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A Fighting Chance

Chapter 10

Notes:

Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, Mooloodoom, and Toki_isdone! Your comments inspire me to continue writing. :)

Chapter Text

Police Headquarters:

"Jim, he's going to die in there! I've seen his bruises!"

"Bruce, there's nothing I can do!"

The two men had been almost yelling at each other for over five minutes. It was a conversation that was going in circles, and Commissioner Gordon was running out of patience. Bruce Wayne was influential, yes, but the commissioner had no power to do anything about the situation. And, he reflected silently, the millionaire's monetary resources were also useless in this matter. That fact, he knew, was the reason Bruce was in his office.

What he didn't know was the why. Why was Bruce Wayne – a busy CEO by day and popular socialite by night – so interested in Richard Grayson? Was it because he had paid for the funeral and the boy hadn't shown up? Jim Gordon couldn't think of any other plausible reason, which frustrated him even more than he had become when Bruce had stared his tirade thirty seconds after walking into the commissioner's office.

"Sanderson put him there, he has to stay there until Sanderson gives the okay!" Commissioner Gordon finally shouted.

Having had enough of this never-ending conversation, the commissioner forcefully shoved his chair away from his desk. He stood up and glared at the younger man, fully prepared to bodily escort Bruce out of his office if this continued.

"Sanderson is not available!" Bruce shouted back.

"I want to help, Bruce, but there is not a darn thing I can do about it!"

Idiot. Coward.

Bruce wanted to tell the commissioner how he really felt, but deep down he knew that the man's hands were figuratively tied. The law was the law, and the Commissioner of the Gotham City Police couldn't break the law. Even for an innocent orphan.

"He can stay with me until Sanderson is done handling his family emergency."

The millionaire had lowered his voice, changing his tactic from yelling in anger to asking for a compromise. His voice was still hard – he couldn't hold back the tone caused by the fury boiling in his blood – but shouting hadn't accomplished anything.

"Bruce, I can't do that, either," Jim stated evenly, attempting to calm both himself and the millionaire. "You know that, I'm sure. I can't take him out of where he was placed without the approval of his social worker. And, since he's in the detention center, I also need approval from the warden."

"This is bullcrap," Bruce muttered, anger rising to the surface again. "How is it right for a kid who has done nothing wrong to have to stay in the detention center?!" he demanded, his voice nearing its previous volume.

Sighing, the commissioner quietly admitted, "It's not."

"THEN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!" Bruce exploded, slamming his hands on the commissioner's desk.

"Go talk to the mayor, Bruce. I can't do anything, you know that, and you need to leave before something happens that we both regret."

"Are you threatening me, Jim?!"

"No, I'm stating a fact."

Batman yelled at Bruce to attack, but the millionaire just barely held himself in check. Grumbling insults at everybody, the man left the room and the commissioner's tense body relaxed. Hopefully the mayor could do something, because Bruce was right: young Dick Grayson was probably going to die if he stayed in that place.

But, again, why did Bruce even care? The millionaire had never come to the commissioner about a new orphan, so why had it happened with this one? Had any other child been placed straight into the detention center? Was there a precedent for Grayson's unfortunate situation?

Jim decided to find out, so he pulled his chair back to his desk and sat down. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of the Gotham City Department of Child Services. It rang several times, and then the commissioner was robotically asked to leave a message. He wanted to talk to the administrator directly, so he replaced the phone and leaned back in his chair, thoughts swirling around in his mind.

The why was bothering him. Was it really just the funeral? How had Bruce even known that the parents were to be buried in the paupers' graveyard? Another 'why' popped up. Why on earth had the man decided to bury an orphan's family on his own plot, next to his own parents? An orphan he didn't even know?

Jim reflected on the situation. It was the fourth night that the circus had been in town. Grayson had been performing, but he wasn't part of the finale. Equipment had broken – the commissioner still didn't know how or why – and the boy had seen his parents fall. They had died right in front….

The puzzle pieces connected. Bruce and Richard had a common thread woven into the tapestry of their lives: they had both watched their parents die. Different circumstances, of course, but it was a connection. A strong enough one to cause a millionaire to be invested in the life of a penniless nine-year-old, though? Strong enough to come to the commissioner, and now probably the mayor, about the new orphan being in danger?

If that was it, the funeral made sense. And, since the boy hadn't been at the funeral, it made sense that Bruce would try to find out why. That wouldn't be hard for an influential man with a lot of resources at his disposal. Any decent person would then recognize that the kid was in a dangerous situation, especially if something had happened during his time in the detention center.

