Hey guys. Sorry for the wait...ha ha ha. *Laughs manically*

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13

When I was eight, my whole world ended. Both my parents died and I suddenly found myself trapped inside the snare that is the Gotham City legal system.

My assigned social worker was a woman who's name I never learned, but I called her Ms. Fumes inside my head. She was always smoking a cigarette, no matter where she was.

At this time, I could understand more English than I could speak. Ms. Fumes, however, thought that I was completely deaf whenever she talked to me. I don't know if she really cared or not. She probably saw orphaned children due to murders all the time.

I was too young to understand what was happening. I got dragged to a number of places where I would sit next to Ms. Fumes and she would put her sweaty hand on my shoulder while she discussed my situation with another adult. Usually, these meetings would end with us leaving, she dragging me by the arm, her large hand completely encompassing mine.

One day, while I was sitting in her office, watching the people walk around on the streets outside, I heard her talking to herself.

That was nothing new. She did that all the time, believing I couldn't understand her.

Taking a drag from her cigarette, she did a scratchy sigh. "Well, Richy-boy, it seems we're all occupied. But don't you worry, I'm going to find some place that'll take you." She coughed. It was the throaty hack of a future lung cancer receiver. "Nobody wants a sneaky gypsy kid though...more trouble than he's worth. Sucks you had to wind up here..." Her large lips closed around the cigarette end. "Ah well. You'll probably be a thief anyway, since it's in your blood. Might as well get familiar with Juvie." She let loose a throaty cackle.

"Juvie" was not an English word I knew. But it would be one I would become familiar with over the next few months.

And that's how I ended up at Gotham Juvenile Detention Center.

There were forms I signed and Ms. Fumes signed and then the guard who met us at the gate signed. I stood frozen, staring at the place that would now be my home.

Ms. Fumes bends down in front of me. Her cigarette breath blows into my face. "I know this is going to be hard, but just remember you haven't done anything wrong yet. This will harden you up too. So buck up." She gives me a smile. There was lipstick on her front teeth.

She straightens and gets back in her car. She drives away without a second look.

The guard puts a hand in my shoulder. He leads me through the cast iron gates and I cringe as I hear them grind shut behind us. The lock settles with a heavy ambiance.

The grounds are neat and orderly. Not a single tree on the property. Guards stand at the entrance to the ugly yellow concrete building we walk into.

Inside they fingerprint me, take my picture, and give me a designation. I am M320. They make me change clothes to a light beige jumpsuit. They ask me if I speak any English and I respond to them in Romani. They write down NONE for that category.

Then they take me down a long hallway which opened up into a multi-leveled room. I can see it has four floors. The bottom floor seems to be a cafeteria of some type where boys mill about, eating, talking loudly, and arguing. Guards meander through the crowds, shouting at those who get too loud and breaking up fights. I notice that each of them is armed with some kind of taser and baton.

My fellow prisoners are all mostly boys who are my age up to seventeen. I am clearly the youngest one here. I also notice they wear different colored jumpsuits from my own. I see a lot of yellow, some orange, and some blues. I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. It doesn't help that I'm tiny for my age either.

The guard leads me to a close table where a bunch of kids in yellow are sitting.

"L56, this is M320. He's a special case being taken in by the city for now. You're being assigned to him. Meaning, he gets into trouble, you take the fall. Understand?"

L56 looks me up and down, nodding. He's lanky and looks to be about sixteen. His skin is a light brown and his hair is shaved so short it's more of a shadow of a hairline than hair.

"He doesn't speak English," the guard says, sounding impatient. "So good luck with that. Make sure he knows the rules somehow." And with that, the guard turns and walks away.

L56 shoots a grin at the other boys at his table. "So we got a special case huh?"

A boy with a long hooked nose and nervous fingers leans across the table. "Duvall, this is a pain. What are we suppose to do with him?"

Duvall, I assume is L56's name. "Like the pops said, take him in. Yeesh, I wonder how old he is."

I frown and look down. Counting, I hold up eight fingers.

"Ha! So he can understand, just not talk. Okay, what's your name, kid?"

"Richard," I say, my accent coming through strongly, rolling the "r" and choking on the "ch" sound.

Duvall's eyebrows raise. "Yeesh. Okay then, Richie, what happened to you to end up in this dump. Here—" he shoves the kid next to him over slightly and gestures for me to sit down. "We don't get many cream colors like you around here."

I stare at the rough table's surface. People have carved their names and words in English I don't know.

"You an orphan?"

I look up, surprised he got it so fast.

"Thought so. Yeesh, they're overflowing recently."

"Yeah," the hooked nose kid says, "we gotta ton of 'em up at my place near the factories. They get work there."

"Most of us here are orphans too, but we're here for other reasons," a kid with neon orange hair says.

Duvall nods. "Yeah, see our outfits all mean different things. Cream ones like you are wards of the city. You're the only one for now. We used to have an older girl, but she transferred. Came back a month ago as a blue."

I look around, noticing there are some girls mixed in. But they're just as rough and loud as the boys.

