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“Surely you have a way out of this,” Jason says, wrists chafing against coarse rope as he squirms in his bonds. “Right?” It’s futile. The crocodile-mask-wearing goons that caught him are certainly no boy scouts, but their knot tying skills seem to be far above the average Gotham scum. Jason doesn’t stand a chance, not when he’s trying to maneuver his way around his sprained left ankle. (Not broken. It can’t be broken. If it’s broken, he’ll be benched for months.)
Across from him, Jason’s older brother and current technically-adult supervision is attempting to roll his formerly dislocated shoulder. As soon as Dick had woken up, he’d popped it back into place using the wall, but even relocated it’s not going to be functioning particularly well. Even more concerning is the dilation in his unfocused eyes—and the way that he seems to be fighting his body just to stay upright. “I feel like jelly,” Dick says, which isn’t exactly an answer. And if it is intended to be an answer, it’s not a reassuring one.
“A way out,” Jason asks. “Yes or no?” He can already think of a few ideas. The walls of this small room seem like plaster, but good plaster. Jason doesn’t think he could break through them without the explosives in his confiscated utility belt. The door, on the other hand, seems like wood, and not particularly strong either. They could break through that. Plus, there’s a ceiling vent. And they could always trick one of the goons into becoming their hostage once someone comes to retrieve them.
A wave of emotion passes through Nightwing’s eyes, but whatever drug’s affecting him seems to be messing enough with his muscles that it’s not clear exactly what he’s feeling. “I promised Batman that I’d keep you safe,” Dick says. Jason isn’t sure if that’s a yes, of course I have a way out, I take my responsibilities seriously or a very guilty no. Dick doesn’t elaborate, instead popping his thumbs out of place to give him more room to escape the ropes around his wrists.
“You haven’t failed yet,” Jason says. Which is blatantly false, given the sprained ankle, the knife slashes on his arms, and the ache in his temple where one of the goons knocked him out with a metal bat, but he doesn’t need to be kept safe anyway. Jason was equally capable of noticing that the crying girl in the alleyway was a trap, but like Dick, he had leapt in immediately. Only, he knew the alley was a dead end. Apparently, it hadn’t been like that when Dick lived in Gotham. So really, this is on Jason.
Dick twists, grunting in pain as his left shoulder is jostled. But then, the ropes around his wrists and torso fall away, leaving Dick to reset his thumbs and then gingerly untie his ankles and legs.
“We’re back in business!” Jason celebrates.
“That,” Dick says, “was the easy part.”
“We can fight our way out,” Jason says. He runs the numbers in his head. They passed three goons on the way here. The four that brought them in should still be around somewhere. An operation of Killer Croc’s size is probably employing dozens of people for protection, but Killer Croc has several hideouts, scattered around Gotham. Which means that most of those people aren’t here. So, seven people. Maybe five more who could come rushing in if an alarm is trigged.
Twelve armed men against two injured, unarmed vigilantes. Jason has faced worse odds. And it’s not like all twelve would attack at once, not in the narrow hallways that he vaguely remembers being carried through after the goons dragged him from their car. So really, it would be more like 4v2. Easy.
Dick, however, doesn’t seem to think so. “Can you walk on that ankle, Robin?”
“Yeah,” Jason says. He waits for Dick to get up and come untie him, but Dick just slumps against the wall.
“Are you sure? If you can’t, I need to—”
“Yes, I’m sure!” Jason’s ankle throbs like it wants to disagree. Jason ignores it. He’s walked on a sprained ankle before.
“Can you fight on it?” That’s a harder question, but Jason nods anyway. If he has to fight, he’ll fight. “Fight well?” Jason doesn’t answer that one. If he gives Dick a false assessment of his capabilities, he could screw up Dick’s plans before they’re even made. “Fu—frick.”
“You’re supposed to be a bad influence,” Jason says. “You can curse. Now untie me, and let’s get out of here.”
Dick grimaces, but it looks like he’s struggling to move his mouth into the right position. He pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. Slowly, he tilts away from the wall, body shaking as he tries to hold himself up. Dick takes one single, staggering step, and then topples to the ground.
“Nightwing?” Jason asks. “You okay?” What the hell did those goons dose him with? And why wasn’t Jason given the same drug?
