Author's Note

Summary: After Batman fires Robin, Dick Grayson leaves home to try to find his place in the world.

Acknowledgement: I'd like to thank the citizens of Cut-and-Shoot, Texas for having probably the neatest name for a town that I've ever seen on my travels. I hope that my use of it in no way offends anyone.

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

Changes

By Syl Francis

"There is nothing permanent except change." Heraclitus

It's funny about burning your bridges. Once you run out of money, you find yourself having to actually get a job! Well, it's either that or starve or call Bruce . . . and I'll be damned if I'll do the last!

The name's Dick Grayson. Recently I joined the ranks of the homeless and the unemployed. Just me and about seven million other guys so don't spend too much time feeling sorry for me. I can manage. I don't need Bruce and his gazillions . . . I was just a poor circus kid when he took me in. I guess now that he's thrown me out, I'm a poor ex-millionaire's ward.

Okay, Bruce didn't really throw me out . . . but he did the next closest thing.

He fired me.

Never mind; it's a long a story.

You could say that I hit rock bottom when I pulled into this incredibly seedy town located in Nowhere's-ville, Texas called . . . you won't believe this . . . Cut-and-Shoot, Texas . . . west of Hades and south of Sulfur Springs . . . honest! As I rode my bike through the main street, the locals stared suspiciously at me.

An old geezer turned to his wife and whispered something to her, never taking his eyes off me.

"There be a stranger in town, Mabel," I muttered to myself. "Okay, Grayson," I added. "No need to poke fun at the local yokels." I parked my bike outside Arlene's Diner, a dive that proclaimed "Best Food in Texas Served Here!" with a second, smaller sign announcing, "Ya'll Come on in!"

Who am I to turn my back on such an open-armed welcome? I walked in.

A little bell rang as I opened the door. I removed my Ray-Bans and looked around the place. There was an appropriately large amount of beer signs in tasteful neon scattered around the dining room's four walls. There were a couple of local brands, Lone Star Beer and JAX Beer, that I'd never heard of before. The JAX Beer sign's "A" was burned out; the garish red, white, and blue neon letters kept blinking on and off as if they were about to go out.

A poster that proudly announced the Cut-and-Shoot Warriors' winning season of 1982 was prominently displayed directly behind the counter. A closer look showed that it had been autographed by each player on the team. Woo-hoo! 

A formerly white poster board, now greasy with age, stated "Due to popular demand! This week's Blue Plate Special: Chicken Fried Steak and White Gravy is held over!" The date on the bottom right hand corner said 4th of July Week 1989. Guess these Cut-and-Shootites loved their chicken fried steak. Whatever that was. I couldn't remember Alfred ever preparing any for dinner.

Hmm-mm-m. Maybe I should try it . . . when in Rome . . .

I walked to the counter and asked for a corner table where I could have a clear line of sight to anyone who walked in or out of the dining room. Old habits die hard, I guess. The bored waitress pointed vaguely towards the booths by the grimy windows. I smiled my thanks, walked over and slid into place.

A moment later a young man about my age came up to the table and carefully placed a tall glass of iced water in front of me. He quickly and efficiently placed a knife and fork rolled up in a single paper napkin on the table. Smiling as he worked, he then placed a small basket holding individual packets of "Captain Wafers" crackers and a small saucer with frozen pats of margarine on the table.

Ah, I thought . . . hors d'oeuvres.

I smiled my thanks. His answering smile was somewhat disconcerting to say the least. I mean, the guy practically glowed with pleasure. I must have telegraphed my discomfort, because his eyes suddenly dropped and he handed me a well-worn menu. He quickly turned to go, when I stopped him.

"Uh, excuse me," I said. He turned slowly. He was about my height, but a bit more slender, blond, green eyes. Nice looking guy, I thought. I wondered if he had a sister. He looked at me, and . . . well, this is embarrassing, but I could've sworn the guy made a pass at me. I gave myself a mental headshake . . . must've imagined it, I thought.

"Are you to ready order, sir?" he asked politely. I smiled in amusement at the incongruity of such polite service in what was essentially a dump.

"If you still have the chicken fried steak special?" I asked. He nodded. "Uh, could you explain just what exactly chicken fried steak *is*? I don't believe I've ever had any." 

