Little Boy Lost

by: Syl Francis


Rating: PG-13

(for language and situations)

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.

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

Dick's confinement was lifted the following day. He began his return to JDC society by trying to force down his lunch without noticing the sickly gray-tinged meatloaf. He sniffed suddenly. What was that smell? He looked suspiciously at a dark, runny mess that the cook had called *greens*. He grimaced and suddenly put his fork down. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"Hey, Acrobat!"

Dick's downcast features brightened considerably as he turned towards the sound of McEwan's voice. The pickpocket was a sight for sore eyes. The two boys greeted each other like long-lost brothers. McEwan's face was still swollen and discolored from his beating; his right arm was in a cast. Furthermore, his movements showed that he was still in obvious pain, but he was alive and looked in high spirits.

"Hey, bro . . . all hail the conquering hero . . . " McEwan said smiling. He spoke with some difficulty through only one side of his mouth.

"Hi, Fingers, I'm glad to see you're okay . . . How've you been holding out?"

Dick looked meaningfully at the older boy. The Vigils were still around terrorizing the other juvies. It was only a matter of time before the gang came looking for them. McEwan put his good arm around Dick's shoulders and moved in closely.

"You mean aside from the two broken ribs, broken arm, multiple cuts and contusions, slight concussion, and possible damage to my spleen? Never been better!" Both boys grinned. "Come on, kid . . . let's talk outside."

With a stiff jerk of his head, McEwan indicated he wanted Dick to follow him. Then added sotto voce, "This place ain't safe, kid."

The two boys stood outside near the area around the fence known as the DMZ. This was a ten-meter strip that ran immediately inside and along the perimeter fence. It was clearly marked with a one-meter high single strand of barbed wire. At regular intervals, a small sign with the letters DMZ hung from the strand, swaying in the crisp spring breeze.

The DMZ had clear line of sight with the thirty foot manned guard towers, which were posted on all four compass points of the outer fence. The DMZ was a shoot to kill zone. Dick had to remind himself that he was incarcerated with some of Gotham City's most vicious juvenile delinquents.

"Okay, Fingers, what's up? I don't like being this close to the DMZ . . . gives me the creeps . . . I can almost *feel* a set of crosshairs on my back." Dick looked up at the guard towers nervously.

"Hang loose, Acrobat . . . Rumor control has it that Blade's segundo . . . his number two man . . . is making his play for the numero uno position." McEwan's expression looked grim. "Guess who he's gonna try to take out in order to prove himself worthy of the title?"

Dick swallowed.

"Me?" His voice was a dry whisper. How could he be making enemies? He wasn't even old enough to walk to the corner drug store by himself. An icy hand clutched his insides. McEwan nodded grimly.

"Blade ain't too thrilled about your continuing soundness of body, either . . . you made him lose face in front of the Vigils. He may be out of here, but the grapevine says that he's pretty much still calling the shots from the outside, and there're are still several Vigils here who no doubt want to publicly prove their personal loyalty to him. You've become a human target, kid . . . a walking dead man. We've gotta get you outta this joint . . . the air here ain't healthy for a growing boy."

"That's all I've been thinking about since my first day, Fingers! But, there's just too much *security* here." Dick's dark blue eyes ruefully indicated the guard towers and nine-foot fences with rolls of razor wire on top. "Uncle Carl taught me all he knew about being an escape artist . . . Unfortunately, all of his tricks were really just illusions . . . you know . . . everything was set up to ensure that he *could* escape!"

Dick shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and scuffed his sneakered toes on the tarmac, a picture of abject forlornness.

"He never showed me how break out of a *real* prison with *real* stone walls!"

"Hey, not to worry! You know what they say," McEwan said smiling expansively. "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage . . . I guess we'll just have prove 'em right."

"That's about the *dumbest* thing I've ever heard, Fingers!" Dick scoffed.

McEwan's smile broadened, and he held out his left hand as if to fend off an attack.

"I beg to differ, kid . . . It appears to me that the stalwart words . . . 'Let him go, Blade!' . . . uttered by a certain junior-hero-in-training . . . might just go down in the annals of the dumbest things ever said!" McEwan placed his arm on Dick's shoulder. "Although, I must admit . . . those were just about the sweetest words that *I've* ever heard. Kid, you saved my life . . . I owe you, and I always pay my debts."

Dick shook his head.

"Fingers, it's too dangerous for you to be seen with me. I think it'd be better if you just kept your distance until this is over . . . there's no sense in the both of us going down."

