang from the sidelines. He'd known that this was one depraved psycho he needed to avoid at all costs; he'd also known that their eventual meeting was inevitable. Blade liked to prey on the small and weak, and Dick was currently the smallest resident of the JDC. To the unobservant, he might even appear as the weakest.

They were in the outdoor recreation area. What had been a friendly basketball pick-up game was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Blade and his goons.

"McEwan, I thought I warned you to keep your bony butt out of here?" Blade stood on the tarmac, his gang members on either side of him. Dick watched from the sidelines. "Didn't I tell you what would happen if I ever laid my hands on you?"

Instantly, everyone cleared an area around McEwan. He found himself completely isolated, facing his worst nightmare.

McEwan smiled disarmingly. "Blade . . . ! Buddy . . . ! Long time no see. How're things going?"

Blade snapped his fingers. Two of his followers suddenly broke away and grabbed McEwan from either side. Blade gave him a thoroughly evil grin, flexed his fingers dramatically, and then punched him in the solar plexus. McEwan doubled over. Blade followed through with a right cross to the chin, instantly dislocating McEwan's jaw then jabbed an elbow to his nose.

Within minutes, Blade had McEwan facedown on the playground's tarmac. He slowly circled McEwan, viciously kicking him, first in the rib area, then in the abdomen. McEwan cried out and grabbed his stomach. He was bleeding profusely from a number of places; his nose was broken, and he had some possible broken ribs. McEwan wasn't sure, but he was probably also bleeding internally.

Dick watched hidden in the crowd. Why didn't the JDC aides *do* something? He looked at the watchtowers. Blade methodically stomped on McEwan's right arm. The sickening sound of bone breaking could be heard all the way over to where Dick stood. The watchtower guards were grinning down at the spectacle. They were actually en*joy*ing this!

"Please . . . don't . . . " McEwan moaned weakly.

Dick searched desperately for the aides who were supposed to be on duty down here on the rec grounds. Blade laughed. The sound sent a chill down Dick's back. The aides had disappeared. Dick couldn't believe this! No one was going to *do* anything.

"Why don't I just put you out of your misery?" Blade said. He produced a switchblade from a hidden wristband. The sunlight glinting on the metal blade snapped Dick out of his indecision. He couldn't stand by any longer.

"Let him go, Blade," Dick said quietly. Blade looked up and dismissed the boy quickly.

"Get lost, pretty boy," Blade said, looking down at McEwan with anticipation, "or you'll be next."

"Let--him--go!" Dick's tone indicated that he meant each word.

Surprised that Dick would challenge him, Blade placed his heavily booted foot on McEwan's back. He turned methodically and faced Dick, quickly sizing up his new opponent: Fresh meat. Blade grinned suddenly, looking forward to seriously cutting the new boy. He purposely allowed the switchblade to flash in the afternoon sun.

"Okay, pretty boy, you want some of this? You got it! Napalm!" Blade addressed one of his followers. "Watch my new toy." He indicated McEwan. "I'm not done playing with it!"

Blade began advancing towards Dick, his deadly intention obvious. Dick retreated in slow, measured steps, not taking his eyes off the larger boy. Great going, Dick, he thought ruefully. Now what? Dick soon bumped into something cold and metallic: the jungle gym! It was his turn to smirk in anticipation. 

Okay, Godzilla, come and get it!

Dick waited patiently for Blade's inevitable attack. As Blade slashed out at him, Dick's acrobatic instincts took over. He leaped straight up, grabbed an overhead bar, gracefully swung his body under and over the bar, then used his momentum to propel himself feet first at Blade.

Both boys went down, falling in a tangle of arms and legs. Dick recovered first. He broke away from Blade and executed a back flip that took him out of harm's way of the deadly knife. He landed crouched and ready, facing his opponent.

Blade didn't stay down for long. He stood up, and in a fit of rage, put his head down and charged at Dick, a steam locomotive bearing down at full speed. Dick waited. At the last instant, he grabbed Blade by the wrists, fell back on the tarmac, simultaneously bringing his feet under Blade's stomach, pushing him up and over. Blade's own momentum provided the necessary impetus to send him flying.

Blade landed--hard--on his back. He sat momentarily stunned, the wind knocked out of him. A transformation suddenly came over him. Up until now he'd been playing with the little punk. It was time to get serious. Blade stood in a smooth catlike motion, assuming an almost feline stance. He proceeded to circle Dick in lethally graceful steps, a panther stalking his prey. Each rotation brought him closer to his target.

Pretty boy was dead meat!

Blade began a cat and mouse game, lunging and falling back. Dick's acrobatic skills kept him safely away from the deadly blade, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before Blade connected. He had to take matters into his own hands.

Dick suddenly leaped and somersaulted in midair; then, seemingly defying gravity, he kicked straight out, explosively connecting with Blade's jutting chin. The gang leader went down, bleeding from his mouth and nose.

Blade recovered in a fit of fury and started to get up. Not waiting, Dick went airborne, and almost faster than the onlookers could follow, spun and kicked out, landing his sneakered foot squarely in the gang leader's right temple. Blade fell backward as if shot. He went down and was out for the count. Dick quickly turned to face Blade's goons.

At this moment, the JDC aides, who were on outdoor rec duty, finally reappeared and intervened. The crowd fell back and sullenly gave way.

