Chapter Text
“Do you want to know why I chose him?” the man’s voice reaches Dick through a haze of pain, but he does his best to focus on the words. Bruce had taught him how to withstand torture techniques when he was just starting as Robin. He had to unravel the captor’s words, make it a puzzle, trick his mind into thinking he was still in control of the situation even as his body betrayed him. The lesson had been one of the worst between them. The reality had started sinking in for Bruce, Dick realized now. He had been terse and sharp and had threatened to take away the Robin mantle if Dick couldn’t remember his advice exactly. In turn, Dick had realized that Bruce was describing his own personal experience with torture, not some abstract concept, and it had terrified and upset him. He had cried himself to sleep the first night. He tries to reach for the advice now, but it feels so far away.
“He’s so deliciously human,” the man’s voice comes again. Dick isn't surprised by his words, but he can practically feel the guilt radiating off the others.
“Now, Red Arrow, here, is human as well, I suppose,” he continues on, footsteps retreating. Dick assumes he's gone to Roy’s side. “But he’s not as fun to break. He doesn’t pretend to be all powered up like our precious Nightwing does.”
“Leave him alone,” it’s Donna this time. Of course, Donna would still be spitting mad in this situation. Dick forces his mind back on track for a moment as he recalls their kidnapper snapping reinforced cuffs on her. More lethally, he had rigged it up with some mechanism that, if by chance, the cuffs were broken, a shard of metal would immediately pierce Garth’s heart. Donna had stopped her struggling, but not, apparently, her mouth. Dick knows he needs to figure out a way to dismantle this mechanism, but a heavy beating coupled with systematic burns along his side makes it difficult for him to think.
“Or you’ll… what? Break free? Kill your teammate?” the man laughs. “I know enough of you superheroes to know that would be a breach of custom.”
“I’ll breach your custom,” Roy hisses, but the man just laughs again. He’s acting like an off-brand Joker, almost, although less mad. This makes for a little more method, which means Dick is appropriately worried about the torture to come. He’ll withstand it - he has to - but his team might not be so lucky. He curses himself for leading them into this underprepared. At least, he thinks, Jason is at home. He had begged to come along, to let him be a part of the team for once, to see Paris, but both Dick and Bruce had shut him down. He may be sulking right now, but he’s safe. Some memory tugs at the back of Dick’s mind, but he’s too exhausted to care.
The team has been down here for some number of hours that verges on days. It’s hard to keep track of time in this dark, dank room. He knows that no one is coming for a while yet. It was supposed to take a few weeks to work this particular angle, since the gang they’re going after has been leaving people to die in the Paris Catacombs. Part of the Titans’ job description was to search for survivors, which could take a while and required radio silence. A trap, Dick knows now. A ruse he was too stupid to see through. Not enough research, not enough preparation. Bruce would be upset with him if they were talking. Why weren’t they talking?
Dick isn’t sure if his confusion is coming from dehydration or if, somewhere along the way, he’s been drugged. He thinks both, because the dehydration alone wouldn’t cause these memory lapses so early. He focuses on his breathing, slowing down his heart rate, the pumping of his blood. If he can slow his body down enough, it won’t need as many nutrients and may even slow the spread of the drug. Chlorpromazine? LSD? He’s not hallucinating yet, but that could come with time.
“I want Superman’s true identity,” the man continues. And - no, that’s not possible. Could this all be Luthor? No one is as obsessed with Superman as he is, and he has the brains to set this up, even to fool Dick. Dick almost wishes this guy would hurry up and kill him if he is Luthor’s, because that’s just embarrassing. On the other hand, Luthor and, by extension, his various goons, tend to be so focused on Supes that they underestimate non-metas, or even metas with other types of powers. Dick cracks an eye open to try to make eye contact with Wally. That little movement, coupled with the light that floods into his eyes, sends a wave of nausea through him.
He can’t see the others. They’re probably behind the giant floodlight trained on him, illuminating each of his cuts, burns, and bruises in startling contrast. He’s sure he looks awful. Luthor knows how to put on a show. He’s hanging by his hands from a rope tied to the ceiling. His feet just brush the floor, but not enough that he can really settle his weight. He thinks his shoulder might dislocate soon. It’s nothing compared to the nakedness he feels, being completely exposed. And, well, being naked. Somewhere along the line, this man stripped his suit. He still has his mask on, but it's almost like the man doesn’t care about his identity.
“Don’t know it,” he grits out. It doesn’t sound convincing, and clearly the man agrees. He laughs.
“Let’s see if your teammates know, shall we?” he turns to them and takes a moment to pull a crowbar from the table, letting the metal scrape against the table and make an ominous screeching noise. A crowbar. The memory tugs at Dick again, but a moment later, it disappears in a fog of overwhelming pain. The man has hit him across the stomach.
“Stop!” Wally this time. “Stop, we don’t know. Superheroes don’t reveal their identity because of stuff like this.”
