Robin: Beginnings - Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I Get Shot

“—concludes our lesson on the fall of the Cobblepot family.” I sit at my school desk, my cheek resting against my hand, but my eyes are wide, fixed on Mr. Lawrence. No way am I going to fall asleep during class. No matter how monotone his voice is. “Read chapters four and five, and complete the essay on the degradation of Familial Wealth over generations. Papers due by Monday.”

The bell rings, and I stand up slowly with the other students, closing my notebook and sliding it back into my bag along with my textbook. I have to say, while I do love being around other people, sitting in a classroom listening to a lecture is a lot slower than reading through the material myself. Not to mention boring, especially when your teacher has the time perception of a sloth. 

“So?” Babs leans over to me as we slip out of the classroom, heading towards Mrs. Shubert’s Pre-Algebra class, my favorite subject. Well, no, not really, but Mrs. Schubert’s nice. She has this way of asking you to answer questions that doesn't make you nervous. Which is a lot, when it comes to math, at least. “What do you think about GA so far?”

I look around at the bustling halls, the clattering lockers, the mess of bodies. I look at the aluminum tiles, the rough brick walls plastered with neat signs and posters, and huge cabinets full of trophies from anything from state spelling bees to the decathlon. It reminds me of the circus; only not everyone’s nice to each other. And in place of Raya is a junior, Bette, who might fuss even more than Raya, if that's possible. In place of C.C. Haly is Principal A.P, who’s pretty upbeat for a guy who has to deal with a bunch of kids all the time. If it was me, I’d probably be bald from pulling all my hair out. Or retire. Either one. 

“I like it.” My voice lowers to a whisper, imitating Mr. Lawrence’s droning tone. “Though I could do without sitting at an uncomfortable desk for hours.”

Babs and I laugh as we round the corner, just making it to math before the bell rings. I’m glad Babs is here. I’m glad we can actually talk about something normal, like school, and not about how our parents died or brag about the horrible things we’ve seen. The more I’m around her, the more normal my life feels. Well, as normal as it can be when I’m going to an elite school full of high expectations and going home to a full-blown Manor House. 

I yawn my way through equations, trying not to look embarrassed when Ms. Shubert calls me out on a problem after I let a big one rip. So much for my dignity. Though the class does find it funny, which spurs me on. Just add ‘Class Clown’ to my growing list of nicknames. It isn’t the worst I’ve been called. 

To be honest, though, school’s pretty boring. Like my life at the Manor, it’s held to a smooth schedule of study and lunch, lectures and research. At least until Babs and I are stopped in the hall by Coach Drewitt, head of the boy’s gymnastics team. I’ve only seen him once when Babs gave me the tour on my first day, bossing everyone in the locker room around, waving a clipboard like it was a yardstick or something. 

“Grayson, Gordon.” I stop when the man calls my name, Babs tugging on my arm until she realizes why we’re stopping. The coach is huge, not fat, oh no, just tall and hairy like a sasquatch. A very vocal sasquatch. 

“Yeah, Coach?” We have to get to Spanish, but I’m not about to walk away from a teacher. Trust me, trying to run from a teacher is almost as bad as trying to sneak away from Alfred. I swear adults use portals. How else do they find you so fast? 

“Gordon, practice as usual.” Babs nods next to me. So, she does gymnastics, huh? Why didn’t she tell me that? I mean, she’s so skinny and lanky that I wouldn’t have thought it would be her thing. Then again, I also wouldn’t put it past her. “And you, Grayson—” I lock eyes with the coach, pointing a finger at my chest. Me? It's stupid since I’m the only Grayson here, but hey, who thinks about that when a teacher calls them out? He nods, his eyes pleading. “Join us. I hear you’re good.”

I raise an eyebrow. Oh yeah? What’s this all about? “I’ve never been on a gymnastics team.” That’s true. I haven’t. I hadn’t even gone near gymnast equipment until Alfred started training me. Well, okay, we did use some equipment for training at the circus, but that was specialized. It doesn’t count. 

