Another day, another round of useless errands tactfully disguised as dire emergencies from Commissioner Gordon. To three different locations he went, adrenaline and the idea of serving some sort of justice brewing up a storm in his core and from three different locations he left, the smile on his face reduced to a mere ghost of what it was, his demeanor bruised along with his forearm, the unfortunate result of a tasteless swing made by a shoddy mess of a men who had gotten significantly drunk despite knowing after multiple offenses that his tolerance was exceedingly low. Even still, when Dick had reached Marin Crusoe’s doorstep he was still filled with a quiet bout of clandestine excitement. This was it. Jim Gordon was finally giving him a real case, a ‘big boy’ case, one where he could finally prove himself. And he believed it too as the woman talked to him, frail — shrouded in grief, bespectacled but carrying the features of someone that was once timelessly beautiful, explaining that her daughter had gone missing. It had been a day or two now. Her name was Clara, she was nine years old with large green eyes and red hair. At the time, Dick could feel his stomach sour – he’d always had a soft place in his heart for redheads. This was it, this was the case that would propel him forward, so he looked, found her and would be revered for it – well, he would if Marin Crusoe’s daughter wasn’t a bright orange tabby cat that had just ended up on a unmowed lawn two blocks over.
The GCPD would laugh and Gordon would smirk, but even with the blatant humiliation he received, he wouldn’t leave his line of work. Truly, he was just happy to be associated with them, with people who worked to make good in a world that wasn’t. See, Dick Grayson was in love with the idea of justice and demolishing evil, it fueled him so much so that he needed to be pursing the wickedness of the world twenty-four hours a day. So it didn’t matter if the GCPD had dubbed him “Errand Boy” or “Pretty Boy” because those names – those titles; they were nothing because it was Officer Dick Grayson that went across the documents and Nightwing left mouths as shouts of praise when for one, blessed night Gotham was s a f e.
– Plus, the bakery Wally worked at was on the way back and Wally always snaked him something sweet when no one was looking.
Humming, Dick walked (as he had for some time now) down a familiar street, smiling at passerbys and trying to make the most of what was yet another unsavory, but somehow intriguing afternoon. Ending up down a less crowded boulevard to avoid on-foot traffic, suddenly remembering that his immediate return to the station wasn’t that important to anyone, the police officer pulled out the cupcake that Wally had left him with. Ravenous, he about to eat it when he heard a loud thud coming from the alley. His body tensed for a moment, but the eldest Wayne son figured the sound was just a result of the stray cats and dogs that liked to set up camp there fussing around, ignoring the fact that the sound produced sounded much more like the sound of a body crumpling to the ground like a building with the foundations eaten away by the heaving decay of societies past. Tearing at the wrapping with a shurg, Dick went for the cupcake a second time when a scream sounded. Horrible and bloodcurdling, it chilled him to the bone – it was unmistakable.
He didn’t waste a minute.
Dropping the cupcake back in the bag, he raced over to the alley and found a girl lying there, semi-conscious and with a face that held no hint of peace, only anguish. He could have sworn she said something as he knelt down next to her, his body racked violently with concern as he shook her with a gentle firmness. “Miss?” Dick called worriedly over the din of the city streets, checking her body for exit or entry wounds, finally muttering up the nerve to check her pulse which, thankfully, was still there. “Miss?” He beckoned again, more frantic now, his heart loud in his ears.
“Miss, are you a l r i g h t ? ”