“Really?” the man hits again, and this time, he hits bone. Dick can feel his tibia break in two. The scream is ripped from his throat. He retches, but nothing comes up except a bit of bile, which he swallows back down. Can’t lose liquids.
“We. Don’t. Know,” Donna tries again.
“You know Wonder Woman’s identity,” the man points out, as though they are having a logical, reasoned discussion.
“Diana Prince,” Donna says immediately. She’s a safe one to reveal. Diana doesn’t take much trouble in concealing her identity, and she doesn’t have people connected to it she wants to protect. It’s a good tactic for Donna to tell him, but Dick knows this man isn’t letting them go.
“If I hit just here,” the man says, ignoring her, “I can shatter his humerus. It won’t heal properly. He’ll never be able to use it again.”
He taps Dick’s upper arm lightly with the bar. Dick tries not to, but he flinches. Not his arms, please. He has to be able to fly. He thinks about having to lick his wounds in the Manor. Bruce would let him back, even if he hadn’t called him about the funeral.
“We just told you we don’t know,” Roy spits. “We can’t change that, no matter how much you threaten us.”
“Well,” the man considers. He’s older than they are, but younger than Luthor. He’s experienced in torture techniques. CIA, maybe? Why would he put them in the Paris Catacombs? How is this related to the gang? Dick’s head swirls with pain. He thinks he might throw up again.
“I’m not unreasonable,” he continues. “Let’s try something else, shall we? A new drug Gotham’s very own Dr. Strange cooked up. Gotham always has the best latest inventions, doesn’t it?”
Dick re-evaluates. Nobody praises Gotham unless they’re from Gotham. It’s a rule. Could this be one of the Joker’s former henchmen? But why would he want Superman’s identity?
“This one’s supposed to be a doozy,” he’s filling a syringe now. Dick thought he had reached his fear threshold, but he swings back as the man approaches him. His arms scream in protest, and another debilitating stab of pain shoots through his leg. His vision swims in and out. Bruce had always told him that the drugs were the worst. At least with dehydration and sleep deprivation and pain, you were still in control of your own mind. This kind of thing broke you for life.
He’s too weak to avoid the injection, though. The needle slides in easily. Dick can feel his throat trying to scream, but it's too raw, he’s too tired. Instead, he feels his stomach drop out.
It must be a new drug, something they haven’t yet tested. Possibly the various drugs in his system interact poorly, because his mind clears just in time for a wave of debilitating guilt to crash over him. He led his friends into this situation. They’re tied up, helpless because of him. Every person who has been trapped in the Catacombs will die because he isn’t good enough to get them out. All his training, all his wisecracking, all his leadership skills, all his hard-earned battle scars were for nothing. He wasn’t good enough, wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t kind enough, wasn’t there for him. His baby brother.
Jason isn’t here. Not because he’s safe at home. Because he’s dead. Dick feels a terrible sob building in his throat. He can see his parents’ bodies in front of them like they are really there. But they’re not. They’re not.
And god, maybe his training didn’t keep them out of this situation, but he would get them out. He can’t let another group of people down again. He chokes down the sob, gasping against the shame and shards of pain that engulf him. He needs the fluid. He can’t cry. He needs the fluid.
Dick focuses. In his mind’s eye, Jason is flitting around, perfecting the maniacal Robin laugh. It’s cut short by a whack from a crowbar. He hears the sound of splintering bones.
It’s not real.
He focuses on his breathing again, hopes the Tibetan monks will pull through. It’s not real.
Except it is. But he can’t worry about that right now.
“You think chains can hold us?” he chokes out, “It’s just molecules. Atoms. Mostly empty space.”
“Delirious, perhaps,” the man says. “Let’s see how your friends hold up. Somewhere in one of your memories will hold the answer to my question.”
But Dick hadn’t been speaking to him. He adds, almost as an afterthought,
“684.”
It’s supposed to be a move for open-air combat, utilizing the power combos that make the most sense. Roy doesn’t even have his arrows. But his team, his beautiful, strong team, understands the workings of his confused mind. Wally’s vibrating out of his bonds and grabbing the weapons leveled at Garth. Donna’s breaking her cuffs with every ounce of strength and throwing her body in front of Roy’s. The movement is one, fluid, simple, even, but it's enough. Dick, in turn, shifts his weight so the toes of his good leg are firmly on the floor and shoves up. On the downward fall, his good foot almost completely hits the ground, and he pushes up and gains some lift. He grits his teeth and shoves his body weight downward, pulling his arms as hard as they’ll go. His shoulders feel like they’re being ripped open with a hot poker, but the chain disconnects from the ceiling.
He lands on his bad leg and crumples, fully vomiting bile on the floor. His vision goes in and out, and he can hear his own cry, more of a whimper. He’s choking on tears and spit, but he forces himself up onto his good leg.