“There’s a first time for everything. Just tryouts.” If a sasquatch could have puppy eyes, maybe Coach Drewitt could’ve pulled it off. Maybe. “Since you enrolled late, we can make an exception.”

Why not? At least I can slide more practice time in. Besides, what’s wrong with showing off a little? “What time, Coach?” I pull my schedule out of my bag. Trust Alfred to always pack everything I need. Or everything I don’t really need. Honestly, what middle school boy walks around with a daily schedule? Not any I’ve met. “After school?”

“Yes, practice is right after school. Girls and boys. Only an hour and a half.” Coach tries to peer at my sheet, but I hold it up to my face, letting some ‘hmms’ squeeze through my lips. The man’s sweating so much already, but I have to bite back a grin at how he’s pounding his clipboard against his leg. Babs snickers. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to make him sweat over it first. It’s only fair. 

“Yeah, I can do that,” I say, at last, biting back a laugh at the sigh of relief from Coach. I do homework when I get back to the Manor, but I really don’t do anything until dinner. Besides, what’s one more thing? It’s not like I’m already doing extra classes already or anything like that. I put away my sheet, grinning up at Coach. “I just need to call my butler. Let him know what time.”

You know how weird that is? Still? I never thought I would ever say the phrase ‘call my butler.’

“Of course, of course! Give him a call.” Coach Drewitt tries to hide his excitement, but it doesn’t work. Why’s he so desperate? Does my reputation proceed me that much? Is he a fan? I don’t know how to feel about that. Coach gives us both finger guns before rushing back down the hall. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started to skip like a five-year-old. “See you both at practice!”

I watch him go, my phone hanging loosely in my hand. “What was that all about?”

Babs’ laugh might’s well have been a sign pointing right at her. A sign saying ‘I really do babble.’ “It’s my fault. I told him you’re Richard Grayson from the Flying Graysons yesterday at practice.” She elbows me in the ribs, winking. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask for an autograph.”

Uh-huh. I’m used to it by now, but the thought of one of my teachers being a ‘Flying Grayson’ Fanboy is just… wow. I laugh with Babs as we run towards Spanish, gasping to Alfred over the phone that I’ll be later than usual. Yeah, I tell him. I don’t ask. What? He’s my butler. I can boss him around. Sometimes. 

I’m so excited about practice that the rest of the day passes in a blur. Who cares about Grammar when you have extracurriculars to look forward to? By the time I get into the gym with Babs, dressed in a tight, flexible tank top and leggings, my heart’s pattering so fast I could cartwheel around the room. Maybe I will. 

Funnily enough, the gym looks like the one back at the Manor, only it’s filled with girls' and boys' gymnastic equipment. It smells like sweat and hard work, the fluorescents glaring down at us. I line up with the boys, the smallest one by far, and try not to look too excited. And by that, I mean I try not to launch into a routine right then and there. 

Coach Drewitt and the girl’s coach, Coach Morgan, stride up to us, working down the lines of students. While Coach Drewitt could be the yeti’s younger brother, Coach Morgan could be a fairy’s bigger sister. She’s so tiny and delicate, barely taller than I am, that at first, I think I could snap her in half. Until, at least, I notice how thick and strong her legs are, how buff her arms are. Now, who would break who in half, I ask you?

Each gymnast is given something to work on. A routine to improve, streamline, and perfect. You know, the typical stuff. But when Coach Drewitt walks up to me, he just says. “Grayson, let’s see what you can do.”

So I do it. I show off. What? I’ve always wanted to show normal kids what a circus boy can do. I fly across the vault, landing in an almost perfect bounce, my adrenaline pumping. I flip and muscle through the still rings, my arms singing, my face slick with sweat. By the time I’m on the pommel horse, most of the boys and some of the girls are watching me. “So—” I say, weaving my legs in and around the hand grips, keeping them together, my toes straight, “Do you think it’s called the ‘pommel horse’ because they did this on horses first?”

