Chapter Text
He couldn’t believe the Doctor had placed a tracker on the younger boy. That was why the Handler’s team had managed to locate them so quickly. Now that he had made sure the tracking chip was rendered completely useless, he felt a profound wave of relief that the Little Prince had vanished permanently from their radar. Tim couldn’t be more grateful that he had sent him away on the boat, even if the electrical kickback had taken a massive toll on his own central nervous system. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the boy had escaped.
“...What? What do you mean by that?!” The brass-knuckle man hissed, crouching down as the rough bark snapped Tim out of his blurry musing. A heavy, gloved hand reached out and yanked Tim’s head back by his hair, forcing him to look up into squinting, menacing eyes.
“You… won’t… find him… ever… don’t try…” Tim gasped, followed immediately by a wet, bloody cough.
His vision was so blurred he could barely make out the features of the men in front of him. All he saw were three dark, hulking silhouettes clad in heavy tactical gear, armed to the teeth. Their armor looked entirely different from the Handler’s squad. They were clearly from a different syndicate—and they were searching not for him, but specifically for the Little Prince.
Judging by the chaotic carnage he had faintly heard outside while lying on the dock, a massive altercation had taken place. These three men had managed to demolish the Handler’s entire squad without taking a single casualty. That made them an extraordinarily dangerous threat.
So, the Little Prince is a Wayne. No wonder the Doctor had taken him. And now this rival syndicate was hunting him down, too.
Being a Wayne heir in Gotham must be terrifying, Tim mused numbly. Everyone is after them. The revelation that the kid was a Wayne surprised him. Before he was taken by the Doctor—before he was cut off from the outside world four years ago—Wayne was a prominent household name in Gotham's high society. Tim remembered that the man only had two sons, both much older than him. He hadn't known there was a third, younger child. With how ruthlessly these syndicates were targeting him, Wayne's decision to hide his vulnerable son from the public had been completely justified.
Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed Tim by the collar, hoisting his light frame into the air. His feet dangled weakly above the floor before he was slammed back against the nearest wall with brutal force.
“Tell us the truth right now! I refuse to believe he’s dead!” a low, terrifying growl hissed directly into his ear.
Tim giggled deliriously, stars bursting behind his eyelids as his weak neck failed to support his head, letting it loll forward. “How… many… times… do I have… to tell you…? He’s GONE!” Tim continued to giggle, the sound edge-riddled and desperate. “He’s… no longer… here…!”
Hot tears spilled from his eyes as the hand tightened around his throat, smothering his laughter into a wet, choking gasp.
The rough hand shoved him back down to the concrete. Tim groaned as his battered body struck the floor. His blooming bruises and raw lacerations screamed in agony as the impact worsened his condition. His head felt as though it were buried under heavy sand. The severe concussion and frayed nerves made his vision white out entirely.
Yet, weirdly enough, Tim felt a strange sense of peace. Even if he couldn’t save himself, at least he could save someone else from a cage. He had nothing left to lose. He only hoped that the Little Prince—no, Damian—would reunite with his actual family while Tim kept these mercenaries occupied.
Distantly, he heard angry shouts echoing around the dark lake house. He strained his hearing to catch their words. He was in uncharted territory now. New captors meant a new routine and a new need to adapt; he had to gather as much intelligence as possible.
“Impossible! The kid is delirious! We can’t base our operation on a sniveling captive's words alone!” an angry voice barked, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of pacing boots.
“Go back out and search the shoreline. There was a mooring post on the dock, but no boat,” a grave, commanding voice ordered the pacing man. The thumping of tactical boots marched away toward the rear exit.
Tim's heart pounded violently against his ribs. He quietly prayed he had pushed Damian's boat far enough into the fog. He hoped the pouring rain masked the boy's heat signature, hiding him from these new mercenaries' sensors. If they caught him, Tim didn't know what else he could possibly do to protect him.
The rear door swung open a moment later. “The fog is far too thick,” the grave voice reported. “It’s obscuring the thermal line-of-sight past five metres. Should I retrieve our underwater gear and dive torches?”
Tim shouted in silent triumph inside his head. The Little Prince was lucky; the weather was working entirely in his favor.