Jim knew without a doubt that Bruce had visited Richard, and had noticed something was off because he had "seen his bruises". How else would the millionaire have decided that the boy was going to die if he stayed in there? Picking up the phone again, the commissioner waited for the robotic instructions, then left a message.

"This is Commissioner Gordon with GCPD. Mr. Sanderson placed a new orphan, Richard Grayson, in the detention center, presumably because he had no other place to put him. It is my belief that the boy is in danger, and the situation should be investigated immediately. Please take my advice into consideration. Thank you."

Hanging up the phone, the man sighed. He had no jurisdiction, there was no reason for anybody to listen to his advice and begin an investigation. But maybe, just maybe, it would at least cause someone to visit the boy.


The detention center:

Tank was sprinting. Dick Grayson was unresponsive, and Tank wanted to kill every single guard in the place. But the nine-year-old needed him more, so the anger was pulsing in the back of his mind for now.

Dick's cell door was open, and his limp body had been moved onto the bed. A bed, Tank noticed, that had no mattress or pillow.

The nurse was not a swearing person, but he couldn't stop the word that flew out of his mouth when he knelt down to examine the nine-year-old. He began taking inventory, guessing at some things but pretty sure his guesses were correct.

"Needs stitches on his forehead, probable severe concussion, broken nose, somebody slapped him hard on that cheek. Somebody strangled him – that's just what he needs with broken ribs. Slow pulse, oxygen level has to be way below normal, no regular breathing. Left wrist looks like a clean break. Okay, Dick, I need you to wake up."

Tank gently probed the small torso, swearing again when he felt three irregular bumps.

"At least move for me, kid. Give me a flinch or a tiny gasp, or some kind of response. Don't you dare die on me, Dick Grayson," he finished loudly, anger outlining his voice.


Dick was floating in his mind. Darkness surrounded him, thick, suffocating darkness that was threatening to swallow him whole. It was keeping him free from pain, and Dick decided that being alone in the blackest corner of space was better than being consumed by pain.

A loud noise assaulted his subconscious, and the nine-year-old was startled. He was enjoying being alone in the dark, even though it was one of his worst fears, and he vaguely associated noise with pain. Dick looked around, searching for the source of the sound, but there was only darkness.

He thought about calling out to see if anybody was there, but the thought of someone being there terrified him. Several bright faces lit up the darkness around him, disappearing almost as soon as they appeared.

Dick's parents suddenly materialized out of nowhere. They asked him why he had killed them, and he had no answer because he didn't remember killing them. The name 'Sam' floated across the dark sky, and Dick's parents assured him that Sam was correct. Whatever Sam said was law, and Dick should always obey.

A single tear fell from his right eye as his parents slowly faded away. A voice whispered his name, asking him to respond. But Dick didn't know what the words meant, and the voice didn't belong to Sam. He was only supposed to listen to Sam.

Sam was always right.


Tank had carried Dick back to the infirmary. All three beds were still full; there was still no place to put him.

"No space, that's happening to you a lot lately," the nurse muttered.

The man entered his office and, caring more about a child than paperwork, shoved everything off his desk and laid Dick down on the hard surface. Grabbing a penlight out of his pocket, the nurse bent over the boy and lifted an eyelid. It took several seconds for the light-blue circle to appear, and Tank was dismayed by the unbroken clouds in the eye.

"I know you're still in there, Dick," he stated loudly, lowering the boy's eyelid. "I really need you to give me something to work with here. Just the twitch of a finger, okay? Can you do that for me?"

No response, no twitch, and Tank stood up. The nurse grabbed the phone book off the floor and carefully placed it under Dick's head. It wasn't a pillow, but at least his injured head wasn't lying on a completely hard surface anymore.

Running a hand through his hair, the man sighed, the quiet sound filled with sorrow. He would not let this innocent child die, but he didn't have a lot of resources at his disposal. Dick was either already in a coma or on his way there, and Tank couldn't stop that from happening.

"Please, kid, you need to wake up. Don't let them win, don't give Sam the satisfaction of hearing that you're in a coma. Come on, Dick, move for me!"

A single tear slid out of Dick's right eye, leaving a clear trail through a purple bruise.

"Okay, that's a response," Tank stated. "Kind of. Give me something else now."

No movement, and the nurse dropped his head. He immediately lifted it as an idea burst into his brain. Bruce Wayne was interested in the boy, and Bruce Wayne had good connections. Maybe the millionaire could get Dick out of a detention center infirmary and into a hospital.

Tank crouched down and snatched the phone off the floor. He dialed a familiar number, then waited for an answer, trying not to get his hopes too high.

