Chapter Text
Tongue pinched between his teeth, Dick huffs when a prolonged shriek bounces off the facility's walls. It had been preceded by several ones of similar ilk and so it does little to disturb his feng shui. Already, he is set to a soothing rhythm – one that will neither abate nor be diluted by some irksome keening, no matter this one’s protests.
Abruptly, a metrical tune pries into the strained quiet, chirping merrily.
With a contemplative frown, Dick fishes the mobile from his backmost pocket, momentarily relieving some of the pressure from the esophagus he is purposely crushing. It is a derelict chunk of plastic and he answers the call, pinning it between one shoulder and his head. He goes back to collapsing the windpipe of the crook he is propped on.
“Little busy here,” he says by way of greeting.
He hears a chuff.
“Can hear ya’ merkin’ some fellow ‘cross the pond, birdie,” says a voice, dry as bone. It sighs after a short second. “Busy or not, yer gonna wanna hear this. Scouts.”
Dick presses one thumb into the goon’s bruising larynx, digging into the tender flesh just north of the cartilage surrounding the man’s thyroid with the other. It serves as both a deterrent against further struggles while also silencing them in the process – those insufferable shrieks dying under his ministrations.
B very likely didn’t intend for those discussions on human anatomy to be utilized in such a manner.
The legs kicking out from under him flail a little less, the desperate hands pawing at his forearms going blessedly limp. Dick knows very well that if he were to release the man now he would ensure his continued survival, tenuous though it would be. With a steadying breath, Dick relaxes his grip.
“And what would that be?”
The man gasps.
Another chuff, this one more exasperated than the last.
“Found ‘em. Jason-of-the-Blood. Nestled right in southwest Manhattan. Sweet lil’ villa. Totally anonymous – can’t say I’d blame ‘em.”
Smothering a burst of elation at the revelation, Dick hems, uncinching his shoulder and head to release his busted mobile. He catches the thing with unnatural grace, settling his weight more firmly on the belly of the crook he has pinned and looking ridiculously at ease while doing so.
“‘Manhattan’, huh?”
“You questioning me, birdie?”
Dick smiles, unseen and unbidden.
“Of course not,” he says. The goon under him is rapidly regaining consciousness and that is something he mustn't allow. He tuts. “So, do you have any further information?”
“Hankering for a proper shag—”
“Concerning Blood,” Dick clarifies.
The voice tsks loudly.
“Nah, nothin’—”
Dick presses against the goon’s windpipe again, thumb settling under his purpling thyroid. Within seconds, the man begins to struggle with wild abandon, the heels of his dress shoes skidding and fingers uselessly knocking against his own.
(It is almost comical were the act not so pitiful.)
Normally, Dick isn’t in the habit of torturing those he encounters on the dubious cornerstones of Gotham or Blüdhaven, but desperate times and whatnot… The man under him had refused to answer some important questions (ones he is just dying to know the answers to), and so he has had to, regretfully, find a suitable punishment. Far be it for the budding criminal empire he is co-founding to have any false starts – Dick is just not that kind of man.
“Your input has been invaluable. Thank you, Constantine.”
Dick flips the mobile shut without pause.
The crook under him gasps.