The three silhouettes gathered back around Tim in a tight half-circle.
His head was yanked back hard by his hair a second time. “I'm going to ask you one more time, and you better think long and hard about your answer, because there will be severe consequences,” a violent roar split Tim's ears. “Where is he?! Did he drown?! Did you drown him?! TELL ME!”
“He's… gone… poof… stop trying…” Tim rasped softly, grinning weakly through the crimson coating his teeth. “You'll… find no one… except me here…”
“Retrieve the dive torches and search gear from the vehicle,” the strict, grave voice commanded the others. “I want a full sweep of the shallow waters immediately.”
So he was dealing with another version of three stooges: the grave voice was the leader, the brass-knuckle man was hot-headed and brutal, and the third enforcer was the quiet brute.
Two pairs of heavy boots stomped out of the lake house. Tim kept losing track of their positions as his vision blinked in and out of focus.
The leader remained, crouching down to Tim's eye level. “I don't know how or why you did it, but I will find him. You don't want to talk now? That's fine. I am a patient man, and I know ways to make people break. I am not letting you go until you tell me what happened to that boy.”
“I… already… told you… he's gone… don't bother looking…” Tim gasped through a blinding migraine, fighting a losing battle to maintain consciousness.
“We shall see.”
That was the last thing Tim heard before the creeping darkness finally swallowed his mind whole.
—
Tim woke up gasping as wet, gloved fingers hoisted him into the air, strong fingers crushing his windpipe.
“TELL ME, YOU USELESS BOY, WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?! HE’S NOT ON THE SHORE, HE’S NOT IN THE LAKE, HE’S NOT ANYWHERE! TELL ME! YOU LITTLE FUCK MUST KNOW SOMETHING!!!”
The fist swung him around easily. Tim felt like a ragdoll, nauseous from the sudden, violent motion. He choked and gasped, physically incapable of replying even if he wanted to. Blood pounded behind his ears, his vision swimming as his extremities grew icy cold. Black static bloomed across the edges of his sight.
A heavy hand landed on the raging man's shoulder. “Calm down. If he dies, we lose our only lead. He knows something—you heard the way he talked earlier.”
“We swept the shore and dived into the lake without an ounce of proof!” the voice raged back, emphasizing every point with a sharp jerk at Tim’s throat. “Don’t tell me to calm down! We were so close to him, and now he's vanished without a trace, leaving behind a battered, useless boy who can only say ‘He’s gone, he’s gone!’ You want to just leave him behind?!”
“...He—hnk—is… gone—nkkkkh...” Tim squeaked with every shred of breath he could summon, fighting to get his point across. The left side of his lip tugged upward slightly, forming a weak, bloody smirk. He was more than happy to keep their furious attention locked entirely on himself so they wouldn't search the water for the Little Prince.
“The weather is deteriorating,” the leader's grave voice commanded. “We will return at first light to execute a second sweep. That doesn't mean we are giving up on the search. But we must evacuate before someone notices the squad we decimated hasn't checked in. Reinforcements could arrive at any moment.”
“What do we do with the kid? We’re not leaving him, right? 'Cause I’m nowhere near done with him,” the brass-knuckle man growled, pulling Tim close before shoving him roughly toward the other two.
The leader gave a single, firm nod. “Bind him with the heaviest restraints we brought and throw him in the trunk. We are bringing him back to base.”
The brass-knuckle man dropped Tim unceremoniously to the floor. Tim heaved, gasping violently to refill the lungs he had been denied seconds prior. A massive, gloved hand manhandled him from behind, pinning his wrists into reinforced, heavy-duty handcuffs that cabled directly to his ankles. The four-point restraint made walking nearly impossible—a precaution Tim had zero energy to fight anyway.
He went completely limp as the hulking enforcer hoisted him up, hauling him out of the lake house into the freezing, torrential downpour.
He heard the latch of the SUV trunk pop open, and a second later, he was tossed unceremoniously into the cargo bay. Tim flinched as the heavy tailgate slammed shut, plunging him into pitch-black darkness.