"Yellows, like us, are thieves," Duvall nods around the table. "We get in trouble for stealing, big or small. Usually from stores. Usually food and water. Then you go up a notch and you've got oranges. They're in for breaking and entering, mugging, minor battery assault, arson, and so on. The blues are a little worse. They're the possessive ones. They're arrested for possessing the illegals: drugs, alcohol, guns, etcetera. And a step above them...you get the reds."

I follow Duvall's gaze towards a table where four kids are sitting. I hadn't noticed them before, but now I can't look away. The aura around them...it's scary. Each has a guard positioned right over their shoulder. Three boys and a girl.

"They're in for the big stuff. Murder, rape, sending people to the hospital. Yeah, don't mess with them."

One boy, who looks to be about fourteen, looks up at me and meets my eyes. He has long dark hair. When he smiles, the corners of his mouth curve up, making my blood run cold. I quickly look away.

"I don't want to be here," I whisper to myself in Romani. Just a few weeks ago, I witnessed my parents' death. And now I'm stuck here with murderers?

"We aren't bad though," Duvall says, looking at me, a serious expression in his eyes. "Not all of us."

I stare back at him. I'm sure my eyes reflect just how empty I feel.

"Yeesh. I wonder if we can communicate somehow..." Duvall turns around and shouts to a kid with dark hair. "Hey! Lisbon, you speak a few languages, right?"

"Sí," the kid turns to us, frowning. He's in the process of wrapping up his arm with something. He squints at me. "I'll try a few. Is he Hispanic?"

"No idea what language he's mumbling."

I make a quick decision to trust them. "I speak English." My accent is heavy, and even though I whisper, I speak clearly.

"What? You do? You just shy or somethin', yeesh." Duvall cackles. "Trying to outsmart the man, huh, cherry-picker? Good luck kid, you're already on the road to glory."

They laugh, and not kindly. My eyes sting with embarrassment.

The days are long and the nights even longer at Gotham Juvenile Detention Center. The first night I cried for hours in my five-by-five cell. I don't have a bunkmate since I'm the only "beige baby" as they call them at the Center. I wake up exhausted and stumble my way through the day. We attend lessons on basic math and English. I feel stupid in the English class since reading English is still not my strong point. The other kids laugh at me. I either get called Beige Baby or M320. I feel like less and less of a person every day.

I learned pretty early on that I had to keep to myself to survive. I didn't talk much since I didn't want the guards to know I spoke English. As it was, I got to overhear more conversations because they thought I was stupid.

I feel my sanity slipping. And with it, my humanity.

The first time it happens is a surprise. Some kid rams into me at breakfast. A big, tough, greasy girl with blue highlights wearing an orange jumpsuit.

"Watch it, creamy," she snaps, shoving me back, hard.

I happen to be standing in front of another kid whose food tray I know is in their hands directly behind my back. I only have two jumpsuits that I change on and off daily so they can be washed every week. Needless to say, I want to avoid getting it dirty. So I do what comes automatically to me. I jump up with the shove and move so that as I go backwards, my arm reaches up and grips the shoulder of the kid behind me. I use him as a backboard to launch myself further into the air before flipping easily and landing solidly on top of another kid. We crumple to the floor. The kid who I used as a springboard is so surprised he drops his breakfast anyways, splattering my jumpsuit.

"Whoa." Duvall says, from where he was watching a safe distance away. "Our Beige Baby has some moves."

"Circus freak," orange jumpsuit spits and turns sharply away from me.

I get up, feeling exhilarated. That was the first trick I'd done in months. It felt so right to be in the air again.

After the breakfast fiasco, I get a new nickname, "Circus Freak." I find I don't mind it as much as Beige Baby. Not to mention, suddenly, I'm performing again.

More of the older kids start fights with me, a cocky brat who has nothing to lose. I easily maneuver around their clumsy punches and weak kicks. At eight years of age, I have muscles more well-developed than most adults. These malnourished, cafeteria-goo weakened kids stand no chance. It's like their moving in slow motion. It's so easy. It's fun.

My reputation grows. I still don't speak much English and the guards still use that to talk right in front of my face. They don't like me. They think I'm a gypsy brat who will wind up dead like my parents.

After hearing that, I actually draw blood in my next fight. I hit back, not softly either. It's easy, it's just a flip except I extend my foot so it connects with his face. It hurts my foot a lot. The kid walks away with a bleeding nose and a wounded pride. And I feel the darkness rising in me. The anger I've felt is finally overflowing.

"Hey, Circus Freak."

I lean back, glancing casually over my shoulder. My senses have become heightened after living in such a dangerous environment for so many months. I'm hyper-aware that I could get attacked at any time. Dinner is especially dangerous since kids tend to want to settle things before we get locked up for the night.

A red jumpsuit is talking to me. Out of my peripheral, I notice that there are no guards around. Whether they're taking a break, are eating, or don't care what happens to me, I don't know. It doesn't really matter. I've learned not to rely on adults.

He's the greasy, blond kid I made eye contact with the first night I was here. The Reds don't get to come out to the regular area often, so I haven't really seen him around. He's obviously heard of my latest escapades based on his use of my misnomer.