"Sorry, Acrobat, there's just too much noise out here. I can't make out what you're saying!"

"Fingers, really, I don't think--"

"Sorry, kid, you're coming in garbled!" The buzzer ending the outdoor rec period sounded.

"Come on, play time's over. We've gotta go back in. Besides, there're some friends I want you to meet."

The two boys began the long walk back into the relative safety of the detention center.

*****

"It won't be easy."

"Now that's a revelation," McEwan said. "Tell me, Jay Dee, do you have any more pearls of wisdom?"

The other members of McEwan's underground network looked at each other then turned their eyes to the boy who'd spoken first.

"I'm only trying to make sure that the Acrobat here understands the risks," he said shrugging. McEwan had introduced him as Jason (Jay Dee) Dieters, a computer-electronics whiz kid.

He made Dick extremely uncomfortable. The overhead lights reflecting off of his glasses made him appear almost eyeless. His scraggly blond hair looked like he hadn't washed it in about a month; indeed, the whiff that Dick had inadvertently inhaled when he initially passed by Jay Dee confirmed it. Compared to him, the circus stables had smelled lemon fresh.

McEwan walked over and stood behind Dick, placing his good hand on the younger boy's shoulder.

"Risk? Why our young Acrobat here *lives* for risk. He *thrives* on risk! Risk is his business . . . Dick laughs in the face of--"

"--Yeah, sure . . . and he hides in the shadows from the Vigils . . . " Jay Dee said wryly.

Dick lowered his head and blushed furiously.

" . . . as do we all!" added McEwan, giving Jay Dee a warning look. Jay Dee had the grace to look abashed.

"Sorry, kid . . . nothing personal," Jay Dee said apologetically. "I mean, you *did* mop the floor with Blade . . . saved McEwan's butt . . . and lived to tell about it . . . that's more than any of *us* will ever do. At least in *this* lifetime." Jay Dee's outstretched arms took in the other members of the Network.

"Okay, back to business," McEwan said impatiently. "We've got to break the Acrobat out of JDC before he's either killed or maimed or both! He's being targeted by Blade, who's out for vengeance, *and* by Napalm who wants to move in on Blade's territory."

"And I believe that that's just about as close to a near-death experience as anyone can get and still be walking," Jay Dee said dryly.

"You are just full of helpful little aphorisms today aren't you, Jay Dee?" McEwan said growing annoyed. "Look, do you have a problem with the job?"

Jay Dee looked surprised at the unexpectedly harsh tone of voice; he set his jaw stubbornly.

"Is it too much for you?" McEwan pressed.

Jay Dee crossed his arms and shook his head no.

"If you want out, let me know now, 'cause when we start the ball rolling there'll be no turning back," McEwan warned. "I'll expect a hundred and ten percent from you and everyone else involved. Clear?"

Jay Dee stared at Dick for a long moment, holding his eyes as if gauging the younger boy's worthiness then slowly nodded his head.

McEwan's hard glare took in the others.

"That goes for all of you. If there's anyone here who wants out, now's the time . . . no questions asked." He paused, allowing each of the young men to hold his own counsel. After a few minutes McEwan's smile returned with a tinge of pride.

"Okay . . . Thanks, guys, I knew you wouldn't let me down . . . First things first . . . Acrobat, let me introduce the rest of the . . . Network." McEwan smiled enigmatically. He indicated the boy seated immediately to Dick's left. "Roger--"

"--Call me Montana," the boy in question interrupted, offering Dick his hand. They shook.

" . . . Davis." McEwan finished.

"Are you from Montana?" Dick asked. The others burst into laughter.

Montana smiled sheepishly.

"No, I just like horses."

"Oh, you ride?" Dick's eyes lit up excitedly. "I was taught some really cool tricks by the Donner Twins . . . they were the circus trick riders--"

"No, kid," McEwan said. "Montana doesn't ride . . . he's never even been *near* a horse!"

"Hey, Officer O'Brien let me pet his horse that one time, remember? Over on Gotham Central Park?" Montana protested.

"You mean after he caught you pocketing candy bars from the sidewalk vendor?" Jay Dee said, smirking.

Dick looked confused.

"I don't understand . . . If you're not from Montana, and you don't ride horses . . . then why . . . ?"

"Why do I want to be called Montana?" Montana shrugged. "I saw a picture of it once in a _National Geographic_ magazine . . . it had open sky . . . beautiful mountains with streams and rivers and forests . . . and best of all, it had herds of wild horses called 'mustangs' . . . I guess Montana must be the most beautiful place in the whole world!"