"Okay, you juvies, break it up! Outdoor rec's over! Back inside!" The JDC aides' voices could be heard over the murmured grumblings of the juvenile inmates.

The goon that Blade had referred to as Napalm called out to Dick. "This ain't over, pretty boy! Cross paths with Blade and you cross all the Vigils! Better look over your shoulder!"

"I said . . . Break it *up*, Napalm! You and the rest of the Vigils back to your quarters!"

As the juvies began a slow, resentful shuffle back inside, Dick hurried over to McEwan. He looked bad. Dick called out to the JDC aides.

"Please . . . we need help over here! Fingers is really hurt . . . hurry, please!"

One of the aides rushed over, took a cursory look at McEwan's condition, and promptly called for assistance.

"Hey, we need a medic here! Get your butt in gear, Fitzhugh! Get the doc out here, stat!"

"Acro . . . bat . . . " McEwan whispered, struggling to the get the words out.

"Don't try to talk, Fingers . . . Help's on the way . . . you're gonna be fine . . . " Dick tried to sound upbeat, but his voice wavered as he fought back tears.

"Lisss . . . sen . . . to me . . . kid . . . " McEwan whispered, his voice insistent. He weakly grasped Dick by the shirt with his good hand. "You . . . you've . . . made . . . some bad . . . en . . .en . . . emies . . . " McEwan closed his eyes suddenly, exhausted by the effort. "Hit . . . the guard . . . do it . . . be . . . fore . . . it's too . . . late . . . ." McEwan couldn't go on, and slipped into unconsciousness.

"What? Fingers?" No good . . . McEwan was out. What had he said? That he wanted Dick to *hit* the guard? It didn't make any sense. Or did it? Dick sat back on his heels and surreptitiously studied the JDC medical staff as they arrived and began to check McEwan and Blade, working quickly and efficiently.

The medtechs examining Blade were busy calling out medspeak over their radio: "Victim breathing but unconscious . . . BP eighty over one-twenty . . . scalp . . . open laceration . . . left lower back of head . . . enlarged left pupil . . . possible concussion . . . multiple facial contusions and discoloration . . . lower jaw . . . break or dislocation . . . Ready to transport . . ."

McEwan was in much more serious condition: "Simple fracture of the humerus . . . multiple facial and torso contusions and lacerations . . . possible fractured lower ribs . . . possible internal injuries . . . possible broken nose . . . " McEwan also had to be taken to the infirmary, and perhaps, even require evacuation to Gotham City General Hospital.

While everyone was occupied with the two injured boys, Dick closed his eyes and thought, "Here goes nothing!" and suddenly exploded in a fit of fury. He charged the JDC aide who was bent over McEwan.

"It's all *your* fault!" he screamed. "All of you! You could've stopped it . . ! But you vultures were too busy enjoying yourselves!"

Dick launched himself at the startled aide, and began pummeling him with his small fists.

"I *hate* you . . ! I hate *all* of you . . !"

Caught by surprise, the aide fell back on the tarmac, and immediately felt like he was being mauled by a wildcat!

"Hey! Get him off me! Get him off me!"

"Up you go!" the aide named Fitzhugh said laughing. He'd picked Dick up by the belt loops on his jeans and was holding him at arm's length. Dick kept kicking, his rage growing with each futile attempt to squirm out of Fitzhugh's firm grasp. "Looks like we got us a tiger by the tail here, Jenkins. Whaddaya say we cage it until it cools off?"

Of course, it came as no shock to anyone involved that Dr. Cunningham decided to punish Dick for his part in the fight and for his later unprovoked attack on the JDC aide, Jenkins. He was confined to his room and allowed to see no one except the aide who brought him his meals. He was given a restroom break every four hours and allowed to shower once a day, after all the other juvies had completed theirs.

Dick understood that confinement was the safest course of action for him, which is why McEwan had insisted that he attack the guard. Nevertheless, Dick still felt not only abandoned, he felt his heart breaking all over again.

The only friend he'd made here had been badly hurt with possibly life-threatening injuries. He'd made enemies of the most vicious gang of teenaged predators in the JDC. And worse, the staff took a sick pleasure in watching the inmates beat each other's brains out.

It seemed that no one cared about him anymore . . . no one except Elinore. He held her closely to him, again confiding his deep sorrow and pain. It was hard being nine and a half.

"Dad said once that a man has to do what he thinks is right," Dick reminded her. "I just wish that doing the right thing didn't hurt so much."

At least McEwan was still alive. On the second day of his confinement, Dick received a message informing him that McEwan had been evaced to Gotham General for emergency treatment; that had been two days ago. Yesterday, his JDC babysitter informed him that McEwan was back in the center's infirmary recovery room.

Dick also learned that Blade had been evacuated to Gotham General at the same time as McEwan; however, a few hours after his transfer to the recovery room, Blade had knocked out an orderly, stolen his hospital whites and walked out the emergency room entrance.

So, Blade wasn't coming back. Dick smiled. The day was looking brighter.

Chapter Two

Home Page FAQs GCPD Archive Fan-Fiction Archive Links

The Legal Stuff - Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. This is an unofficial web site and is not endorsed by or affiliated with DC Comics. All stories present on this site are the copyright of each writer, except for those characters and places that are copyright DC Comics. This web site is designed to provide people with information and entertainment relating to the DC Comics' Batman character and is not in any way a profit-making enterprise.