“I’m not injured,” Dick says, which isn’t quite the same thing. “They gave me some kind of muscle relaxant, mixed with whatever knocked me out. I’m kinda foggy. And, you know, jelly. You’re not feeling any effects?”
“None,” Jason says. “I just got old fashioned chloroform. You think they forgot to dose me?” These goons have better knot-tying skills than average, but it’s clear they weren’t totally prepared to be keeping Nightwing and Robin prisoner, despite setting a trap. The room where they’re locked is completely empty, except for the cobwebs in the corners and its two prisoners, but it doesn’t seem like it’s meant to be a prison cell. And usually, villains don’t capture vigilantes just to wait around.
“I don’t think they were expecting two of us,” Dick says. “Only one dose. I was the bigger threat, so they used it on me.” Jason narrows his eyes at that. He’s Robin. He’s just as much of a threat as Nightwing.
“Look, can you just untie me already?” Jason asks. He slides himself over towards Dick, only to jostle his ankle and feel a jolt of pain rip through him. He bites down on his lip to keep from crying out.
“Robin? Are you alright?”
“Peachy,” Jason says. But he won’t be peachy if the goons come to get them and he’s still trussed up like this. He pushes himself again, this time holding his sprained ankle off the ground.
When Jason gets close enough, Dick starts untying the ropes around his wrists. “You were awake when they brought us here, right? Do you know where we are?”
“Bowery, I think,” Jason replies. “They clonked me on the head with a metal bat, before the chloroform, but I think I remember crossing a bridge, and I doubt they took us all the way to Burnley.”
“Okay. Bowery. These have got to be Killer Croc’s guys. So…known hideouts?”
Right. It’s been two years since Dick was in Gotham. Jason thinks back to all the long, boring memorization sessions in front of the Batcomputer. Bruce had tested him on every known hideout before letting him on patrol. “This could be the old aquarium? The one that got shut down after Riddler tried to steal the octopuses.”
“Nah, I went there with B at least five times. Those walls would be concrete.”
“Okay. North Gotham Psych Ward. Uh, there’s a condemned apartment complex that they’re probably distributing meth at, but I don’t think this is it. I don’t know where else.” Jason racks his brain. They could be running out of time. Dick doesn’t seem to be getting any more capable of walking, and by the speed at which he’s untying Jason’s ropes, it’s not just his legs affected. If they let the goons come in and give Jason a dose of this stuff too…well, they might not be able to fight their way out anymore.
“What if they’re not Croc’s guys?” Dick asks. “This could be a frame job.”
“We’re going after him anyway,” Jason says. “And whoever got us, it’s their place we’ll be destroying when we leave.”
“Well, I don’t think they expect us to leave. They were expecting one person. You. They kidnap you, rough you up a little. Or a lot. Send a video—or not, even, if that girl can tell Batman that guys in crocodile masks took you. And then when Batman gets back from his very public Justice League mission in France, he’ll be single-mindedly focused on getting you back from Killer Croc while these guys get to do some important operation Bat-free.” Dick finishes undoing the ropes around Jason’s wrist, letting them fall away. “Ugh, I can’t feel my fingers.”
Jason gets started on the rest of the ropes. “There’s a drug operation that Batman and I have been going after,” Jason volunteers. “B thought the Squid might be involved, because he’s back, and he’s always feuding with Croc.”
“And his hide—”
“We think he’s got an old pharmaceutical lab in the Bowery. I studied the layouts two days ago.” Jason points up at the ceiling vent. “It’s only one level deep, and those vents go up to the surface. We could leave through them, no fighting necessary.”
For the first time since he woke up trapped in this room, Dick smiles. “Perfect.” Again, he struggles his way to his feet, but this time he stays leaning against the wall. “I’ll boost you up, and you can open the vent. The Robin suit’s still got that mini Batscrewdriver in the gloves, right? Opposite the lockpick?” Jason nods. Dick holds out his hands and Jason rests his good foot there. “Three, two, one—”
But instead of being propelled upwards, Jason finds himself tumbling back to the floor as Dick’s arms give way. His left foot slams into the ground, and the pain hits a second later, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and—
Jason’s breath whistles through his lips as he tries to breathe through the pain. After what feels like an eternity but is probably around thirty seconds, it fades back to an ache.