Montana stared off into space lost in his thoughts momentarily. Abruptly, he snapped back, then grinned embarrassed.
"Anyway, soon as I get out of here, I'm going there . . . and when I do, ain't no one ever gonna make me come back to this dump!"

Dick didn't know what to say. He looked to McEwan for assistance. McEwan rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, kid . . . he's been on his way to Montana for as long as I've known him! But he's the best locksmith I know, so I put up with him."

McEwan walked over to a blond, blue-eyed giant who looked like a cross between a linebacker and Captain America.

"Next, we have Daniel Goulet . . . called the Ghoul 'cause he's so frigging ugly!"

Ghoul grinned broadly, completely unperturbed by McEwan's unflattering description. Dick noted that "the Ghoul's" all-American good looks made him seem more like a matinee idol than someone who'd break mirrors.

"It's a curse, kid . . . the jealousy, I mean . . . but guys like you'n me . . . babe magnets, y'know . . . ?" Ghoul glanced over at Dick who clearly didn't understand what he meant. The others looked away to hide their smiles. "Well, anyway . . . guys like us, kid, we just gotta learn to live with the blessings that the good Lord has given us and forgive those who would covet our--"

A sudden assault of flying paper wads stopped Ghoul in mid-sentence.

"Shaddup!" "Somebody gag him!" "Excuse me while I throw up!"

"Hey, cut it out! Come on, guys . . . " Ghoul yelled helplessly from under the barrage of paper.

"Ghoul's a bit immodest, but he's a *big* help when we have to move heavy objects," McEwan said dryly. "Next, everybody's favorite sycophant and gadget guru. . . Eddie Lucca."

"Hey, everybody calls me Lucky," Lucky said, giving Dick a friendly wave. Dick liked him instantly.

"What's a syco . . . synco . . . what Fingers said?" Dick asked.

"Ignore him, young Acrobat," Lucky said dismissively. "McEwan simply attempts to cast unfounded aspersion upon my unsullied character."

"Huh?" More big words. If Dick hung around these guys much longer he'd need a dictionary!

"Last but not least," McEwan said, ignoring Lucky, "Jason . . . Jay Dee . . . Dieters . . . resident electronics whiz kid and all-around cynic."

Jay Dee gave Dick a wry salute.

"All right, now that the introductions are out of the way, let's get down to business."

Chapter Three

"I think it'll work."

Jay Dee looked up from the monitor he'd been working on for well over an hour. He and McEwan exchanged self-satisfied smiles.

The Network was in the so-called computer lab. Jay Dee explained to Dick that the local corporate giant, Wayne Enterprises, had donated the necessary equipment and software for a job skills training program that the JDC was supposed to have implemented over eight months ago.

Except for the sole terminal that Jay Dee had managed to assemble (without the knowledge of the JDC staff) the computers still lay inside unopened boxes which were sitting here collecting dust. The computer lab was little more than just a storage room.

After four days of aborted attempts, Jay Dee had finally managed to access the JDC Personnel and Security System. To avoid detection, the boys had limited their computer use to a few hours a day. Today had been the longest single session they'd attempted.

While Jay Dee played with his computer, Lucky sat on the floor on lookout duty, his forehead pressed against the door. His methods were more old-fashioned. He'd installed a peephole two days ago setting it at knee-high level in order to minimize detection. He grinned suddenly. The JDC shop teacher, Mr. Benson, hadn't understood why Lucky was so determined to make *kaleidoscopes*, of all things. In truth, he'd been making periscopic sights specifically for the computer lab; however, he'd also strategically installed a few "peep holes" throughout the JDC in order to increase the Network's surveillance capabilities.

Lucky took out a special ninety-degree attachment and screwed it into the socket. Instant periscope! The micro-instrument had special mirrors angled inside it that allowed the operator to rotate his line of vision 360 degrees. He looked through it and quickly began to adjust the sights.

Hmm-m. Needs fine-tuning, he thought. Lucky absentmindedly began searching his pockets for his jewelers' tools. His right hand bumped into something hard in his inside pocket. Oh-oh! Almost forgot!

"Yo! Jay Dee! Got that thingamajig you asked me for! . . . Here!" Lucky turned around and tossed Jay Dee a palm-sized instrument without warning.

"Hey!" Jay Dee reacted too late. To his horror he saw his hands miss the homemade electronics gadget as it continued on its arc to smash against the floor. Time appeared to stop . . . the boys caught in mid-tableau.

