Welcome to my next fanfiction!

This is another revolving POV story. Dick, Dani, Dick, and so on and so forth. I wanted to write this with the fast paced, one-shot-isque technique that I read from so many other fanfictions, but I honestly can't do it. I have to have plot and I'm pretty much incapable of writing in third person.

-All crediting goes to Sir Butch Hartman and the very numerous creators of Nightwing and all other things DC in this fiction-

Dick

There are lots of ways people react to being in prison.

There are the untalented brutes and thugs; those who scream profanity and threats through their yellow teeth and unshaven faces. Some look like they belong. They kick their feet up, make themselves at home. Others are bored. These are the ones with connections, the ones we're most likely to lose in the next few hours.

All those types cycle through here every so often.

Holding cells are out in the open, like Gotham. Police officers work on paperwork to sounds of threats, bribe offerings, unprecedented screaming, etc. It becomes background noise at a point. We've seen it all; they're just a normal part of Bludhaven life.

But when they're quiet, watching, fourteen...

That's something new.

I stop when I notice the girl in the far back of the fourth cell, sitting in the middle of the bench to avoid the reach of the two cells beside her. She's one of the bored ones, shifting her weight and swinging her legs. It's not a nervous fidget, but conscious, letting us know she's bored and annoyed.

She's silent, ignoring the jibes from the thug to her right and a pair of very high women on her left. Instead of acknowledging them, she's watching the police officers. Her eyes trail me until I reach my desk before shifting away. They're wary, searching for threats. Unfortunately, you can find a lot of that in this police force.

After setting my things down on my desk, I lean across Roland's desk, drawing his attention up to me. "What, Grayson?" he snaps impatiently. I can tell he's at the end of a long ten-hour shift.

I jerk my head in the direction of the holding cells. "What's with the girl?"

He doesn't need to glance up. "She's someone Walton and I picked up when responding to a 10-50 at the corner of Hex and 126th around two this morning. We weren't sure if she saw something. She insisted she didn't, but she was the only one there and wouldn't produce ID or a full name, so we brought her in."

"What kind of 10-50?"

"PI," he responds, "Died en route to the hospital."

Fatal personal injury via hit and run. Not cool, but not seriously uncommon for Bludhaven, unfortunately. "Why's she still here?"

"We contacted social services, but you know how long they take. Since she's here, it could be a while."

Meaning that since she's in a holding cell, they can take as long as they want. It's ten in the morning. She spent last night here and would probably be here for tonight, too. Poor kid.

Roland watches me look at her again. "Don't, Grayson."

"Don't what?"

"Don't let her out. Kids like her are always flight risks. You know that."

I sigh. "Yeah." Then I pick up the stack of files on his desk and start sorting through them.

"Grayson…"

"Go home, Roland, your shift is over," I reply, still shuffling through the papers. "I'll finish the paperwork for your night."

"You weren't there." He lets out an audible huff before shoving the file he was working on into his desk. "But you already know that, just like you already know it's done and you're just hoping to question the kid." He throws on his jacket and winds the scarf around his neck. "If I didn't know you so well, Grayson, I wouldn't let you within ten yards of any kid."

I smirk. "It's my sparkling personality. I never mean anything untoward."

He waves me off with a choice finger. Roland has a short temper, but he's a good cop. We were partners for about three weeks until he threatened to quit if he didn't get reassigned.

I open the file for last night. Walton had a brief interrogation with her, but she refused to say anything. The report read:

Call about 10-50, PI, received at approx. 01:37 a.m. Corner of 108th West and 126th South. Female adolescent about five feet one inches, present on scene. Responders arrived at approx. four minutes after call to 911, made by victim. Witness was attempting to aide the victim by using victim's jacket to stem blood flow from a laceration along the abdomen. After calling a rig, my partner, Officer Jake Roland and I, questioned the victim while still conscious. Witness attempted to slip away but Roland detained her in the back of the squad…"

What follows is a large passage describing what their investigation yielded, which wasn't too much. It's protocol to write down everything anyway, though. The interrogation with the girl didn't yield anything, as she refused to say anything other than, "I didn't do anything!" and "Let me go!" After that, nothing.

I'd been on duty a few hours now, and now that my patrol was over I had paperwork to do about the four crimes I'd seen/investigated/prevented. A car robbery, two casino riots, and an assault/battery on a couple in an alley early in the morning.