“Sorry,” Dick says. “You’re gonna have to climb on my shoulders, I think.”
“Okay.” Jason peers up at the vent, already trying to figure out how he’s going to pull Dick up. Between Dick’s recently dislocated shoulder and the fact that his arms can’t seem to hold much weight…Whatever. Jason will figure that out later.
Dick crouches down again and Jason scrambles up onto his shoulders. Then Dick stands, bracing himself against the wall. From here, Jason can just barely manage to reach the vent. He pulls out the mini screwdriver—which is really just the tip of a flathead screwdriver with a bit of friction grip—from his right glove and gets to work.
“Got it!” Jason announces, less than a minute later. He turns the vent cover out of the way on its remaining screw, letting him see the vent above. It looks like it goes vertically up by about a foot, before splitting into two parts—one that continues upwards and one that travels horizontally, presumably to service the rest of the basement level.
Unlike Dick, Jason’s arms are…mostly fine. Bruised and bleeding a bit, sure, but more than capable of holding his weight. “Hold on,” Jason says. Dick leans against the wall, but what Jason loses in height from that, he makes up for by standing up one-footed on Dick’s shoulder. His left leg hangs uselessly, but between the handhold of the vent above him and his left foot on Dick’s shoulder, he’s able to maintain his balance. “I’m gonna pull myself up.”
Jason grips the horizontal part of the vent and hoists himself up. It’s not easy, but Jason has spent far too long doing pull-ups in the Batcave to fail at this.
Once he makes it into the tight space of the air vent, though, he finds a more pressing problem. “Hope you’ve got contortionist training,” Jason says. Even though he’s way smaller than he’s supposed to be at thirteen, he doesn’t even have enough space in the vent to turn around. Will Dick be able to fit?
He’ll have to. Jason crawls out of the horizontal part of the vent and braces himself against the walls of the vertical shaft. The metal is warm, but not painful, and it’s got enough friction that he’s able to hold himself up without even using his left foot. Once he’s turned around, he crawls backwards into the horizontal shaft and looks down at Dick.
“I’ll pull you up,” Jason says. Even as he reaches down, though, he knows that his arms aren’t long enough to grab ahold of Dick’s hands, let alone his forearms. “Okay. Uh. I can go a little bit forwards, but you’re going to have to jump, grab my hands, and then pull yourself up a little so I can grab your forearms.”
Dick exhales. “I don’t think I can do that, Robin.”
“Well, you have to,” Jason says. He can’t reach down far enough to grab Dick’s forearms and pull him up himself, and he’s definitely just going to injure Dick further if he tries to pull him up by his hands. Then again, injured is better than stuck here and dead. “Fine. If your shoulder gets worse, we can deal with it later. Just jump and grab my hands and I’ll pull you up. Then we’ll climb up the vent.”
“I can barely stand up,” Dick says. Already, he’s slumped back down against the wall. “I can’t climb up a vent shaft until this stupid drug wears off.”
“And is it wearing off?”
“No. It’s not. And even if it did, I don’t think I’d fit in that thing anyway.” Dick looks up at Jason, his eyes still unfocused. “You need to go. Tell Agent A what’s going on and where I am. Then you can call in some help.”
For a moment, Jason just stares down at him. Dick wasn’t supposed to be stupid. “No fucking way, idiot,” Jason says, once he’s regained his powers of speech. “I’m not leaving you here!”
“You’re not,” Dick argues. “You’re getting help.”
“We can fight our way out,” Jason insists. “Break down the door, or—don’t you have explosives or acid or something in your boots?”
“Yeah,” Dick says. “Acid and smoke pellets. I’ll melt the door’s hinges, create a confusion. Meanwhile, you’ll already be out.”
“Nightwing—”
“They only expected one of us. If you go now, they’ll still have me. They’ll think their plan is working.”
“They’ll move you,” Jason protests. “Look, I’m going to come down, and then we’ll take on these goons together. Nightwing and Robin. We can beat ‘em!”
“Robin, you said you can’t fight on that ankle. I can’t do much either. We’re not going to win.”
“We could,” Jason says mutinously.
“We won’t. Look, I’m not going to follow you out. So either you leave, or we’re both stuck here, and B goes searching for Killer Croc.”