In a blink, a small blur crossed in front of Jay Dee and suddenly a young voice cried out in triumph.

"Got it!" Time resumed.

Grinning broadly, Dick held up the instrument in his hand. Jay Dee carefully took the small unit from him then slowly exhaled. His eyes targeted daggers at Lucky who squirmed guiltily and turned back to his work.

"Like I said," Jay Dee continued, "it should work . . . Of course, Montana and Ghoul will have to do some split second timing, but unless Jenkins and Fitzhugh suddenly have an attack of intelligence, we should be able to pull it off."

"Montana . . . Ghoul . . . you guys up to playing decoy?" McEwan asked.

"You kiddin', Fingers? I get to bash up Ghoul and he *lets* me? Who do I have to pay?" Montana was grinning in anticipation.

"Hey, you just watch the face!" Ghoul wasn't too happy about being a punching bag. He shrugged and smiled weakly.
"I mean, you don't want to be the instrument responsible for breaking the hearts of hundreds of Gotham women, now do you?" Ghoul looked expectantly at Montana for reassurance. When none was forthcoming he repeated his question.
"Well . . . do you?"

McEwan shook his head in mute disgust. Ghoul's looks were his Achilles' heel . . . the main reason he was part of the Network. He was so afraid of being hurt or disfigured that he literally cowered in the face of any serious threat. McEwan's Network provided the big guy with a sense of self-esteem . . . of belonging; unfortunately, he wasn't dependable under stress.

"Oh, I don't think that there will be all *that* many hearts broken, Ghoul . . . and it *is* for a good cause," Jay Dee said. He was studiously checking his fingernails.

Dick noted that the tips looked in need of clipping, not to mention cleaning. He turned away in disgust. I just hope he doesn't bite them! Jay Dee calmly proceeded to do just that. Oh, God. I'm gonna be sick, thought Dick.

"Fingers . . . ?" Ghoul's eyes looked panicky.

"Don't worry, Ghoul," McEwan said reassuringly. "Montana won't touch your face . . . Can't let all those babes down now, can we?" Ghoul smiled gratefully. McEwan was the nicest guy he knew; the only one who had never laughed at him.

"Lucky, see any ferrets?" McEwan used the juvie derogatory term for the JDC aides.

"Nope . . . they're probably all catching z's . . . I heard the Dragon Lady was out for the day . . . some kinda custody hearing or something." Lucky caught Dick's eye. "Hey, Acrobat . . . maybe it's about you. You've sure been here a whole lot longer than most of the other foster kids."

Dick, who was sitting on top of the stacked boxes, nodded and yawned. He had no clue what Lucky was talking about and was too tired to ask. He wished that they would be done soon; he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to stay awake. That stunt had taken the last vestiges of energy that he had.

If he could just close his eyes for a few minutes, he'd be okay. He valiantly fought off sleep for several minutes, but finally succumbed to his exhaustion . . .

*****

McEwan found Dick a few minutes later, curled on his side and sleeping soundly. He removed his Gotham Knights leather jacket and covered the small boy. He shook his head in disgust over a system that would place such a defenseless kid in a place like this . . . for his *own good* no less.

The little Acrobat sure reminded him of Bobby, his younger brother. He would've been nine . . . no ten . . . last May. McEwan's memory replayed the sounds of screeching tires and gunfire from that night so long ago. The taunting laughter of the gang members as they drove away still rang in his ears.

His mother's screams still echoed . . . "BOBBY! . . . BOBBY! . . . My, God NO!"

McEwan later found out that his house had been targeted by mistake. The gang had meant to hit the house across the street. McEwan closed his fist in silent rage.

Bobby was dead because of a frigging mistake!

The incident changed him. McEwan didn't admit it openly; he didn't even admit it to himself. But from that moment on, he was changed. Whereas before that night, if he'd witnessed any gang violence or activity, McEwan would have just looked the other way, now he called the cops. He never identified himself, choosing instead to leave anonymous tips; nevertheless, he placed the call.

Oh, McEwan was no angel. He still managed to relieve the occasional mark of his or her valuables; he still eluded Detective Bullock and his boys down at robbery and bunco. Business as usual. But in between, he kept his eyes peeled and phoned in his tips.

Before long, the gangs knew that a stoolie was operating in their turf and began taking measures. At first the gangs escalated their violence against each other; however, when the police obviously responded to attacks from either side, the gang leaders finally wised up, realizing that the informer had to be an outsider. A civilian. A concerned citizen.