People laugh, whisper, and cheer when I dismount. I don’t want to be too pleased with myself because arrogance never helped anyone, but I can’t help but be proud of my improvement. Alfred will be pleased. Actually, no. He’ll probably tell me that it wasn’t horrible, but it could be much, much better. 

Coach Drewitt scribbles something down on his clipboard, his eyes gleaming. I really hope he doesn’t ask for an autograph, at least not in front of everyone else. “Grayson, you said you’ve never been on a team before?”

“Nope. Never.” I pull my grips off, chalk cascading in clouds onto the squishy ground. “But I do have a whole set of gym equipment back at the Manor, and Alfred makes me practice so—”

“How flexible are you?” The question comes out of left field. Really, who walks up to someone and asks how flexible they are? But Coach asks it anyway. And who am I to not show off— er— give them a demonstration?

I drop down to my stomach, propping myself up on my elbows. Then, I pull my legs up and over until my toes touch my forehead, then pull them past my nose and onto the mat in front of me. I spread them out in a perfect split, grunting as I rise up off my elbows and into a handstand, pulling my legs together and sticking them straight up. 

And, just because I want to, I take a hand off the ground, supporting all my weight on one hand, pushing up and down, before flipping onto my feet. Most of the gym stares at me now. My cheeks heat up so much that I want to fall over and hide or try to disappear like Alfred taught me. No such luck.

“Well, then, welcome to the team, Grayson.” Coach Drewitt hands me a signup form and permission slip. The papers tremble in my hands. Really? “Practice is after school Monday through Friday. Extra classes are offered all day Saturday.”

“Thanks.” I hold the papers close, scanning over the forms. This has to be a dream. No, really! If I can’t be in the circus anymore, this is the next best thing. “I’ll have to give these to Bruce.”

“Do that.” Coach Drewitt leans forward, a hand on my shoulder, his voice dipping down so the others can’t hear. “You have a real shot at the Olympics, Grayson. Make sure to tell Wayne that too.”

The Olympics, huh? I don't know if that's what Alfred has in mind, and I'm not even sure what Bruce wants me to do, but I'll ask anyway. Because why shouldn’t I be able to do something I want to do?

I spend the rest of practice coming up with routines with Coach Drewitt. He teaches me strings of moves that Alfred hasn’t, which I love. We talk about my strengths, what I need to work on, and so on and so forth until it’s time to go. 

And yeah, Coach really is a fanboy. Just to be nice, I grab his sharpie and sign his clipboard. I’m a student in his class, so it makes no sense, but I do it anyway. Graysons never turn down their fans… at least when most of the class is already heading out of the gym. 

I’m the last one in the locker room, and soon, I’m the only one. I step out of the shower, my towel hanging around my neck, my everyday shorts on. It’s good to be out of uniform. You would think that after wearing leotards almost all my life, leggings and a tank wouldn’t be that uncomfortable. But hey, I never said I liked wearing those things, did I? 

At the mirrors, I slick back my hair, running a comb through it like Alfred taught me. I know it’s stupid, but my hair hasn’t been such a mess lately. Honestly, where has this new shampoo been all my life?

The locker room is quiet, only interrupted by the drips from the leaking showers and the creaking of the air conditioning moving some of the locker doors. A light flickers overhead as I slide my comb back into my bag, thankful that Alfred made me bring a change of clothes and cosmetics for general PE. 

Grabbing my stuff, I shut my locker, throwing a T-shirt over my shoulder. I get ready to turn, but that’s when I hear it. Only a week before, I wouldn’t have heard it. I would‘ve thought it was the rustle of the air conditioning or the thump of the vents. But I’m not the boy who runs headlong into big tops anymore. My ears pick up even the smallest of sounds, like breathing, which, once you can hear that, you can never be scared again. 