Jason searches Dick’s face, but for once, his expression is unreadable. Would Dick actually refuse to leave if Jason came down there?
Before Jason can respond, the sound of footsteps begins. Distant at first, but getting louder and louder and—
“You need to go,” Dick says.
“No—”
“Yes. You need to go, right now. I’ll buy you time. Climb up that shaft. Get to the surface. Get help.” Jason glares. “They’re going to tell me that they found you, Robin. They’ll tell me that they found you, and they only need one of us. If I can’t trust that you’ve left…”
Then what? Nothing. It would change nothing. Dick isn’t going to give up any secrets, even if he promised to keep Jason safe or whatever. Bruce would definitely rather Dick keep his mouth shut. Surely, Dick would know that.
But would he? Dick has always seemed to be under the impression that he had been…replaced or something, even though that couldn’t be farther from the truth. If he really thinks that…
“Fine,” Jason says. “I’ll leave. Happy?” Jason grabs the vent cover and turns it back so that it looks closed.
The footsteps are getting louder. Dick, apparently deciding that he’s not getting back on his feet, begins to crawl his way to the door, muscles spasming all the while.
“I need you to promise me, Robin,” Dick says. “So that I know for sure they’re lying. Promise me you’ll leave.”
“I promise,” Jason says.
That, of course, is a complete and utter lie. The moment Dick’s out from under the vent and can’t see what Jason is doing, Jason turns himself back around in the vertical shaft and then begins to crawl down the horizontal one. He’s not leaving the basement until he finds something—anything—that can help. But first, he needs to get out of the way of the smoke pellets that Dick’s undoubtedly about to set off.
The space is cramped. Dick might not have been able to fit in here. But Bruce and Jason had pored over the blueprints and determined that Jason could fit in the vents—and they were right. They didn’t account for every movement jostling his sprained ankle, but the ticking keeps Jason moving. If Jason takes too long to rescue Dick, his brother will have been better off if Jason had just left him here and gone straight to Alfred. And if he stays too long in the vents, the goons could catch on and then find him.
Once Jason’s a bit farther from the smoke, he stops to take stock. Dick, as much as Jason hates to admit it, was right. The two of them wouldn’t be able to fight their way out, not in their current states. So for Jason to rescue Dick, he either needs to find a new weapon to give him an edge or avoid a fight at all.
The only weapons Squid’s guys seem to keep are guns and bombs. Even if he could miraculously find a stockpile of them, Jason wouldn’t know how to use a bombs to fight without killing anyone. As for the guns…Jason’s a good shot. Batman taught him, after all. But any shot, anywhere on the body, could be lethal. So, weapons are out then.
But in order to actually sneak out without a fight, Jason would need to wait until Dick is left alone again. And even then, they’d have to be close enough to an exit that Jason could drag Dick away. So, that’s out too.
Think, Jason tells himself. The voice in his head sounds a little like Batman. What do you know?
He knows he’s in the former Magnolia Pharmaceuticals Research and Testing building. He knows the blueprints for that building by heart. Right now, he should be crawling alongside what was once a science lab and is now probably a drug lab. But Jason doesn’t think getting Squid’s guys high would help things. The room they had been kept in must have been a storage closet. By that, there was a massive open room that had once been filled with vats of chemicals. If Jason had climbed the shaft, he would’ve ended up right outside, in-between the West and North entrances.
What else? When they captured you, you were awake.
Barely.
You were awake. What did you see?
Once the goons in crocodile masks had dragged Jason and Dick out of the car, they had carried the two vigilantes through some corridors, taken a few turns, and ended up at the cell. Jason could retrace their steps, but he might have missed a turn, and he wasn’t sure on the distances, and…
Think.
When Jason had been pulled out of the car, there had been several other cars nearby. It hadn’t been a parking lot outside—the hallways had been right there. They’d already been inside. And Jason doesn’t remember any stairs.
So?
So, Squid’s goons have several cars on the basement level…and a way for those cars to leave. The only place big enough for a garage like that would be the chemical vat room, where Bruce had previously suspected the Squid was keeping a giant squid.
Well, if it turned out there was indeed a giant squid there instead of a garage, that, too, could potentially give Jason an edge. After all, a giant squid’s tank bursting would probably be pretty distracting, and Robins know how to take advantage of chaos.