I grab blank files and the key for the fourth cell, heading over to the girl.

She barely glances up when I approach, but her head shoots up when I fit the key in the lock. Her feet stop swinging, her arms unfold, and her body turns rigid as I swing open the door. I step back, allowing her a path out.

Her stare is locked on me, looking unconvinced and cautious. The man to her left jeers and attempts to grab her again, but she's still out of reach. I continue inviting her out, attempting to get her to speak.

She doesn't, and we stand at a stalemate.

I break first. "I'm just going to ask some more questions. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I hardly think it's fair that you should be punished for that."

She judges me with her eyes, raking across my face and stance, weighing her options. Finally, she steps forward, walking in the direct middle to avoid her neighbors. I close the door without taking my attention off of her and then lead her to one of our interrogation rooms.

The girl is constantly watching everything around her, from me to fellow cops to the building around her. She reminds me of Jason; her ragged clothes and dirty face certainly add to his image.

When I unlock the interrogation room, I have to lean into the door to jimmy out the lock. Not the safest, but at least it's hard to open instead of hard to lock. I pull it open, and out of the corner of my eye see a streak of movement.

My hand shoots out before I even have time to think, grabbing the back of her sweatshirt and pulling her towards me. She doesn't fight back, allowing me to switch my grip from grabbing to flat along her back, gently pushing her inside.

To my surprise, she doesn't look angry at all. She just pulls out a chair and climbs into it, looking more amused than anything.

"Sorry I grabbed you like that," I try, actually apologetic. It was kind of harsh, even if it was warranted.

"It's alright," she speaks the first words to me, "I figured I'd try but didn't you to do nothing."

Intelligent. Witty. Very no-nonsense but also optimistic.

"Would you like a drink?"

"How strong are you offering?"

I give her a light glare, and she grins. "I'm kidding, obviously. I know you're only offering water. Yes."

I leave the interrogation room and come back with water a few minutes later. She's swinging her legs again but stops when I place the plastic cup in front of her. She downs it in seconds and places it upside down in front of her.

She tilts her head when she notices I'm watching her. "Do you want me to thank you? Because water's free and a plastic cup's like... four cents."

I struggle to keep my smile under control. She's just like Jason!

Pulling out a chair, I sober my amusement and sit across from her. "Look, we need to know what happened out there."

"Some dude got hit by a car. I don't know what happened, I was just trying to help." She huffs and leans back in her chair. "Fat lot that did for me."

"Did anybody tell you what happened to him?"

"No, but he died."

"How would you know that?"

"Injury's fatal. I saw. His colon was up by his chest, and it was leaking." She folds her arms. "What's inside the colon just upended itself inside his chest. The colon holds infection." She shrugs her shoulders. "Unless the EMTs knew that immediately, he was probably dead before he got to the hospital."

"Huh." I look down at the report and back at her. "And how'd you know that?"

"I've seen it before."

"Where?"

"Around."

She's not going to tell me, so I change tactics. "Can you provide me any details about the car?"

"It was wet. Because it was drizzly outside. It was black, because it was dark outside. It had wheels, because it was a car. And it was outside, because we were outside." She smirks. "Anything else you need to know?"

"It was outside for a while, because if it was only drizzling, you wouldn't have been able to see that it was wet if it was only outside for a couple of minutes. Dark, so the headlights were off. It was deliberate. And we will look at the tire tracks, thank you."

She looks mildly impressed.

"Did you know the victim?"

"Nah."

I write that down, then give her a smile. "Now, was that so hard?" I ask, trying my hardest to be as falsely patronizing as I can.

She rolls her eyes and kicks me in the shin under the table simultaneously. I push back, surprised, as a spasm of pain shoots from the future bruise. Surprised at the violent reaction, I rub the spot, regarding her with a new light.

"Was that really so hard?" she replies back, a smile tugging at the sides of her mouth.

"Okay, I get it. No patronizing." I scoot my chair a little bit farther back. She's not violent, but definitely not a pacifist. She kicked me, a police officer, without thinking better of it first, so either a good read of people or impulsive. Maybe both.

"Yes, none of that."

"Back to the thing…" I gesture with the files and try to find another question she'll answer. "Can I have your full name?"

"No."

"I need a last name, too."

She gives a hint of a smirk. "No Way."

"What about a first name?"

"No."

"Can you tell me why?"

