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Darkness.
That's all there was.
Pure darkness and a silence so encompassing and oppressive it seemed to press against Dick's ears. He couldn't even hear the brush of fabric as he shifted position on the floor or the rasp of air as it moved raggedly in and out of his lungs. There was nothing. Not a whisper of sound. Like the darkness, the silence was utter and complete as if someone had slammed a door shut on the world.
Everything felt closed-in and hollow, his entire existence reduced to a few small points—the cling of the grimy and torn Nightwing costume enclosing his body, the solidness of the floor beneath him and the wall behind him, the smell of sweat mixed with that of cold metal and damp cement, and the pain.
His injuries weren't bad, relatively speaking—some superficial scrapes and cuts, a pulled muscle or two, a few cracked ribs, a mild concussion, a rather impressive collection of bruises—but it was a lot harder to distract yourself from them when your world was empty like this. His throat and mouth were irritatingly dry too. He couldn't remember the last time he drank or ate something, couldn't tell how long he'd even been there. There was no way to know how much time had passed in this place.
Sometimes it felt like he'd been there only a few hours.
Sometimes it felt like he'd been there forever.
The last thing he recalled from before was a late night patrol along Bludhaven's outskirts chasing down rumours of some new weapon entering the city and a fight with some well-armed goons down by the docks. One of them had aimed something at him and...
A light so bright it was as if shards of glass were piercing his eyes.
A vibration so deep it was as if his bones were shaking themselves apart.
Then nothing.
Taking off his gloves, he ran his bare hands across the rough surface of the floor tracing random patterns with his fingers, wanting something, anything other than the quiet blackness that surrounded him.
When he'd first woken up in this place, he done his best to explore, studying and mapping his surroundings with the senses he had left like Batman had taught him, but all he had found were solid and unmarked walls within a few paces and a sturdy metal door without lock or handle. No furniture, no windows, and only the tiniest of ventilation ducts in the ceiling.
It wasn't too hard to guess what sort of room this was or what it was for.
With no way out, he had sat down in the corner furthest from the door, securing the most defensible position in which to rest and wait.
He'd almost dozed off by the time they turned up.
The first sign anyone else was in the room was a sharp blow to his stomach and its accompanying burst of pain. The second was a fist to his temple.
Raising one arm to protect his head, he'd fought back with the other, grabbing the limbs attacking him and using them to guide his feet to where they could do the most damage. His strikes had been clumsy and badly placed, but he managed to get a few solid hits in, enough to get them to back off, at least temporarily.
He had yelled at them too, swearing profusely and demanding to know what they wanted.
The vibrations travelled up his throat as he spoke but no sound reached his ears.
He gave the same the second time they came to beat him and the third. By the fourth—though he still fought back—he'd given up on yelling. Talking without being able to hear what he was saying was too disconcerting, and even if they did answer his questions, it wasn't like he'd be able to hear them.
He had lost track of how many times they'd come by this point. They seemed to turn up randomly—two or three at a time—always striking without warning. In-between, they just left him there in the corner, never completely sure if he was really alone in the room or not. They hadn't even bothered to tie him up as if they knew there was no danger of him escaping. His only attempt to reach what he hoped was the open door while they were busy hitting him had ended in disaster and an even worse beating.
There had been no hint as to what they wanted so far and Dick had the worrying feeling they didn't know, that they were just having fun until they figured out what to do with him.
Or hoping the silent darkness would eventually break him.
He shifted where he sat, his behind cold and sore from resting so many hours on the concrete floor. The movement jostled his cracked ribs and he wrapped a hand around them wincing.
Really not one of his best moments.
But he was fine. He wouldn't let this break him. A little sensory deprivation, a little beating, he could take it. He just had to hold on until help came or until... until it was over.
Straining his absent senses, he searched the nothing for something he wasn't even sure was there.
"This has to be the one," said Tim as he knelt in front of the metal door and began working on the lock.
"That's what you said last time," grumbled Jason.
Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Tim saw his older brother had set himself up as guard, his guns—loaded with what Tim hoped were rubber bullets—raised, his red helmet scanning the length of the dim corridor. They hadn't encountered much resistance so far, but you could never be too careful, not with the sort of lives they lived.
"I told you the interference field is making it hard to get the exact location of his tracker. I was only able to pinpoint it to the general area around this building."
"Yeah, yeah."
"We were lucky to get a signal at all. If we hadn't been investigating the area nearby—"
"Just shut up and concentrate on getting the door open," Jason snapped.
Tim huffed and refocused on his work. He couldn't fault Jason's bad mood. Tension had been running high ever since they'd discovered Dick hadn't returned from patrol two nights before. Dick was resilient and, like the rest of them, had survived much, but a lot could happen in forty-eight hours.