The gangs' tactics changed. They became focused on terrorizing the neighborhoods, subjecting innocent bystanders to random violence. McEwan almost lost his resolve, but one visit to Bobby's graveside restored it.

"I swear, little brother, that I'll never let you down . . . I swear that I'll never quit until I bring down all those responsible!" He didn't care if he ended up lying next to Bobby; at least he'd be able to face his brother should they meet again . . .

*****

"Got it!" Jay Dee cried out triumphantly.

McEwan snapped back to the present. He looked on Dick's peaceful countenance. His features softened momentarily. "Don't worry, little Acrobat," he whispered. "I won't let you down, either." McEwan turned his attention to Jay Dee.
"What have you got? And keep your voice down. The kid's asleep."

"The codes, baby . . . I've got the security codes!" Jay Dee kept his voice nonchalant but held up his hand for a high five. McEwan slapped it.

"Yes!" McEwan said. "How fast can you set it up?"

"Gonna take sometime, Fingers. I mean, it took me the better part of two hours to find the security files. I'm downloading now. It'll take a coupla hours to complete the download, then a couple more to decode it . . . and it's almost time for lockdown."

"Damn! Well, there's no helping it . . . we can't screw it up now . . . can this thing finish what it's doing without us?"

"Sure . . . but if anything goes sour . . . or if the ferrets on monitor duty actually do their jobs . . . the first time in this century . . . we could be in trouble." Jay Dee shrugged fatalistically.

"Well, let's think positive . . . nothing will go wrong . . . but if it *does* . . . " McEwan mirrored Jay Dee's shrug ". . . we won't be here to get the blame." He turned to the others. "Okay, group . . . it's almost time for bed-a-bye . . . Look around your immediate areas. Make sure you don't forget anything . . . Remember, if it doesn't have a layer of dust, then it probably doesn't belong here! Ghoul, pick up the kid . . . hey, be careful, King Kong! He ain't no sack of potatoes!"

McEwan hurried over annoyed at Ghoul's clumsiness. He absentmindedly brushed back a stray lock of raven hair from Dick's forehead. The boy slept on oblivious to the rough handling.

"Sorry, Fingers . . . he's just so *small*, y'know?" Ghoul looked nonplussed. Shaking his head, McEwan rolled his eyes upward. He turned to Jay Dee.

"Jay Dee? Almost done?"

"Almost . . . " Jay Dee typed in a few more commands, took out the palm-sized unit, plugged it into one of the CPU's comports, then typed some more. To McEwan it seemed that about a million characters suddenly scrolled down the monitor in a split second. Instantaneously, Jay Dee's mysterious unit beeped twice. Jay Dee sighed in satisfaction. "Okay, it's cooking now. When it's done, the system will go into sleep mode until I reactivate it . . . with this!"

"Lucky, what exactly *is* that thingamajig anyway?" Montana asked. "Is that why we broke into the Dragon Lady's lair that last time?"

Lucky shrugged.

"Hey, I just built the thing. Jay Dee wrote the specs!" He turned to Jay Dee. "What is it, Jay Dee? I had to rummage through almost half the boxes in here for some of the electronics; but most of the circuits weren't small enough, so Montana an' me sorta relieved our favorite Director of the use of her personal laptop."

"You broke into Cunningham's office and stole her laptop without clearing it with *me* first?" McEwan asked, stunned.

"Hey, Jay Dee said you cleared the specs . . . that translates to *whatever means necessary* in *my* book!" Lucky said defensively. "Besides, I didn't say we *stole* her laptop. I said we relieved her of her use of it. I needed some micro-components, so . . . I scrounged."

"I sometimes wonder why I bother with you guys!" McEwan looked close to hitting somebody. "Do you know what could've happened to you if you'd been caught?"

"Yeah, they would've arrested me and sentenced me to six months in the JDC . . . Geez, what could I have been thinking? Oh, wait! I'm already here! Man, what's your problem anyway?" Lucky folded his arms, his body language exuding attitude.

"Chill, Fingers," Montana broke in. "We were careful, man, and we weren't caught . . . Look, I promise that next time I break into the Dragon Lady's lair, I'll clear it with you first. All right?"

McEwan nodded reluctantly. He didn't like it, but it was done already. Somebody tell me again how hanging with these boneheads is a good thing? He sighed.

"Let's get outta here." The others nodded in agreement.

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