"Have you ever killed someone?" He asks, out of the blue.

I swallow, standing slowly.

"I have," he says easily, dragging a hand through his stringy hair. "It was easy. You have that look in your eyes. Like you've seen death right up close. How was it?"

My throat feels filled with cotton. "What do you want?" No guards means English. I mimic the way the other kids around me speak, sharp and to the point. They have a slight city lilt to their voices that I adopt to hide my Romani accent.

"Just to talk." He laughs in a way that will remind me of the Joker in a few years. "Have you ever seen so much blood that you think you're going to drown in it? Felt it on your skin?"

I feel sick. I go to turn away. There's someone burning in my veins that wants out but I shouldn't let it.

"Don't turn away from me!"

I turn in time to see him holding a knife—probably stolen from the kitchen. My mind is immediately confused since I lack the instant reaction training of Batman. But I know I'm in danger. I know I can die.

I hold up my arms to protect my body. The cold steel slashes across one arm. I cry out in pain and terror. I feel something dark rile up instead me. Something that will attack. My hands clench into fists and my vision turns red and—

"M320! R56! Break it up!"

Guards are piled on us in seconds. All that registers with me is the pain in my arm. At eight years old, it feels like my whole arm is about fall off.

The next thing I know I'm getting led away. I'm gripping my arm and the guard is complaining about the blood everywhere. The red jumpsuit kid is getting scolded harshly.

I think to myself, suddenly, and vividly: this is justice?

The police haven't done anything about my parents. I'm getting punished for crimes I've never done. My parents' murderer runs free on the streets. What is wrong with this city?

They bandage my arm. But instead of taking me back to my holding cell, they lead me down an unfamiliar hallway. My mind, still fuzzy from pain, jumps to conclusions like that they're going to beat me for fighting or put me in solitary confinement.

Instead, I get led into a cushy office and plopped in a soft green velvet chair. I look around in bewilderment.

"Mr. Wayne, you can come in now."

"What was with that delay? I have been trying to schedule this meeting for weeks..." A man walks in with a sharp jaw and clear blue eyes. He's wearing a fancy suit. At Haley's the other circus members would always get upset or angry when someone in a suit showed up.

I shrink down in my seat.

"Yes, yes, well, we have a busy schedule around here too, Mr. Wayne. We all can't be like that Man-Bat and beat up these despicable children, no we have to confine them and rehabilitate them." I recognize the voice of the warden from the loudspeakers. He sounds nasally and sarcastic.

"I'm pretty sure he's called 'Batman', Mr. Warden. And I will be talking with your superiors."

The warden seems to find this amusing but finally leaves me alone with this Mr. Wayne.

He sits in the chair next to me instead of on the other side of the oak desk.

"Richard Grayson."

It's the first time I've heard my name in a long time.

"They told me you don't speak English. I know that's not true."

I frown.

The man sighs, rubbing a hand through his perfect hair. "My name is Bruce Wayne. I'm going to take you away from this place—what happened to your arm?" His voice suddenly sounds urgent.

I look down. In the confusion, I almost forgot about the fiery pain emanating from my injury. "I was in a fight."

"Good god. A knife fight? With someone obviously skilled too..."

I don't wonder how Bruce Wayne knew that. Not yet, anyways. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to come home with me. As my ward. You'll get whatever you what, I'm quite rich, you know. The finest education, the finest food. You'll never have to come back here again."

I stare at him suspiciously. "No thanks."

He frowns. "What? Why not?"

"I don't need help. I'm perfectly fine." I hug my injured arm closer. My voice takes on the city lilt like the other Juvie kids. "I can handle it."

Bruce Wayne's face softens. He reaches out as if to touch me and I flinch away. "Sorry," he says softly.

I call him something rude in Romani.

He raises an eyebrow. "This isn't the place for you. If you want to be free, I'm your ticket out."

I look at him snobbishly and tease, "So even if I use you, you'd still set me free? How nice of you, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce Wayne deflates. He reminds me of my dad, suddenly, except younger and with no mustache. "You remind me a lot of me when I was a kid. I need you to trust me, Richard. Come home with me. I don't want you to get any further...damaged."

I gulp heavily and scowl. "No thank you."

Bruce Wayne scowls. "I was there, that night, I should have done something... I watched them fall to Richard. Just like...This isn't right, what happened to you. This isn't justice."

Ah, I think. This guy gets it. He knows what justice is.

"Mr. Wayne," I say, "do you think you can help me get justice?"

Bruce Wayne looks me in the eyes. I feel a chill as I unknowingly see a bit of the Bat peak through. "You have my word."

I hold out my small child hand, just as I had seen my father do when closing deals at the Circus. "Okay then."

Bruce Wayne smiles for the first time since coming into the room. "Alright then. We have a deal, Richard."

I sniffle and puff up to seem tough. "You can call me Dick."

Bruce Wayne laughs. "You can call me Bruce then. I think we'll be a real dynamic duo, huh, Dick?"

I scoff with all my eight-year-old sass. "I doubt it."

Thanks guys. PLEASE review. I love you all so much. Prepare yourselves for some bat family next chappie ;)