The tumblers of the lock gave a satisfying clunk. Tim removed his picks and cautiously pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small and bare with water-stained concrete walls. A grill-covered florescent bulb was the only light source and gave a sickly yellow tint to everything. The starkness of the place made the lone, blue and black figure huddled in the corner stand out even more.
Light-headed relief fell over Tim. "Nightwing."
There was no response, not even a twitch of movement.
The relief was replaced with anxiety once more. "Nightwing?"
Still nothing. Dick just sat there, knees pressed against his chest, head bowed.
Tim moved cautiously into the room and knelt in front of his brother. "Nightwing, it's me, Red Robin."
Bruises in various stages marred Dick's cheeks and temple and dried blood stained his chin where it had trailed down from a split lip. There were also a couple tears in his uniform showing what looked like ragged scrapes, but otherwise it was hard to tell what injuries lay beneath. His shallow breathing, though, spoke of cracked or broken ribs.
Even with Tim an arms length in front of him, Dick made no acknowledgement of his presence. You could almost believe he was sleeping if weren't for the tension of his posture.
Tim exchanged a concerned glance with Jason who remained by the door guarding their exit.
"We need to get moving," said Hood.
Tim nodded and turned back to his unresponsive brother. Random theories flew through his brain—drugs, spell, dissociation, catatonia. They didn't have time to figure it out.
Oddly, Dick's hands were bare, his gloves tossed aside. Tim reached out to touch the back of the hand closest to him.
"Nightwing..."
The moment Tim's hand touched Dick's Dick sprang to life, head shooting up, limbs bursting outward. One arm hit Tim's shoulder and Dick quickly grabbed hold as the opposite fist drove forward in a strike Tim only just managed to dodge.
"Nightwing, stop," Tim pleaded, attempting to grab hold of his brother's flailing limbs. "It's us. We're not going to hurt you."
Still no response, no sign of recognition. Dick continued to thrash about as he braced his back against the wall, arms flying through the air, feet kicking out. Most of his blows went wild hitting nothing but air.
"Shit," exclaimed Jason as he holstered his guns and rushed to Tim's side. "Quit it, Dickhead. We're trying to help you."
The two of them wrestled Dick trying to pin him down, but between his frantic movements and unnatural flexibility, it was proving more than a little difficult.
Jason grunted as an arm escaped his grip and struck his chest. "Nice. See if I come rescue you next time you get kidnapped."
Dick's breathing was heavy, his teeth gritted almost in a snarl, but he didn't say anything which only made the whole thing even more disturbing.
"Please, Dick," said Tim, not caring about about secret identities in the midst of the struggle.
"Can we sedate him?" asked Jason.
Tim shook his head. "We don't know what he might have been dosed with. There could be a bad reaction."
Drugs seemed the most likely candidate, though Tim was pressed to know which one could cause this sort of reaction. Something new? It wasn't fear toxin that was for sure. They knew the effects of that all too well.
"So what do we do?" Jason demanded. "Hogtie him until he calms down?"
"We could—"
One of Dick's legs flew out and struck Tim in the middle of the stomach throwing him off Dick and away from the fight.
He landed on his back with a groan.
"You okay?" asked Jason, continuing to wrestle their eldest brother on his own.
Dick's struggling showed no signs of stopping.
"Yeah," said Tim as he gingerly sat back up.
The air had been knocked out of him and he would have some new bruises tomorrow, but it could have been a lot worse. Dick was capable of hitting much harder than that. The blow that had hit Tim was sloppy in comparison.
Frowning, Tim watched as Dick and Jason fought. There was something about the way Dick was moving, something off. His strikes were a lot less precise than usual, a lot less confident, not matching up with the techniques Tim knew so well. Dick hadn't even attempted to get to his feet and make use of his natural acrobatic skills to attack them. It could be whatever drug he might have been given or an injury but...
Dick pushed his knees up between him and Jason preventing Hood from getting closer and wrapping Dick in a proper hold which could finally pin him down. The hand that Dick raised to push Jason back, though, went wild missing by several inches. Jason shifted to one side and tried again. The moment he grabbed hold Dick lurched forward and walloped Jason in the neck with a clumsily thrown arm.
Tim, however, was much more concerned with Dick's head. It hadn't moved when Jason moved. It was hard to tell with the obscured lenses of the domino mask, but it didn't seem like he was tracking Jason at all.
"You going to help or what?" Jason called out.
Ignoring Jason for the moment, Tim crawled around so he could get a look at the side of Dick's head.
Beneath the shaggy mess of black hair, a thin line of dried blood trailed down from Dick's ear.
Understanding washed over Tim. It sank cold and heavy in his gut.