She decides to stay quiet. After a few moments of silence, I shrug and start writing one of my reports. After realizing she is being challenged, she settles into the silence stubbornly, filling the room with the sound of pen scratches. This goes on for about twenty minutes, allowing me to finish almost two reports, even though I have to fend her off from grabbing one of my files six or seven times.

Finally, I offer her a blank one if she answers my question.

She accepts, "You guys took my fingerprints. I don't want a name to that. I don't want anyone knowing my fingerprints." As she explains, she takes a blank report paper and starts folding it in sharp angles.

"Why not?" I press.

"I just don't."

"Planning a life of crime?"

"Not at the moment, but I don't plan that far ahead. I don't want to be part of any system, something that people can track or follow. I'm a… spirit." She smiles like it's an inside joke. "I come and I go and nobody can prove I was there in the first place."

My analysis continues running through my head. Thinks ahead for her own impulsivity. She plans for things that might happen or that she might do. Now she sounds like Batman.

"Are you running from something?"

She looks at me with her blue eyes, keeping them as blank as she can. I can't tell if she's hiding something, or if she just doesn't trust anyone with basic information.

"I have a lot of reasons for doing what I do." She leans back, satisfied with her dismissive answer. I wonder about her reaction. Is she running from something, or someone? "What about you? Why are you a cop?"

"Protect the innocent. It's not something terribly deep." I also use it as a cover for Nightwing, though sometimes I wonder if it just makes the whole thing harder. She seems to accept the answer, at least, which supports my theory that she can read people well.

"And patronize and interrogate them," she mutters, returning to her folds. "Because apparently, there's nothing better for you to do."

I sigh, but I know she's right. So much crime is going on in Bludhaven, and I'm here with this teenage girl because she was already here. The ones that are easy to catch aren't usually the problem.

"Can I leave?"

"Well, you're a minor, with no identification."

"Oh." She deflates, sinking down. "You called the parent cops."

I tilt my head sympathetically. "Yeah. Unless you have parents we can call."

She lets out a long sigh. "Nope." I'm silent, because I can feel words burning in her mouth, and know that if I speak, she'll lose her chance. "Can't you just let me go?" The words tumble out all at once. "It'll open up a cell, and it's not like I've made any trouble. I'll just leave whatever foster home I'm put in, so it's not even effective!"

I shake my head. "It's not that…"

She narrows her eyes and snaps, "Then what?"

"You don't have any identification. You're the only witness, and we have no way of reaching you. We don't know anything about you. It's just protocol."

She sighs. "I see."

"Why are you living on the street?" I ask curiously, leaning back.

She raises an eyebrow at the change in tone, offering a shrug in reply.

"You're not a child murderer, are you?"

She snickers. "No, none of that."

I can tell by the way she reacts that she's telling the truth. She seems like a good kid. It doesn't even look like she has the anger issues Jason had at her age.

"So why are you on the streets?"

She sighs. "You say that like I have anywhere else to go. Bad things happen to good people. I'm sure you must have experience with that, working as a cop and all." Don't I. "Bad things have happened to me." She leans back, final, her face betraying nothing with the information. "And yes, I know all my options. Foster home, orphanage, if those even still exist. I even have people that would take me in if I wanted. But I chose the streets. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Loitering," I challenge.

"Seriously?" She laughs. "Bludhaven, and every other city in the world, for that matter, have way worse things to worry about!"

"Drugs."

"Don't do 'em."

"Sell them?"

"Nah. Money doesn't really matter to me."

She betrays no signs that she disagrees with what she just said. Then again, there are no signs she agrees, either. This kid is a difficult one to read when she wants to be, I'll give her that.

"What do you do for food?"

She shrugs, focusing back on her origami project.

Before I can ask another question, there's a knock at the door.

I turn to see Captain Wilson and a woman I recognize as a part of social services. Wilson leans in and gestures out to me. "Come on, Grayson, your time's better used elsewhere."

"But I can solve this case," I state clearly, knowing that even if I can, he won't let me anyway. He keeps me open for bigger cases, and even then I'm always the tag-along cop to the detectives. As I expect, he shakes his head and gestures out the door. I spent the better half of my life training under the greatest detective in the world, but here I am, getting kicked off yet another case. I nod curtly to my captain and turn to the girl. "See you around."

She nods and flicks her finished origami piece at me, which looks like a little reaper/ghost thing. "I expect you will."

Somehow, I doubt that means I'll see her next in a foster home.