He grinned suddenly. The guy seemed to turn on like a light bulb . . . I mean, he looked practically radiant.

"I knew it! Ya'll aren't from these parts, are you?" he asked excitedly. I looked around me to see if there was anyone else sitting near me. Isn't "ya'll" plural, I wondered?

"If you mean *me*," I said a bit tentatively, "uh, no . . . I'm not from around here." Gee, what could've given it away? Was it the Gotham Knights leather jacket? The fact that I didn't say, *ya'll*, every other word?

He nodded his head vigorously, and before I could say anything else, he sat across from me in the booth.

"I could tell," he said gaining momentum. "I could just tell!" He waved his hands at me, as if presenting Exhibit A in a murder case. "I mean look at ya'll . . . you're whole outfit says big city or back East!" He paused. "Are you from the City?"

I frowned. When he said the word, *City*, it felt like he was capitalizing it . . . an obvious local reference to a well-known location.

"*Which* city?" I asked, hesitantly. He laughed . . . a purely musical, almost sunshiny laugh.

"Now if I didn't know ya'll weren't from these parts, asking that question would surly clinch it!"

He shook his head at my seeming ignorance.

"Which city, you ask. Round these parts, they's only one city . . . Houston! . . . Oh, Dallas tries to pound its chest and say it's the meanest, baddest city in the whole Lone Star State . . . itty-bitty ol' Austin keeps trying to step in 'cause it's the state capital . . . and now even ol' San Antone has become a bit uppity for title of 'The City' . . . but anyone who's anyone will tell you, when Texans ask you if you're from 'the city,' we mean Houston!"

"I see." I didn't know what else to add. I didn't have to; my waiter, who still hadn't called in my order, suddenly reached across the table and offered me his hand to shake.

"The name's Scott," he said. I hesitated for a split second, then took his proffered hand and shook it.

"Al," I said. Sorry, Alfred, I added to myself.

Scott nodded.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Al," he said, giving me a brilliant smile. "Are you just passing through on your way to the City, or are you planning on staying?"

"Well, I was hoping to get some part-time work before I moved on," I said, falling into my cover story. "I'm crossing the country . . . just sort of following the back roads . . . and every now and then, I've gotta stop and work until I've enough saved up to move on."

Scott nodded his head in understanding, but shook it ruefully.

"Jeez, sorry, Al . . . there just ain't much work round these parts. Most folks can barely take care of their own, and hold on to the jobs they have. Most guys my age left Cut 'n Shoot almost as soon as they graduated from high school. I stuck around 'cause I had to take care of my mama . . . cancer." He explained. "Passed away nigh three years now, but . . . you know how it is. If you don't get out while the gettin's good . . . "

Scott shrugged his shoulders.

"Had to turn down a soccer scholarship to Texas A & M . . . too late to go now." Scott looked pensive for a moment, then he gave me that bright smile of his again. "But hey, I got to spend every one of my mama's last living days with her . . . cain't say there's too many regrets there! Well, look, Al . . . it's been real pleasurable passing the time with you, but I'd best call in your order and do my job before I get myself fired!" He gave me a friendly wave and walked over to the counter.

As I waited for my chicken-fried (mystery meat) Blue Plate Special, images of happier times started playing in my head. My parents and me in the circus flying on the trapeze . . . The first time Bruce tried a quadruple spin and fell unceremoniously onto the safety net that I'd insisted he put up . . . me and Alfred laughing ourselves silly over his injured dignity . . . Bruce relenting and grinning in his embarrassment.

I thought about what Scott had revealed. He'd had a chance to go to college but elected to remain with his mother through her illness. My parents were taken from me in an instant. One minute I had parents and was a member of the Flying Graysons family of aerialists; the next minute I was alone.

One minute I was Robin . . . partner to Batman . . . as in Batman and . . . the next minute I wasn't . . . I was just plain Dick Grayson, college student, sole heir to the Wayne billions . . . failure.

I'd been fired . . . no more Robin . . . ever! Pathetic, huh? Here I was nineteen years old and had everything going for me, and I elected to throw it all away in a moment of childish pique. All because Bruce loved me too much to let me risk my life anymore.

Duh!