"Jason, let go," he said, his voice sharp and commanding.
Used to obeying such a tone in high stress situations when it could very much mean the difference between life or death, Jason released Dick and threw himself back.
Dick stayed where he was, breathing heavily, hands raised slightly as if expecting another attack.
"What's—" Jason began but Tim raised a hand cutting him off.
Tim approached his eldest brother from the side.
There was still no sign that Dick was tracking any movement. He didn't turn his head towards Tim or pull back in anyway as Tim drew closer.
When Tim was about a foot away, he raised his hands, then brought them together in a loud clap that echoed throughout the empty room.
Dick didn't so much as twitch in his direction.
Tim slowly moved a hand back and forth in front of Dick's face.
Nothing.
"Fuck," exclaimed Jason. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck..."
Tim sat back, shoulders slumping. "He must think we're the people who imprisoned him here, who did this to him. He doesn't know it's us."
Jason paced the small confines of the room rubbing the back of his neck and muttering obscenities to himself. After a moment or two, he stopped and took a deep breath.
"Okay, so how do we let him know?"
Dick knew he wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer. He could feel the way his body was wearing thin after so many beatings, after nothing to drink or eat for who knows how long, after only random fitful bouts of sleep. It was only a matter of time before he wouldn't be able to defend himself any longer.
He'd been there so long by now it felt like this dark silent space was all there was, as if the rest of the world had disappeared or never really existed in the first place.
A few times he had caught a glimpse of something in the black, a touch of colour, a shift of movement, had heard a rumbling susurration in the distance, but he couldn't tell if they were signs that his senses weren't completely gone or hallucinations brought on by sensory deprivation.
He almost welcomed the beatings now. They were his only break from the stale monotony.
Stretching his back cautiously, Dick tried to get into a better, more defensible position in his little corner, feeling the lingering fingerprints on his skin where his recent attackers had grabbed him.
It was unlikely the current beating was actually over even though the attackers had stopped. The beating had been too short and they hadn't managed to get any good hits in. It was almost as if they hadn't even been trying.
There was something different about these two and that made him wary.
He also had the feeling they were still in the room. He was getting slightly better at telling when someone was there, registering shifts in the air and lingering scents. It was useless when determining where exactly someone was or when they would attack but it was something.
Even with this knowledge, the sudden grips on his wrists and ankles sent such a spike of adrenaline through him it was almost painful.
Dick immediately tried to pull away, twisting his limbs to break their holds.
The attackers, unfortunately, proved strong and determined.
Panic raced through Dick, his heart pounding rapidly. So far the attacks had been random and mindless, but this felt more calculated and there were a lot worse things than a mere beating people could do to him in this condition if they had a little patience and a twisted imagination.
The attacker holding his wrists pulled Dick's right arm towards him.
Dick fought back trying to keep his arm as close to his body as possible but his strength was waning.
The attacker yanked on Dick's wrist again and managed to move it several inches.
Dick's hand struck against something, something hard.
He yanked it back but the attacker pulled it forward once more until it struck the object again. It felt oddly metallic. Dick ran his fingers along it trying to find something to grab on to. Unfortunately, the surface was almost entirely smooth. It curved beneath his hand forming an odd oval type shape.
Something sparked in the back of Dick's brain.
If he was picturing his attacker's position correctly, the thing Dick was touching was right where the attacker's head should be. They must be wearing a helmet, one that covered their entire head.
Except it didn't feel like a normal biker helmet or a race helmet. No visor sat along the front where the eyes would be. It almost felt like...
Dick stopped struggling, heart pounding for an entirely new reason.
The person holding his wrist moved his arm again, guiding Dick's hand down until it touched a shoulder and the collar of what felt like a leather jacket. Dick's fingers instinctively twisted into the collar grabbing hold. The person then started moving Dick's other arm, guiding it until his hand ran across the man's chest. Beneath Dick's palm, he felt rough fabric, a special triple woven Kevlar only worn by a handful of people in existence.
A tremor went through him, but he remained tense. He couldn't let go, not yet. He had to be sure.
Leaning forward, Dick drew in a quick breath.
The smell of leather and gunpowder and...
...a young boy curled beside him on a couch, book held loosely in his hand as he dozed; a wrestling match across the training mats, moves interspersed with teasing and laughter; a triumphant whoop and a proud grin; a tilted head and a twisted sarcastic sneer; a hand yanking him safely out of the path of a bullet; a body huddled next to his during a stakeout on a cold Gotham night...
Dick almost collapsed under the weight of relief. Tears pricked his eyes as he stuttered out a name, voice lost in the silence.
It was Jason's idea.