Resting his forehead against the cold floorboards in total resignation, Tim took a moment to close his eyes. He was so, so tired. He didn’t know how much longer his body could hold out under these conditions. Every single one of his nerves was burning, his head pounding with a pulsing, white-hot pain. His breath whistled raggedly through his throat, raw and swollen from the crushing grip.
Even if I die right now, Tim thought numbly, I’ll die content. The Little Prince was safe out there on the water, on his way back to his family.
He heard the driver and passenger doors open and slam shut. The engine roared to life beneath him. He had simply traded one set of captors for another. Out of the lion's mouth, straight into the tiger's jaw.
—
Damian woke up curled on an unstable surface. His face was damp with morning dew, but his body was warm, swaddled tightly in an aluminum thermal blanket. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing as his sight was greeted by a breathtaking sunrise peeking through the canopy of trees. The mist and fog parted to reveal a warm shaft of sunlight as birds chirped and the gentle hum of wildlife echoed through the trees, waking the forest from its slumber. He spent a quiet moment appreciating the view, wishing briefly for his art supplies back at home.
For the first time in days, Damian felt completely at peace—healthy, energized, and clear-headed, reminiscent of days spent resting at home with Richard.
The thought of his eldest brother snapped him out of his stupor. A sudden rush of memories from the previous night reeled rapidly through his mind.
The boy! He did something to him!
Damian's head was entirely clear, his body devoid of all chemical strain and fatigue. He also felt the faint, dull ache beneath his heel where his tracker sat, completely dead and fried. He was certain it was useless now.
The older boy possessed the extraordinary capability to take anything from anyone. Sifting through the memories of the previous night, the horrifying truth finally cemented in Damian's mind. The liquid-lead sensation... the sudden clarity in his brain... the dead tracker in his heel. The older boy hadn't just touched him—he had willingly drained the BHV3 neurotoxin straight out of Damian's veins and taken the electrical shock into his own body. It confirmed Damian's suspicion of why the Doctor prized the teenager above all other subjects: the boy was a living sponge for human suffering. Which explained why the teenager was constantly covered in raw cuts and bruises. But the boy had never used his power maliciously against Damian. He had only used it to ensure Damian floated away across the lake, unconscious, invisible, and without a tracker.
Why would he fry my tracker? Damian's brow furrowed in deep thought.
Beyond that mystery, the boy had shown zero sinister intent toward him. He had done nothing but protect and rescue Damian on multiple occasions. He had even sucked the BHV3 neurotoxin directly out of Damian's veins. Damian vaguely remembered a sensation like warm liquid lead flowing through the back of his head in the cage, right before he had awoken on the older boy's lap. The boy had willingly absorbed a toxic neurotoxin into his own body just to give Damian a fighting chance to escape.
Damian sat up properly, carefully balancing himself inside the drifting rowboat. What happened to him?
Damian gripped his own chest, a cold wave of dread washing over him as he pictured the boy being dragged back to that freezing cage, crying and bleeding under the brute hands of the Handler and his mercenaries.
Where was his family when he needed them?! He needed them to storm the facility, put an end to that miserable Doctor, and rescue his ally!
Never mind. Damian was exceptionally resourceful. If his family could not come to him, he would go to them.
He checked his perimeter and assessed his position. He was floating near the middle of the lake, with the silhouette of the lake house sitting on the far shore—a dark dot against a sea of green trees. He needed to navigate his way out of this forest immediately, but he required a map to reach civilization. If he wasn't mistaken, he was currently in the northern woodland of Gotham.
Damian spotted the tactical backpack sitting innocently near his feet. He snatched it and began rummaging through its contents. Inside, he uncovered a paper map, a sturdy hunting knife, a few protein bars, and a full bottle of water. Perfect. Exactly what I require.
He examined the map—a standard, reliable paper map of Gotham's perimeter that could be purchased at any convenience store. A trek on foot back to Gotham proper would take roughly eight hours before he hit civilization. He would arrive around sundown, at which point he could secure a telephone and contact Pennyworth to retrieve him.
Strengthening his resolve, Damian gripped the wooden oars and began rowing toward the shoreline with all his strength.
The boy had saved his life multiple times. Now, it was Damian's turn to save him. A Wayne always returns a favor given freely.