Oh, okay, Bruce had this major problem about trying to prevent people he loved from being killed. I *knew* that! I guess I'd *always* known it. It was probably the one point of contention that gave us continuous problems in our relationship. He always kept me on short leash, and when I was nine years old, it might've been okay; however, at nineteen, I began to feel stifled. I demanded to be allowed to do more on my own.

Then I got myself shot by the Joker.

Brilliant move, huh?

I guess Bruce sort of went over the edge for a short while thinking that I could've been killed, and he had his usual knee-jerk reaction. He fired me . . . said I couldn't be Robin anymore. And what was *my* reaction? I ran away from home. Real mature there, Grayson.

Rather than staying home and talking it out with Bruce . . . or at least waiting patiently for the whole "I'm not going to let you die on my watch" routine to blow over, I walked.

And now here was this kid, who'd had the opportunity to pursue his dreams, but elected instead to care for his dying mother. He didn't run away from his mother when she needed him; he stayed. When Bruce needed me to understand his deepest fears, I hit the road.

God, I felt like such a jerk.

Feeling pretty low and ashamed, I took out my billfold and turned it to the wallet sized photos of my "family." I had a pretty beat-up picture of Bruce that I found in the Manor one day. It was of a much younger looking Bruce . . . around the same age as when I first met him. Funny, when I was nine I thought the guy was so old . . . just like Dad had been, I remember telling Alfred.

Well, I was right about one thing, at least. Bruce and Dad *had* been the same age when Dad was killed. Just a few years older than I was now. Can you imagine? Bruce was just a little bit older than me . . . already a successful businessman . . . *and* Batman . . . and on the spur of the moment, he made this major life-altering decision to adopt some kid he didn't even know . . . *me* . . . 'cause I reminded him of him.

I guess was a lucky kid. I lost my Mom and Dad, and I gained Bruce and Alfred.

Mom and Dad were very demonstrative of their love for me . . . I mean, we never went up on the trapeze without the both of them first hugging and kissing me and telling me they loved me. After all, we worked without a net . . . death was our constant companion. We never knew when we would be going up for the last time . . .

Bruce, on the other hand, was almost catatonic about showing affection, but I knew he loved me . . . He spent time with me . . . trained me . . . talked to me . . . trusted me. Unfortunately, his love translated into living with the fear that one day he'd lose me, like he lost *his* parents. You see, Bruce's parents were killed when *he* was little kid, too. Unlike me, though, he didn't have a Bruce Wayne to take him in and show him that his life wasn't over, that there was someone who cared about what happened to him.

Unfortunately, his fear of losing me resulted in his eventually pushing me away . . .

"Hey, who's the good looking guy? Your brother?" I looked up startled. No one *ever* sneaked up me! Damn! I must be feeling worse than even I'd thought. Scott was smiling down at me. He'd brought my order and began to place it in front of me.

I shook my head in answer to his question.

"No . . . my . . . father," I said.

Scott nodded and without asking, he reached and turned the photo over to face him.

"Hmm-mm. Yeah, I can see the resemblance," he said smiling. "Same hair color and eyes . . . you both have those Pierce Brosnan dark blue eyes . . . and the jaw line . . . same stubborn set. Yep . . . he's your Dad all right!" He smiled and handed my billfold back to me. "Hey, mind of I join you? I'm off now . . . don't get much chance to talk to anyone from back East!"

I nodded, and indicated he take a seat across the table from me. I unrolled my knife and fork, placed the flimsy paper napkin on my lap, and stared in mild horror at what I'd ordered.

Scott snickered.

"Yeah, it's pretty scary to the new and uninitiated," he said. "The white gravy is what throws 'em all off. Most people don't know if it's something you're supposed to eat or flush down the toilet."

I gave him a grimace, which only caused him to laugh a little more.

"I'm sorry . . . it's just your reaction is so typical of tourists who stop by on their way through town."

I smiled in turn.

"I'm going to eat this . . . white stuff," I said pointing at the greasy mess on my plate. "If it's been your Blue Plate Special since July fourth nineteen-eighty-nine, then it's *got* to be a hell of a meal!"

I determinedly began to cut. Not exactly the tender filet mignon cuts that Alfred prepared for us on special occasions. I speared a bite-sized portion with my fork, and looking defiantly at my new acquaintance, I quickly put in my mouth and chewed. As I chewed, my initial grimace turned to mild surprise. I gave Scott a pleased grin.