"Warden…"

"Lissa," Tank interrupted, "the boy we talked about, Dick Grayson. He's in a coma, or nearly there, and I can't do anything about it. Can the warden sign off on…"

"The warden is not here, Tank. His son is in the hospital in Calif…"

"Then whoever is in charge!" Tank exclaimed. "Dick needs to go to a hospital, who's in charge right now and can they sign him out for medical reasons?!"

"Tank," Lissa said with a sigh, "I don't know why you have such an interest in this boy. But you are good at your job, and you've taken care of other kids in near-comas, and I'm sure you can do the same with this one."

"Lissa, you don't understand! I have no beds, no resources, no help, no…"

"Tank, just do your job. I can't help, the warden can't help, and the person in charge is not authorized to let anyone out for any reason. It's your job to take care of injured kids, so take care of him."

Tank listened to the buzz of the dial tone in disbelief. She didn't even care! He stood up and glanced around the room, searching for the phone book.

"Where the heck…"

Rolling his eyes, he turned back to his desk. Gently, he lifted Dick's head and removed the phone book. With one arm he shrugged off his white coat, folded it up, and slid it under the boy's head. It still wasn't a pillow, but it was better than a phone book.

Flipping through the book, Tank finally found the number he was looking for. Dropping to a crouch again, he picked up the phone and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Tank was robotically asked to leave a message.

"Mr. Wayne, this is Tank, from the detention center. I'm calling to talk to you…"

Suddenly, the lights went off and the phone went dead. Tank heard the banging sound of metal doors slamming shut and the loud 'clunk' of multiple bolts. A siren began blaring, and Tank sighed. Total lockdown, someone was trying to escape.


The word 'wayne' penetrated Dick's brain. It was tossed away as soon as it entered, but it stamped itself on the boy's memory before disappearing. A loud, screeching noise began assaulting his ears, and Dick flinched.


The flinch did not go unnoticed. Tank already had his flashlight on and was about to go check on the kids in the infirmary. Then Dick flinched, and the three other boys were momentarily forgotten.

"There we go, kid, keep going!" the man nearly yelled. "Come on back to me, Dick, let me see your eyes. Open your eyes and I'll get to work on the pain you'll be coming back to."

Nothing else happened, and Tank scowled.

"Dick, if you do not come back to me right now I will be forced to set your wrist without the help of medicine. Which means you will feel every bit of bone grinding together, and it will be more painful than it needs to be. I can't give you medicine if you're not even awake, so open your dang eyes."

The nine-year-old didn't react, so Tank slammed his hands on either side of the boy's torso. His desk shook, and Dick's eyes shot open. They immediately closed, but Tank refused to accept that. Grabbing the flashlight that he had dropped on a chair, he turned the bright beam toward the slack face of the young boy.

"I dare you to do that again, kid," Tank snapped. "And I'm going to keep them open when you do. Come on, do it."

Tank wasn't angry, but he was frustrated. How many times had he tried to get help for this particular child, only to be practically ignored because people didn't care?! The only one who had seemed concerned about Dick was Bruce Wayne, and his only connection to the kid was a funeral!

After another five minutes of waiting, Tank sighed and left to check on the others. He did, after all, have to make sure the escapee – whoever it was – wasn't in the infirmary.


The mayor's office:

"HE. IS. GOING. TO. DIE. IN. THERE!"

Bruce was roaring at the mayor, who was sitting in his chair and slightly trembling. Bruce Wayne was an extremely important and influential man, but the mayor was not the warden of the detention center. Nor was he a random orphan's social worker. He had no control over the situation, even if that random orphan was about to die.

It had been only three minutes since the millionaire had stalked into the mayor's office. His first sentence had stated the fact that a newly-orphaned circus kid – Rick something or other – was in the detention center. Everything after that was the ranting of an angry Bruce Wayne, and Mayor Linseed could barely understand most of the angry words being thrown at him. But the last sentence had penetrated the mayor's brain, and he decided to finally respond, although the man he was going to respond to probably wasn't going to like what he was about to say.

Holding up his hand, and surprised that the gesture stopped the ranting, Mayor Linseed said, "Bruce, I'm not Warden Wiskin or Jeff Sanderson. They are the only two people who can do anything about…"

"YOU'RE THE MAYOR!" Bruce retorted fiercely.

"I'm the mayor of just Gotham City," the other man replied. "The detention center is out of my jurisdiction, and I am reluctant to tangle with DCS. They will tell me the same thing I'm telling you. Unless he has given the case file to someone else, Jeff Sanderson is the only person who can move the boy. But you already know all of that, I'm sure."