—
Tim was startled awake by the heavy bang of a passenger door slamming shut. The sharp vibration jostled his head from its uncomfortable rest. His heart immediately began to race, adrenaline surging through his veins as he anticipated the violence and torture that were sure to follow.
The SUV's cargo bay hissed open. Tim squinted as low light from the outside invaded his sensitive vision. He wasn't given time to observe his surroundings before one of his new captors hoisted him up and shoved a dark cloth hood over his head.
They tried to frog-march him forward, but his feet dragged uselessly against the pavement as they lugged his limp weight along. Tim felt dangerously weak. On the drive over, he had coughed up blood twice onto the floorboards, and his nose leaked crimson no matter how many times he wiped it against his sleeve. His vision was so blurred that covering his face had been entirely unnecessary. It seemed his battered body couldn't process the full, toxic force of the BHV3 he had siphoned from the Little Prince. His head felt stuffed with cotton, making consecutive thoughts nearly impossible.
Yet, despite the agony, he felt an unburdened sense of quiet triumph. His mind was filled with relief—he had saved the boy. Nothing else mattered. His own life no longer felt important now that he had proven to himself he wasn't the useless "freak" his parents and the Doctor had insisted he was.
He was maneuvered roughly into a chair before a heavy metal table. A massive hand pinned his head down flush against the cold surface while another pair of hands unlatched his heavy handcuffs and secured his wrists into thick steel manacles fused directly to the tabletop. His ankles were chained tightly to the concrete floor.
The hood was yanked away. The heavy hand pinning his head disappeared, but Tim couldn't bring his head up on his own strength. His bones felt like jelly; he wished he could simply melt down the drain and vanish forever.
A sudden, blinding beam drowned his vision in pure white as a high-intensity interrogation light flared to life directly above him. His sensitive irises shrank into pinpricks. Tim groaned, his blinding headache intensifying under the piercing light.
A heavy, gloved hand yanked his head back by his hair.
He was inside a dark interrogation room. Two of his captors stood shadowed behind the glare of the lamp, making it impossible for Tim to discern their features. They were still clad in dark, stealth tactical gear. Good. They aren't showing their faces. That means they might still intend to let me go. But Tim deeply doubted it. They were far too desperate to find the Little Prince. If they didn't hear what they wanted, Tim bet they would simply put a bullet through his skull. He had no intention of saying a single word that could aid their search anyway.
“Severe muscle tearing in your right quadriceps. Friction burns on your wrists matching standard facility restraints. You've been in a cell for years, yet you ended up in a stolen SUV at a lake house 30 km north. We know you didn't act alone,” a quiet, authoritative voice rang out through the sterile room. “We know you were with the boy when you escaped the facility. Now, you only need to tell us where he went. Why did he suddenly vanish from the lake house, leaving only you behind?”
The demand was met with absolute silence. Tim let his head rest heavily against the hand gripping his hair. He had nothing left to say.
“Listen to me, kid. You look like you've been through hell,” another voice interjected, attempting a calmer tone. “If you cooperate with us, we can get you medical attention immediately. Work with us, and this will become much easier for everyone.”
Tim chuckled dryly, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. Starting with bargaining, huh? He wasn't stupid enough to fall for that. The Doctor had constantly promised him reprieves from wound transfers, but those reprieves had never come. Tim had learned long ago never to trust sweet lies.
“He’s… gone…” Tim rasped, displaying his blood-stained teeth in a weak, defiant grin. “You’ll never… find him. Even if you… kill me… I won’t say a word.”
The hand in his hair tightened violently, yanking his head back further. His icy blue eyes squinted against the blinding glare as the brass-knuckle man forced Tim to look up into his dark visor.
“The way you say that indicates he’s still alive somewhere!” the man hissed, his voice trembling with unhinged rage. “'Gone' doesn't mean dead! What did you do to him, huh?! What—are you playing the hero now?! You couldn’t even save yourself, but you think you can save that boy?!”
The grip in his hair tightened until Tim’s eyes watered involuntarily.
Ah, this one is the bad cop, Tim thought dizzily. The other two are playing good cop.
“Who said… he’s still alive…?” Tim rasped softly. “I just… used him to escape… He was a liability…”
“STOP LYING TO US! TELL US THE TRUTH!” The man shook Tim's head violently by his hair.