"Hey! That's not half bad!" I began to eat in seriousness for a few minutes. I discovered that I was really starving . . . I hadn't eaten since dinner the night before. My funds were running low, so I'd started rationing what I had.

Scott talked about nothing and everything. His soccer scholarship would've paid for his Economics Major, he said. He'd wanted to become a financial planner, and while he talked, I was duly impressed. The kid wasn't some uneducated small town busboy . . . he knew his stuff. He'd been trying to take courses by correspondence, but just couldn't keep up. Wayne Enterprises could use someone like him, I decided.

Hey, I was the sole son and heir apparent to W. E. wasn't I? I knew *something* about the family business. Maybe I'd lived half my life in the Batcave, but the other half I'd spent in school and visiting Bruce at work. I think I knew every employee on every floor in the huge glass tower. And even though I wasn't home at present, I knew that Bruce hadn't suddenly named someone else as his successor. I hoped.

The meal passed rather pleasantly and soon I finished my first foray into good ol' Southwestern home cooking! The bell announcing a customer entering suddenly rang. I looked up and quickly assessed the men who'd entered. White males . . . mid-twenties to early thirties . . . identifying eagle tattoos on both arms . . . black tee shirts with The Grateful Dead boldly displayed . . . leather belts with huge Rodeo style belt buckles . . . cowboy boots . . . black Stetsons . . . and an attitude.

Something told me that I was about to tangle with these two nasty-looking galoots. Galoots, Grayson? Too many Clint Eastwood westerns, I guess. And what do you suppose? I was right.

"Hey, Jess . . . lookit there? Sweety-boy's found hisself a new play pretty . . . Whoo-ee! His little play-pretty's almost as sweet-looking as *he* is!"

"You're right, there, Bill!" Jess agreed grinning. "Sweety-boy and his play-pretty sure do make a nice couple, now don't they?" Bill and Jess guffawed at this.

I raised my eyebrow at Scott.

"Trouble," I said. Scott sighed.

"I'm sure sorry, Al," he apologized. "I shouldn't've talked to you . . . I forgot Jess and Bill come here every Tuesday afternoon at about this time." He shrugged his shoulders. "That's why I get off so early on Tuesdays . . . the boss, Arlene, don't want no trouble with them . . . except for the fact that they get their jollies beating the living tar out of me, they're actually good men."

"Why would they want to beat *you* up?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the cowboy losers. "What've you done to them? Break up with their sisters or something?"

"*Sisters*?!" Laughed Jess. "You *hear* that Bill? Play-pretty wants to know if Sweet-cheeks dated either of our sisters?"

Both Jess and Bill exploded into more laughter.

"Don't you know, pretty boy?" Jess asked. "Why you are sitting there entertaining and whiling away the hours with Cut 'n Shoot's *only* gay man! And by the looks of you, pretty boy, I would say you are in grave danger of losing your virginity!"

I blushed. I know it was a stupid reaction, but I couldn't help it. I mean, I'd met gays before on the job as Robin, but I'd been too busy either busting bad guys or questioning suspects. And besides, Batman was there. No one would dare make any moves on the Boy Wonder with Bat-Dad standing menacingly nearby.

I looked at Scott and was ashamed of the mortified look he gave me. Great going, Grayson. First friendly face in over five hundred miles, and you have a knee jerk reaction.

"What's that to you?" I asked Bill in a friendly manner.

"What it's to me, pretty boy, is that we don't like your kind around these parts," Jess jumped in. "We know how to take care of sweet cheeks like you."

"Jess . . . Bill . . . " the woman from behind the counter started. "Please . . . no trouble."

"Oh, no trouble, Arlene . . . no trouble at all. In fact, I think I'm really gonna enjoy this!" Both Jess and Bill started taking slow measured steps towards us.

I stood up immediately. I made one last effort to diffuse the moment.

"Look, guys . . . I'm leaving your town in about another ten minutes . . . I'm never going to see either of you ever again . . . There's no reason for this."

Scott stood up next to me. He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away.

"Al . . . don't. It's me they want . . . please leave!" I shook him off and pushed him behind me.

"Will you lookit that?" Bill said. "Ain't they sweet? Pretty boy and Sweet Cakes are trying to protect each other!"