Someone’s standing behind me. There’s a small whoosh as something’s pulled from a pocket, and I whirl around, my leg spinning out in a kick, connecting with a man’s ribs. CRACK! The man grunts, but it’s quickly replaced by a laugh. A laugh that chills my blood, sending ice sliding through my veins and my heart slowing to a death march. 

It’s only when I look up, my duffle held in front of me, ready to batter whoever it is where it hurts, that I know why. The man’s tall, sharp, and gaunt. He wears a three-piece suit lined with knives, his tie glistening like blood. And his eyes glint blue and brown. 

“Well, now, Sonny.” He leers at me, a knife in one hand, a plain white cloth in the other. “You’ve improved since we last met. I felt that one.”

My bag crashes to the ground, my arms limp, wet noodles. My legs shake, my knees wobbling so much I think I might fall back into my locker. My stomach twists itself into knots, sending puke rushing up my throat. No, no, no, no! It can’t be him! How is he here? Why is he here?

I go so white, so cold, that I might’s well be dead already. “Y-you…” It’s a shaking whisper, not what I wanted to do when I saw this monster again. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m afraid. But it’s too late for that. I hate the way I tremble, the way the sweat begins to slip cold and trickle down my forehead. 

Tony Zucco smiles, the knife inching closer to my neck, the cloth sweeping towards me. “Yes. It’s me. Don’t worry, little Grayson. It’ll all be over soon.”

He’s going to kill me! You’d think after all my training, all the things Alfred’s taught me, I wouldn’t freeze. You’d think I’d jump up and start kicking butt, that I’d pound the living crap out of this jerk. You’d think that I wouldn’t stand there like a statue, cold and pale. But I do. All I can hear are their screams, his laugh. All I can see is red. Pulsing, horrible, blood red. My head pounds against my temples, my throat aching to scream. I stood up to a thug on a midnight street. Why can’t I face this guy?

Because he killed them. He killed them!

My eyes pop open when he presses the thick cloth against my mouth and nose. I can’t place the smell until my eyes start drooping. What? My brain is slowing, scooting along like a slug across a sidewalk, waiting to be squished. What is this… what is… He’s drugging me! He killed them! Just in time, my leg snaps forward and up, smacking his hand away, the cloth fluttering to the ground. 

I can’t move. I slump against the locker, sucking in clean air. I hate how my stomach churns. I hate how my eyes sting, my blinks fighting away the flood that wants to burst out. I hate the way mist dances around in my head, lifting me into a dreamy place I shouldn’t be in. I don’t get time to clear the fog from my head. I don’t even get the time to take two measly little breaths. Zucco’s hands slam me into the locker, my head banging against the metal, the sound ringing in my ears, pain exploding at the base of my skull. I grit my teeth, my head singing, but I shove my legs forward, my heels catching his injured side. 

“Stupid little brat!” Zucco hisses, stumbling back, two knives in hand.

“Me? A brat?” I struggle to my feet but scoot towards the door. I need to get out into the hall, where Babs is waiting for me. Where Alfred is waiting in the limo. I need to get away from him. Murderer, murderer, MURDERER! “Really, Zucco? That’s like, the go-to villain line!”

“Still the comedian, are we?” Zucco’s sneer sends shivers racing up and down my spine as I back up, keeping my eyes on the knives in his hands. I have to stay focused. I have to remember what Alfred taught me. Murderer! “I thought seeing your mommy and daddy die would break that out of you.”

Red boils in my vision. My breath is so quick, I might’s well be drowning, gasping for air. He can’t be here! This can’t be real! Help, someone, please! Help me! Zucco sees, and he smiles. He knows. Knows the power he has. “Daw, there he is. That scared little boy.”

