Batman had a long list of rules. To him, they were just mental rules that he knew by heart. To Robin though, those rules were like the bible. He had them written down in a little green book, numbered in order that only reached to sixty. He kept it on hand wherever he went, reading it when he felt out of place and adding a new line every time Batman brought up a new rule that he hadn't heard before, even taking down his mentor's facial expression to see how serious the rule was.

Batman had glanced through the book once or twice, curious to see what stuff had escaped his lips. He knew that number one on the list was something along the lines of, "Never go anywhere without your utility belt." Number sixteen was, "They call it a secret identity for a reason." Number forty three was, "Keep your playtime and your lifetime as two separate times. Never let the clock hands cross." The others mostly referred to battle strategy and teamwork and stuff like that. He wasn't all too familiar on them.

There was one final rule that he knew by heart, one that he had wish he had known long ago. It was a number sixty, added only after last month when Dick hadn't come home from school. Number sixty, scribbled into the book with blue ink in a spidery scrawl, was, "If you know you're going to be gone, tell someone. If there's no one to tell, leave clues." This was also the only rule that Dick hadn't followed.

XxXxX

When Bruce had come home from work on that dark Tuesday night, he already could tell something was wrong before he even touched the doorknob. He stopped by the door, setting his briefcase down. He reached into his suit, pulling out his utility belt and hooking it around his shoulders, opening the door suspiciously, relocating the brief case to the inside of the house before he closed the door with his foot, looking around silently.

"Alfred…" he called loudly, suspiciously glancing at the dark kitchen.

The old man didn't reply. There wasn't a bump, a scrape, a muffle or a tap. The only sound he heard was his rapid heartbeat in his chest and his soft breathing. He slipped a hand into his utility belt, grabbing a handful of batbombs and silently slipping into the kitchen. His eyes darted about, already adjusted. The kitchen was empty, same with the dining room, the cabinet and the study. Suspiciously, he started up the stairs, on full alert.

"Dick!" he called loudly, his voice full of worry.

When he got no answer, he began to freak out. His cautious steps gained speed and he bolted down the hall, kicking down his ward's door. The room was a mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, the bed was unmade with the covers on the floor, there were huge cuts in the walls with the wallpaper hanging down, the dresser drawers were open and their contents were all over the floors, the posters were ripped off the walls, picture frames were cracks, the closet door was broken, half of the clothes missing, the window was broken, the shades were snapped down the middle and burnt scorches covered the room.

Bruce's heart leapt up into his throat and he forgot how to breathe. His mental walls fell apart and his hands fell to his side in horror. He staggered into the room, his eyes wide with horror. Someone had been in his baby's room. Someone had torn through his baby's room, looking for something. Someone had his baby.

"Dick!" Bruce screamed desperately, tearing out of the room and bursting his head into every room.

His little boy wasn't upstairs and neither was Alfred. Where was his family? With one final blast of hope, he practically jumped off the staircase, flying to the study and into the bookshelf, heading down to the Batcave. When he got down there, his jaw dropped. With it, his heart abandoned him, flying out of his throat.

His Batcave wasn't destroyed, but it had been defiled by red spray paint. It was the same four words painted every where; over the computer screens, over the ground, over the chairs, over the glass display cases and even the ceiling. It took Bruce a minute to realize what it said, but when he figured it out, he could feel his escaped heart get run over by an eighteen-wheeler.

Help me. Rule 61. Help me. Rule 61. Help me. Rule 61. Help me. Rule 61.

He quickly recognized the handwriting as Dick's. He didn't care though. He also didn't care what Rule 61 was. Instead, he broke his own unspoken rule. He called for help.

…

-F.J.