"Yeah, Bill," agreed Jess. "Why they're a regular Romeo and Juliet!" The two idiots burst into laughter. I shook my head. I couldn't believe they'd heard of Romeo and Juliet. Go figure!

"Well, you think if we snuff one, the other one will kill hisself?" Bill asked.

"Don't know . . . but I'd sure like to find out!" Jess said. At this moment, he suddenly flashed a switchblade.

Fun time's over, I thought. I shoved Scott under the table and simultaneously jumped up and kicked out. My first kick landed squarely on Jess' fat jowls; I spun in midair, twisting and kicking Bill in the solar plexus. Jess went down, dropping his blade; he got up and tried to retrieve it. Taking no chances, I kicked the blade away. He threw a punch, and I easily countered with a right downward block. I then jabbed my left elbow into his ribcage.

I felt bone break.

This time, when he went down, he stayed down.

Bill was doubled over and looked like he'd given up before the fight really got started, but he surprised me. He pulled out a Colt semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol. A weapon that packs a mighty big wallop! Time slowed . . . I felt the seconds ticking away in time to my heart beat . . . Arlene screamed . . . customers scrambled in slow motion  . . . I went airborne . . .

As Bill pulled back on the slide, I flew across the intervening space between us . . . he took a military-style stance, bringing the weapon up to bear . . . pulled the trigger . . . I slammed into him. Time resumed.

I kicked the weapon out of his hands, spun and kicked straight up connecting with his temple. Not satisfied, and admittedly wanting to inflict a little more injury than necessary, I punched, pivoted then struck him with the inward heel of my palm to his face. As he went down, he clawed out grabbing my jacket as he lost consciousness.

Where he touched me, I felt suddenly dirty.

Order returned slowly to Arlene's Diner. The Sheriff's Deputy took the two galoots to the county hoosegow to "Cool their heels," he said. He pointedly informed me that Cut-and-Shoot did not take kindly to strangers who beat up on its citizens . . . especially in defense of someone like Scott. I didn't say anything to that . . . I mean what was the point?

Afterwards, Scott sat alone in the same booth where we'd spent such a pleasant conversation. I hesitantly walked over and sat across from him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should've gone home like I always do on Tuesdays . . . It's all my fault . . . I shouldn't've stayed."

"That's crazy!" I protested. "How can it be your fault that those jerks came in looking for trouble?"

Scott sighed.

"It wouldn't be so bad if I at least had any friends left . . . but they're all gone now! Nobody stays here any more . . . can't blame them . . . too much prejudice, bigotry, small-mindedness . . . mean-mindedness. I wish I could leave, but I have no place to go . . . " Scott put his head down in despondence.

I looked at him for a few more minutes then I made my decision. I walked over to the counter and asked for a napkin and a pen. I wrote down some information, then I walked back to the table. I sat down again, then I reached over and nudged him.

"Hey, Scott," I said quietly. He looked up, and quickly wiped his eyes. I looked away momentarily to give him privacy.

"Yeah?" he asked. I looked at him. His face was pale, his eyes red, his hair tousled.

"Look, Scott, you don't have to stay here. Do you have enough money for a bus ticket to Gotham?" He nodded. "Good . . . Look, I have friends in Gotham . . . friends who can get you a temporary place to live . . . line you up with a job . . . and maybe even see about helping you get into school."

I looked intensely into his eyes. Once again, I found myself wondering inadvertently if he had a sister . . . gotta admit, I'd *never* met such a good-lucking guy! I cleared my throat, momentarily nonplussed by my weird reaction.

"Anyway, call this number . . . tell them that Alfred Richardson sent you and that you have a message for Mister Bruce Wayne . . . Introduce yourself . . . show them this note . . . tell Wayne that I sent you . . . describe me if you have to . . . He'll help you."

"Why would he want to help me?" Scott asked.

"Because he's a good man and helping others is what he does." With that I reached across the table and shook his hand. I got him to promise to make the call, wished him luck, and walked out of Arlene's Diner. As I put Cut-and-Shoot, Texas in my rear view mirror I wondered if Scott would take me up on my offer.

"Well, the ball's in his court now," I said to myself. "Change is frightening . . . I'm sure Scott will do what's best for him." As I flew across the seemingly endless Texas highways, I wondered if I'd I ever figure out what was best for me.

The End

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.