"Reluctant," Bruce repeated, disbelief in his tone. "You're reluctant to 'tangle' with DCS. Shouldn't the mayor have some influence over something in that department?!"

Mayor Linseed picked up the phone and dialed the number of DCS. The millionaire was right about one thing. Maybe he could convince the director to give the kid's case file to someone else.

"Pete, hi, Mayor Linseed here. I have a small problem…"

"SMALL?!" Bruce exploded.

The mayor shook his head and covered the ear that wasn't pressed against the phone.

"There's a boy, a new orphan, one of Jeff's kids."

A short pause, and then the mayor resumed speaking.

"Yes, so I've heard. Do you know anything…oh, wow…hmmm, that's rough…I see…understandable…of course I will. What are you doing with Jeff's cases, then?"

Bruce was standing stock still, arms folded across his chest, and glaring at the mayor.

"No, no problems," Mayor Linseed continued. "I just heard that something was wrong and wanted to make sure the kids were going to be taken care of in his absence."

You  wanted to make sure?

Bruce internally growled, correctly guessing that if he hadn't come to the mayor's office the man wouldn't even know about Jeff's kids.

"Okay, do you mind telling me who…I see, of course you can't discuss them. I just need to know the name of the case manager."

Another short pause. Bruce dropped his arms and clenched his hands into fists, trying to stave off the slew of angry words that were threatening to burst out of him.

"A new one, Rick…"

"Dick Grayson," Bruce immediately corrected, failing to hold back the ire in his tone.

"I meant Dick. Dick Grayson. No, no I don't need any details of his case."

Bruce began to pace. Not being able to hear the other end of the conversation was extremely frustrating.

"Really?" the mayor asked, surprise in his voice. "She's so new…no, of course not, that's not at all what I meant! I'm sure you hire the best people you can find. No offense intended, Pete. Okay, thank you, goodbye."

Mayor Linseed uncovered his ear and hung up the phone. Bruce stopped pacing and waited expectantly for a name.

"All of Jeff's kids have a new case manager now. Ri…um…Dick's social worker is Victoria Valentia. She's new, but Pete personally interviews all of the applicants before hiring anyone. I'm sure he's in good hands."

With a sharp nod, Bruce spun around and strode out of the mayor's office. The man breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. Bruce Wayne could be very intimidating when he needed to be, and apparently the kid meant something to him. What that could be, the mayor had no idea. He was just glad the millionaire was gone.


Gotham City Department of Child Services:

Victoria Valentia looked up when Marjorie walked into her office.

"Jeff is out for an undetermined amount of time so I'm spreading his cases around. This one is for you."

Placing a thin file on the woman's desk, the secretary turned around and left.

"At least it's small," Victoria mumbled as she picked it up and opened it.

"Richard John Grayson, age nine, orphaned four days ago, parents died in an accident at the circus – poor boy – placed in the detention center…"

Victoria stopped, surprise filling her eyes. Why was a new orphan in the detention center after his parents had died in an accident? She put the file down, leaving it open, and turned to her computer.

"Circus accident this week," she murmured as she typed in the search bar.

She didn't have to wait long for the results. The first one was from the Gotham City Gazette, so she clicked on it.

"The Flying Graysons, famous for their elegant performances on the trapeze, died while performing their finale. The duo have never used a net for that portion of their routine, and tonight was no different. That proved to be their downfall…"

Victoria rolled her eyes at the play on words.

"…when the wires connecting their equipment to the rafters of the circus tent suddenly ripped apart. John and Mary Grayson plummeted to their deaths while their son, Richard, watched from the trapeze platform thirty feet in the air. Richard was part of the act, but not part of the finale, which ultimately saved his life."

The woman stopped reading as she realized something. Richard hadn't been in the audience, as she had first assumed. He was a performer, in a circus of all places. Victoria wrinkled her nose and thought about trying to pass the boy off to someone else. Then she realized another thing. Jeff had put him in the detention center. That had seemed weird to her at first, but now everything was becoming understandable.

Richard was a member of a traveling circus, which Victoria believed was full of filthy wanderers who cleaned up well for a performance. The boy must have done something wrong, because Jeff wouldn't put an innocent child in the detention center. What the kid had done wrong she couldn't fathom, but it didn't really matter because Jeff was a veteran and knew what he was doing when he placed his kids.

The fact that she had never heard of any social worker putting a new kid straight into the detention center didn't even cross her mind. Victoria trusted Jeff, and she had her own cases to worry about, so she closed Dick's file and slid it under the tall pile on her desk. Jeff could take care of him when he returned.