“Man, you really are fresh out of material, aren’t you?” I launch forward, landing two quick punches on his vulnerable side, ducking under the knives. I need to get them away from him. The only problem is he’s got a jacket full. My head pounds like a drum, my heart stops in my chest, but I force myself to keep breathing. To keep thinking. He can’t win. This can’t be happening. Murderer! “What, do they have copyright-free fight banter for Z-class villains?”

I knock one knife away, my hand twisting and popping his hand open, just like Alfred taught me. Zucco isn’t phased. He pulls another blade out of his jacket. How can I do this? This can’t be real! “For a kid who’s about to die, you sure do talk a lot.”

“What can I say?” I throw the other knife away, only for it to get replaced. Wait, the jacket! I need to get the jacket! “If I’m gonna die, might’s well get out of my system, right?”

I leap up into the air, flying over his head. My fingers snatch the sleeves of his jacket. As I fall back to the tiled floor, I pull, yanking not only the sleeves but his arms, toward me. To his credit, Zucco only hisses through clenched teeth. Man, this guy’s tough! I’ll give him that!

I toss the jacket back into the locker room and make a break toward the door. Alfred will be disappointed in me. After all that time training me, scolding me, and hitting me in the gut, I forgot the one rule that he pounded into my head: Never turn your back on your opponent. 

A hand grabs my ankle, and I fall to the ground, my chin cracking onto the aluminum, my teeth biting my lip. Fingers dig into my skin, pinching my Achilles tendon, which, if you didn’t know, is a pressure point. And a very painful one at that. “Ouch.” I manage to spit, kicking my ankle free. 

“Dick?” That’s Babs. My heart stops in my chest. She’s just outside the locker room. If Zucco knows I care about her— if Zucco pulls out one of his knives… Maybe getting to her isn’t a good idea. Maybe I should have kept the knives to defend myself with. Maybe—

Hands flip me over, digging into my arms. Zucco’s sliding his jacket back on as one of his lackeys pins me down, his knee pressing on my chest. I gasp, the weight on my chest crushing, final. I’m not strong enough to push him off me. What can I do? Training is great and all, but when push comes to shove? I’m not supposed to take grown men one on one. I’m still a kid. It doesn’t matter how much I bench press or practice fighting Alfred. I’m not supposed to get caught. I might actually die here. 

“This is awkward.” I gasp as the lackey’s knee presses down, his hands like clamps on my arms. 

“Aren’t you going to call out to your little friend, boy?” Zucco pulls out not a knife but a long syringe from his jacket. What is that? I don’t want to die from something burning through my veins. Is that actually a thing? Or is that just in the movies? “Tell her goodbye?”

“I haven’t thought of my last words yet.” I spit, grunting under the weight of the giant, muscled-bound man on top of me. Gosh, what does this guy eat? Muscle milk and grilled chicken? I glare at the man but smirk. It’s dangerous, I know, but honestly, at this point? Why not punish them for coming after me? “How about this? You need to lay off the sugar, buddy.”

Click.

I stare at the gun in my face, the muzzle right between my eyes. Then again, maybe I should've kept my mouth shut. Strangely enough, a gun isn’t as terrifying as Zucco. So I laugh. Dumb, I know. But what else do I have? “What? Really? Now, this is cliche!”

“Dick?” Babs is knocking on the side of the entrance to the boy’s locker, her voice ringing past the turn that keeps her from danger. Please, please, please stay there, Babs. I want to scream. Please, please, please don’t get shot! “Dick, I heard a crash. Are you alright?”

Only a crash? What about the sinister voices or the grunting or the laughing? Well, I might have to ask Commissioner Gordon to get his daughter some hearing aids. 

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Zucco sneers. But is it just me, or does he look nervous at the sight of his man pointing a gun in my face? But why? Doesn’t he want me dead?

“Still haven’t thought about what to say.” I snap, looking at the firearm cross-eyed. Do you know how much I want to just pass out now? What? You try staring down a gun shoved in your face and tell me it’s not terrifying. “What should it be? Oh, sorry, friend, but I have a gun pointed at my face so—”

BANG!