Behind him, Jason hears the sound of fists hitting flesh, accompanied by a grunt of pain. Either Dick has miraculously acquired an antidote and is now fighting, or, more likely, the goons are angry that Robin disappeared. Jason wants to go back. Dick was already in pain, and they’re just hurting him more and more. That’s Jason’s older brother, and they’re hurting him. He should go back. Fight them and save Dick and leave together and—
But instead, he just crawls faster. A right turn, then another, and Jason is peering through a vent at the Squid Goon Parking Garage. Which does, indeed, have a giant squid in a tank, so points to Bruce. But more importantly, it has several cars.
Jason drops down from the vent, tucking himself into a roll to avoid putting more weight on his ankle than necessary. If he had to get back up, he’d be screwed, but if his memory is correct…Dick is on the other side of the plaster wall. And Jason’s got his new secret weapon.
Some of the goons have really cool cars. Unfortunately, there’s exactly one car that will be quick to hotwire and has the door unlocked—an ancient-looking Honda Civic. Taking a cool car for an ass-kicking joyride will have to wait until Bruce finally lets him drive the Batmobile.
Jason has the car up and running in less than a minute. Willis wouldn’t have let any son of his graduate the first grade without knowing how to hotwire a car. He probably wouldn’t let any son of his graduate the fifth grade without knowing how to drive one, but Jason hadn’t graduated the fifth grade, so his skills in that department are a bit more sketchy. But Willis let Jason drive around in a parking lot, once. So, that’s got to count for something.
Jason finds the gas pedal. He’s barely able to reach it, but he doesn’t need much subtlety for what he’s about to do. He spins the wheel all the way to the left and hits the gas. The car turns way too fast, slamming Jason back against the seat.
A little bit to the right and a little lighter on the gas pedal, and Jason is facing in approximately the right direction.
And then he slams his foot on the gas pedal again and the wall explodes around him little chunks of plaster flying through the air.
As soon as Jason realizes he’s not hitting much resistance, he takes his foot off the gas. Unfortunately, it takes a little while to find the brake. The car, rolls right through the destroyed wall, and hears three very loud thuds. Quickly, Jason turns on the windshield wipers and brings the window down, peering out into the smoke and plaster dust filled room.
Three goons are lying on the ground, with varying degrees of injury. Two of them seem to be conscious, but in no state to do anything. The third is—yep, he’s breathing. His leg may be at a terrible angle, but that’s not Jason’s problem!
Nightwing, too, is on the ground, curled up in a defensive position. And Jason counted three thuds so…he didn’t run his brother over. Probably.
“Get in the car!” Jason shouts. Dick was clearly trying to protect his internal organs, but by the way he drags himself toward the car, Jason doesn’t think he fully succeeded. And his face—his face is beginning to bruise already. In a day, Jason thinks it’ll be black and blue all over.
Dick, somehow, manages to crawl through the passenger-side door. He collapses onto the seat and looks about seconds from passing out, but he’s in the car. “Fuck you,” Dick says, apparently in too much agony to remember that he’s trying to set a good example.
“Fuck you too,” Jason replies, not entirely sure why Dick’s angry, and backs up through the hole in the wall. Wait, no, he does know why Dick is angry. He was supposed to abandon him. Why Dick could ever believe that Jason would actually do that is beyond him. Jason is Robin. Robin doesn’t leave people behind. Especially not when those people are supposed to be his brother.
“Oh,” Dick says when he spots the giant squid. “That’s a squid.”
“Yep,” Jason agrees.
“That’s not very smart if they wanted to pretend to be Killer Croc’s goo—do you have a driver’s license?”
“A driver’s license,” Jason echoes, swerving as he tries to get the car onto the ramp that hopefully leads out of this miserable place. Behind him, he hears footsteps, and then the sound of gunshots. The goons must’ve recovered their senses. Probably called for help. Jason doesn’t think the ones he hit will be walking soon. “Get down!”
The gunshots miss as Jason swerves the car yet again. Either the Squid’s goons are bad shots, or Jason’s a really bad driver, to the point where they can’t possibly predict what he’s going to do. Possibly both.
“You idiot!” Jason hears one of the goons shout. “If you hit his pet, the Squid’ll kill you!”