Donna is taking care of the man easily now that he’s outnumbered. Wally rushes to his side.
“Water,” Dick chokes, “And something to set my leg.”
Wally procures the water while Roy hunts through the debris of the chamber they’re in. Dick chugs some of it and pours some on his burns. They’ll need to be disinfected, but they aren’t out of the woods yet. They’re trapped in the Catacombs, and the rest of the gang is likely coming after them.
He blessedly blacks out as Roy splints his leg. He comes to in Donna’s arms.
“Come on, Boy Wonder,” she urges. “Stay with us.”
“I’m fine,” Dick says. It’s a blatant lie, but the others don’t challenge it. It’s not even the pain. The counteracting drugs may have given Dick clarity of mind, but he can see Jason’s body going limp, the scene replaying over and over. He’s calling for Dick, for Bruce. He’s dying slowly. It’s not even a memory, really. Dick has never seen the body, doesn’t know what exactly happened except the barest details.
He does know that Jason had gone through what Dick just had, but he hadn’t made it out. Dick wonders if he will make it out. Part of him wants to lie down here and die.
But he has a team relying on him. And Bruce wouldn’t survive losing another kid, even one that doesn’t talk to him.
“Alright, I have a pretty good sense of where we are,” he says, forcing steadiness in his voice. He learned from Batman. He can project calm. “Let’s get out, and then we can worry about coming back for the others.”
“You think it’s Luthor?” Garth asks, hoisting Dick up and letting him lean on him.
“I think Luthor hired one of the Joker’s goons,” Dick says. “He knows the Gotham tricks. He’s interested in dark places and slowly driving people mad, almost like a game. But it’s not random. He has a purpose. I think someone else gave it to him.”
Donna picks up his unconscious form.
“We can figure it out with the Lasso of Truth,” she says grimly. “Which way, Dick?”
In truth, Dick only has a vague idea of where they are, and they have to move pretty slowly because of him. He doesn’t try to suggest they leave him behind. They never would, and then they’d realize just how awful he felt. He thinks, perhaps, it’s not a matter of lying down and dying. He might just die anyway.
He’s moving so slowly that even with both Garth and Roy supporting him, he decides to send Wally ahead to scout. The boy runs down various tunnels, but he’s malnourished, so he can’t exactly run the length of the catacombs.
Dick finds a little comfort down here now that they aren’t chained up, though. The endless tunnels remind him of the Batcave as he falls asleep. Then they transform into screaming matches with Bruce. He dreams he’s at the funeral. He dreams of Jason crying out in pain. The whimpers chase him into waking hours, which are just as dark as the day.
They run out of water in a day. Another day, and Dick won’t be making it out of here. He can feel a fever starting to develop. He’s unsure if one of his burns got infected or if it's simply his body shutting down from stress. Maybe the various drugs in his system are fucking up his body temperature. Whatever it is, the hallucinations are getting worse, and he wakes in a cold sweat, his body aching. He makes sure Roy stays more hydrated than he is because, if he’s being honest, Roy has a better chance than he does. Donna and Garth should make it out and should be able to carry Roy to safety. Wally can heal quickly, but he’s barely got his abilities at this point. He’s too hungry.
“I’m glad we’re going out in style,” Dick jokes as he notices his speedster beginning to flag. Roy had sacrificed his jacket to fashion into makeshift underwear for Dick. It’s wickedly uncomfortable in certain regions, but he prefers this to being vulnerable. He’s so glad he has his mask, he could cry if he wasn’t so dehydrated.
“We’re not going out at all,” Donna grumbles, but even she’s getting tired. Dick suspects the man drugged both her and Garth at one point, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, they can feel it.
“You can say that again,” Roy mutters. Roy’s sense of humor is dark at the best of times, but even Dick can hear the weary resignation now. He’ll be damned if anyone is wearily resigned to death but himself.
“Wait a second,” Dick stops them again. He takes a deep breath. He shoves the sound of his parents’ bodies breaking on the ground like twigs, Jason’s cries, his team’s anguished protests, to the back of his mind. He closes his eyes. He breathes in and out. He tries to find a central point to focus on.
I’ll always come for you.
Impossibly, he wants Bruce. Instead, he has to rely on the second-best thing. His training. Not just from Bruce, but from being a vigilante for longer than he hasn’t been one. He needs to clear the fog from his mind and lead them out. He isn’t turned around.
“Left,” he says, and this time, he isn’t faking the confidence. He memorized this section of the Catacombs. He had a plan for if they got lost. He’s using the plan. It’s just another contingency.
At the first ray of sunshine, Dick wonders if he’s related to Clark, because he can feel life bloom inside him. Roy lets out a whoop of laughter. Garth reaches out a hand.
“Not a ton of sea life, but I can talk to the fish in the Seine,” he says. “Get a pickup.”
Dick is too tired to argue that this is the slowest possible way to reach the Justice League. Instead, he nods and soaks in the sun.