I think I’m dead. I should be dead. The gun was in my face. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t move, dodge out of the way. Instead, a pain like I’ve never felt before explodes in my shoulder. I probably scream, but I don’t know. I probably thrash, but I can’t tell. Red pounds in my vision as I’m thrown into the air, thumping over something solid. I moan as I swing and wince as whatever holds me breaks out into a run. 

I think I hear Babs shouting something, and another bang rips through the echoing halls of the school. Blazing hot tears blur the world. No… they didn’t shoot Babs… they couldn’t shoot Babs. I’d never be able to live with myself if they shot Babs. 

A shout hits me like a train. I know I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it. I’m thrown off my perch, hitting the floor with such a crack that I wheeze, curling up into a ball. I’m cold. I’m dead. I’m dreaming. I failed. Again. He killed Babs. Like he killed my parents. No, no, no, no! Murderer!

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet. I can’t see, I can’t hear, but I can feel. I roar as I crash into someone large and solid. I scream as I pound into them, hitting all the spots I know will hurt with quick jabs. Pain? What’s pain? I don’t feel pain. 

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, pushing me harder, faster. I beat the person until they’re on the ground. Then I’m on the floor. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t move. Just leave me here… let me sleep…

Soft, cool hands grab me, their touch sending shivers racing across my bare skin. Yes… bare… I forgot to put a shirt on before I was attacked… I slump forward, gasping, wheezing. My shoulder burns and blazes, but it feels as if the pain isn’t my own. It can’t be. This isn’t real. 

“That’s it, Master Dick.” The voice is calm, soothing my pounding head and slowing my frantic breaths. “That’s it. You are all right. You are safe.”

It’s Alfred. 

I want to cry so bad that I have to bury my face in his shoulder to keep him from seeing. I don’t want him to know how much I failed. How much of a disappointment I am. My shoulder’s on fire, warmth trickling down my arm. Other voices come wild, loud voices that swirl like a tornado around me. Sirens blare from outside. Outside… I’m still in school? Everything’s blurred, like through a rain-drenched window. 

Alfred helps me to my feet, and another shoulder slides under my good arm, propping me up on my shaking legs. I blink through cold sweat to see bright orange hair and flashing green eyes. It’s her! She’s here! She’s alive!

“Ba-babs?” My voice is weird, slurring like I’m sleepy, but I’m not. I can’t be. It’s not bedtime, is it?

“Take it easy, Dick.” Her voice is right in my ear, tickling me with her breath. She’s here! She’s alive! She’s not hurt! But how? What happened? “You’re shot. The police are here. You’re going to be okay.”

Shot? So… I was shot… I’m carried by Babs and Alfred out of the school, across the courtyard, and into the street where the entire section of road is blocked off by police and an ambulance. The sun’s so bright, I have to close my eyes when they sit me on the back of the ambulance, the medics rushing towards me. Good thing, too, because I think I might fall over, losing myself in the painlessness of sleep. Yeah, that sounds nice. 

“Dick, can you tell me what happened?” The voice is kind but stern. I squint through the glaring light and mob of uniformed medics who swarm around my shoulder and see a familiar face. 

“D-detective Yin?” My voice seems small even to my own ears. I swallow hard and try again. “It… it was Zucco and a thug. They… they tried to drug me they—”

“We have the thug. Tall, middle-aged, with a bird tattoo on the left side of his neck.” Yin comes closer, a recorder out. I want to complain. To say that I was just shot, can’t she give me five minutes? Can’t everyone just let me sleep for five minutes? But I don’t say anything. “He had the gun. But you said Tony Zucco was here too?”

“Yeah.” I bite back a groan as something is dribbled over my wound, causing it to sting like a million bees. Oh… why can’t I just pass out? Knock me out, please! “He had a rag… with c-chloroform. And a syringe with something clear in it. H-he said he wanted to kill me… but….”