The gunshots stop after that, the goons more invested in their lives than catching Robin and Nightwing. That’s what you get, when you’re the Squid. Unlike the Joker, you can’t draw the real crazies.
“A driver’s license,” Dick says conversationally, like they didn’t just get shot at. “That thing that you need to drive. I don’t think you have one.”
“You were driving a plane at eight, Nightwing,” Jason says. Bruce had told him that, then had the gall to look surprised when Jason asked if he could drive the Batmobile.
“A, piloting a plane, not driving. B, I’m pretty sure I was thirteen. C, there’s less to hit up there.” A pause. “Ja—Robin, I think I’m concussed.”
“Okay,” Jason says. He doesn’t know how to get through the door to the garage, so he just crashes through that too.
“You’re not very good at driving.”
“Okay.”
“I think I’m gonna pass out. Nope. I’m definitely gonna pass out.”
“Okay,” Jason says for a third time, as they roll out onto the Gotham street. He keeps whipping his head around, checking for people he’s not intending to hit, the lights, the double yellow line—shit, he’s crossing it, isn’t he?
“You broke your promise,” Dick says. “Not cool. Thanks.”
A car speeds past them and Jason slams on the breaks. Jason goes flying forward, almost slamming his head into the steering wheel. The other car’s driver screams “Asshole!” at them through her open window.
“Don’t call him an asshole, you asshole,” Dick says, despite the glaring red light in front of him that Jason hadn’t even noticed. And with that, he passes out.
Jason drives the rest of the way to the nearest Batman safehouse—Bathouse, officially—in tense silence. He’s pretty sure he’s broken just about every traffic law within the single block they traveled, but hey, the tickets will go to a Squid goon’s car. And if that goon was one of the ones beating on Dick, that’s the least of what he deserves.
When they get to the safehouse, Jason tries to inconspicuously drag Dick out of the car. They’re going to have to burn this place, though, because there’s only so much Jason can do to avoid attention while trying to drag an unconscious person into a basement apartment without injuring him and hobbling on a sprained ankle. Jason’s pretty sure that he’s doubled his recovery time with the stunts that he pulled tonight.
Once they’re in the basement, the first thing Jason does is check Dick’s pulse and breathing. They’re fine, if a bit depressed. The next thing he does, with some dread, is retrieve a comm unit from the safehouse’s stock and turn it on.
Alfred’s voice is immediately ear, sounding about as frantic as the man can get. “Robin. Nightwing. Report. Where are you?”
“Bathouse 11,” Jason reports. “Some of Squid’s guys got us.”
“Are you alright? Where is Nightwing?”
“He’s alive,” Jason says. “I have him here. We’re. Uh.” If this was Bruce, he would say they’re fine. But lie to Alfred? No way. “We’re not in critical condition, but please get here soon, okay? He’s hurt.”
Already, Jason can hear Alfred moving on the other side of the comm line. “I’m coming.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees Dick stir. “I’m alright,” Dick says a moment later, sounding very far from alright.
“ETA 20 minutes,” Alfred says. “I’ll bring the Batmobile. Administer first aid and update me on any changes.”
“See?” Jason says, turning to Dick. “I called Agent A. I even left, just like I promised.”
“This is not what you promised,” Dick protests. Jason sits down next to him on the floor, just in case he has a seizure or something. And maybe it’s also reassuring to see that he’s alive, breathing, and being an overprotective asshole.
Jason could let this drop. But Dick is awake, and talking, and semi-alert. You’re supposed to keep concussed people awake, right? “Yeah, it is. I left and got help. I just brought you with me.”
“Arguing with a concussed person,” Dick says. “That’s low.”
“I’m also concussed,” Jason says.
“Well, I’m drugged.”
“Well, I’m—”
“Boys, the comm line is still open,” Alfred says wearily.
“Oh,” Jason says. He meets Dick’s eyes and sees that Dick is very trying hard not to laugh. “Oops.”
He just has time to tap the comm before breaking out into the laughter that Dick was trying to hold back. “It’s not—even—that funny,” Jason gasps.
“You’re crashing,” Dick says. “God, that was awful.” A laugh tears its way out of Dick, and he doubles over, clutching his ribs. “Ow. Ow. That hurts.”
They keep laughing.