“I don’t even… have to do anything…” Tim lied, his headache throbbing in rhythm with the violent pulling. “He was battered… and bloodied… Pushing him into the lake… was easy…”
“He’s lying,” a baritone voice called out calmly from the shadows behind the light. “His eyes darted when he claimed he pushed him into the lake. Why would you lie about that?”
“I didn’t… lie… He’s gone…”
“Again with 'gone'! If he’s dead, say he’s dead!” the brass-knuckle man roared, snapping Tim's head back with a sharp jerk. “TELL ME, IS HE DEAD?!”
“Dead… gone… what does it matter…?” Tim whispered, his strength failing. “He’s no longer here…”
The brass-knuckle man let out a harsh growl and abruptly shoved Tim's head downward. Tim’s forehead slammed against the metal tabletop with sickening force. His vision whited out, stars exploding behind his eyelids as he let out a sharp cry of pain.
The man huffed, stepping back alongside the other two while muttering curses under his breath.
“We have methods to extract information,” the third enforcer stated coldly from the shadows. “It would be wise to speak now before we are forced to employ extreme measures. Believe me, I take no pleasure in harming a kid, but you are leaving us no alternative.”
Lies, Tim thought through the searing agony in his skull. People like them always enjoy hurting the weak.
“I had people… dissect me on a daily basis…” Tim panted raspy. “Your words… don’t scare me…”
“Prepare a bath for our guest,” the authoritative leader commanded quietly.
Tim heard the rustle of gear as two of them moved to obey. Tim's head throbbed, hot tears mixing with blood and dripping noisily onto the metal table in the quiet room. A bath…? Whatever that means, it won't be pleasant. But he had to endure it. He had to buy Damian more time.
His head was yanked back sharply once more as the enforcers returned, placing a deep steel basin filled with cold water directly in front of him on the table.
“I will ask you one last time,” a rough voice demanded, gripping his jaw. “Where did the boy go?”
“In the bottom… of the lake…” Tim gasped. “You need to search… more thoroughly—”
Before he could finish, his head was shoved violently into the water.
Cold liquid flooded his nose and mouth instantly. Bubbles erupted from his lips as he gasped on instinct, his body thrashing against the table manacles in a desperate, primal urge to breathe. His lungs burned for oxygen.
It felt like an eternity before his hair was yanked back, pulling his face clear of the basin. Tim heaved raggedly, coughing up a mixture of water and blood as he struggled to draw air into his burning chest. His head spun dangerously from the sudden hypoxia.
“Are you inclined to cooperate now?” the distant baritone voice asked coldly.
Tim forced his lips to curve into a weak, infuriating smirk. “Thanks for that… the dried blood around my mouth… was getting itchy…”
Without a word, his head was slammed back into the basin.
This time, Tim held his breath, but the burning agony in his lungs quickly became unbearable. They held him under longer this time before dragging him back up for air.
“TELL US THE TRUTH!” the brass-knuckle man screamed in frustration.
“Bottom… of the lake…” Tim choked out.
Down his head went again.
They repeated the cycle until Tim was on the absolute threshold of unconsciousness, his thrashes weakening into feeble twitches, physically incapable of speaking another word.
“Stop,” the leader’s authoritative command broke the interrogation. “He won't survive another submersion. Lock him in the containment cell for now—we will resume later. We still need to do another perimeter sweep of the lake. Secure him and gather back here.”
The moment the grip in his hair vanished, Tim’s head lolled forward limply, nearly dipping into the basin before an enforcer yanked the bowl out of the way.
Tim’s mind felt submerged in deep water. His body was impossibly heavy, every sound distant and muffled. He barely felt his wrists and ankles being unlocked from the table manacles.
A pair of arms lifted his limp frame. Tim felt as though he were being swept up in raging waves, bobbing in and out of consciousness as they carried him down a series of corridors. The temperature shifted as they entered a new space.
The hands laid him down surprisingly gently onto a firm, padded mattress—a far cry from the cold stone bed of the Handler's facility.
Distantly, Tim registered the electronic beep and hiss of a heavy door sealing shut before total darkness finally claimed his mind.