I bite my lip hard. The medics are prodding the wound on both sides. Both sides? Good. The bullet isn’t in there. Hey, I did learn something from Alfred, alright?

“Tell me everything that happened, Dick.” Detective Yin’s sitting beside me, the recorder hovering inches from my mouth. “Leave nothing out.”

I surprise myself. I tell her everything that happened, putting in the times, places, and other people who’d been around. I basically lay out my entire day, well, school day. It might’s well be an episode from a high school show. When I get to the part where Zucco jumped me in the locker room, I surprise myself even more. 

My voice doesn’t shake. My eyes don’t sting with tears. The pain’s gone again, replaced by laser focus. They didn’t catch Zucco. They should’ve, but they didn’t. And I'll do everything I can to make sure they catch him this time. Murderer… 

My fists clench, my fingers digging into my palms. I need to see justice done. Zucco needs to pay for everything. He needs to get what he deserves. 

When I finish, I’m so tired I almost nod off right then and there. Alfred’s next to me now, talking to a woman with a badge I’ve never seen before like they’re old friends. Babs is over talking to another detective, Yin’s partner, Detective Bennett, I believe. She’s not crying either. She is hugging the blanket they put around her tight, though. 

My head’s just about to fall to my chest when a shadow sweeps over me. A hush falls over the street, and even the hums of the machine go silent. I look up, up at the thing that blots out the sun. 

It’s him. 

“Batman.” Yin stands up, her hand suddenly resting on my good shoulder. Why? Is she protecting me? No, no, that’s not it. She’s showing that I’m safe. “Did you catch him?”

I hold my breath. I don’t know what to expect. Good news? Bad news? I know what I want, though. Justice. I want justice. I want Zucco to pay.

“No.” That one word sends my heart plummeting to my feet. I suddenly feel tiny under the shadow of the Bat. The Batman blocks out the view of Babs and Alfred. The Batman looks down at me with such a severe frown that I suddenly think he blames me for what happened. I’m a tiny mouse under the eye of a hawk. 

Yin clicks the walkie strapped to her shoulder. “I want a perimeter set, per Batman’s normal sweep. All officers on alert.”

“He had a plan.” Batman’s still looking down at me. I want to crawl away, hide, but I can’t. I can’t move. “A quick getaway.”

“I would think so.” Yin’s hand squeezes my shoulder before letting go, leaving me shivering in a shadow, the gloved hands of medics wrapping gauze around my cleaned and stitched wound. “He came for the kid. What have you found?”

I lift my head again. Wait, has Batman, the Batman, been looking for Zucco? I don’t know whether I want to be angry or not. Batman is supposed to be the best. If he is working this, why hasn’t he caught him yet? Why hasn’t Zucco paid yet?

“He’s a high up in one of the gangs.” Batman’s stern gaze moves from me to Yin. I suck in a breath but listen hard. “I have found several sites that he frequents. Just like Haly’s Circus. Protection money.”

Yin curses under her breath. “You would think we don’t do our jobs.” She tosses the recorder to Batman. Am I really watching a GCPD detective work a case with Batman? Tell me this is a dream and I don’t know what I’d do. “Copy it and give it back. It’s the kid’s report.”

Batman looks at me, then he’s gone. 

The rest of the day’s a blur. Alfred takes me home, but not before chewing out principal A. P. for the lax security at the school. At home, I’m put straight to bed. The woman that Alfred spoke to, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, comes with us, taking care of me for the night. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been that babied in my life. They feed me soup, help me shower, change the bandages, and give me pain meds. I have no time to wonder where Bruce might be or how I can ever turn my back to hallways after this. I’m taken right into a dream where Zucco stands over me with a gun, Bruce, Alfred, Babs, Yin, and even Batman are all shot dead at my feet. 

He laughs, and I scream. At least, until I wake up, my shoulder burning, stabbing, my body slick with sweat. And Bruce isn’t there.

To be Continued...