He'd listened as Tim gave a spiel about Helen Keller and drawing letters on the palm of the hand, as Tim suggested using ASL finger spelling or tapping out Morse code, then Jason had calmly pointed out that none of those things were going to work when the person they were trying to communicate with attacked at the slightest touch. As if Dick could concentrate on deciphering their attempts at communication when he was doing his best to get away from them.
Besides sometimes the simplest solutions really were the best.
Not that simple always meant easy.
Jason's heart twisted painfully as he and Tim did their best to hold the struggling Dick still, even more so when he heard his older brother's breaths speed up in panic.
"Come on, 'Wing. I just need your hand for a sec."
Jason pulled Dick's hand towards his helmet, but Dick yanked it back as if he thought Jason were about to chop it off. Jason tried again and only succeeded in whacking himself in the head with Dick's hand before Dick pulled it away again.
"You really are a stubborn bastard, you know that."
Third times the charm.
Jason pulled Dick's wrist forward forcing his hand against the Red Hood helmet.
Dick's hand scrambled a moment or two over the smooth surface, then suddenly stilled. His whole body stilled. His muscles remained tensed, but his torso no longer writhed, his limbs no longer tried to twist out of their grips.
Jason exchanged a quick look with Tim.
Neither of them dared release their hold, not yet.
Jason moved Dick's hand down until it reached his shoulder.
Dick's fingers found the collar of Jason's jacket and grabbed on, unwilling, it seemed, to let go.
So Jason moved Dick's other hand drawing it over the red bat printed across his chest. "You've got all the clues. Put it together. Come on."
Dick remained tense but a hesitant hope drifted across his face. Leaning forward, he drew in a sharp breath through his nose, nostrils flaring.
Jason raised his eyebrows. "And now he's sniffing me."
The change was so sudden it took Jason by surprise. From one moment to the next, all tension left Dick, his body going entirely boneless except for the grip he maintained on Jason's jacket.
"Jay...Hood." Dick's voice was rough and full of cracks, but at that moment, it was the best thing Jason had ever heard.
With sighs of relief, Jason and Tim released their hold on their brother.
"Yeah, it's me," said Jason, then he grimaced when he remembered Dick couldn't hear him.
Reaching out, he patted Dick twice on the shoulder and that seemed to get the message across.
Dick responded with a watery smile. "We getting out of here?"
Jason patted twice once more.
"Coast clear?"
Jason grimaced and gave only one pat this time. Bruce was providing a distraction elsewhere in the building, but they had yet to determine how many people they were dealing with. For all they knew some of the gang's thugs could be heading their way at that very moment.
"Got it," replied Dick, tone grim and weary.
Tim rested a hand on Dick's arm, an attempt at reassurance, but Dick flinched away. Tim quickly let go, a pained expression on his face.
"Who...?" said Dick. His breathing was speeding up once more.
Jason patted him twice on the shoulder again and that seemed to calm him down.
"Easy, Tim," said Jason. "He still doesn't know you're you. Let him sniff you."
Tim's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "What?"
"Let him sniff you."
"Jason, he's not going to recognize me by how I smell. He's not a dog."
"Just..." Jason reached over and yanked Tim forward until his head was almost pressed up against Dick's face.
"Jason," complained Tim as he tried to pull away. "It's not going to—" But he was interrupted by a chuckle from Dick.
"Hey, Tim," he said with a wan smile.
Tim stared at him wide-eyed.
Dick lifted his arms and Tim took that as an invitation, diving in for a hug. Dick buried his face in his neck, holding him tightly.
Jason shook his head at his overly soppy brothers, unwilling to admit even to himself how much the sight wrenched at his heart.
A series of beeps sounded from the comlink in his ear.
"Red Hood, status," said Batman through the earpiece.
"We've got him," Jason replied. "He's—"
Looking up, Tim caught Jason's eye and shook his head.
Right, thought Jason, no reason to worry Bruce just yet. They could leave off telling him Dick was currently—temporarily?—blind and deaf until they were all out of danger.
"He's injured but nothing life threatening," Jason continued hoping Bruce hadn't noticed the pause.
There was a second of silence and then, "Acknowledged. Make your way out and rendezvous at the car."
More beeps followed as the comm cut off.
Jason grimaced. Bruce definitely knew something was up. When it came to communicating with Batman, you learned to read the silences as much as the words. At least he had trusted them enough to leave it alone for now.
"Time to go," Jason told Tim.
Together, they took hold of Dick's arms and began hauling him up.
Dick got the message and did his best to get his feet under him, but there was an unsteadiness to him that Jason didn't like and he seemed to be favouring his right leg.
"Time to go?" asked Dick, unknowingly echoing Jason's words.
A quick double tap on Dick's shoulder and then another tap on his right thigh.
Dick made a face. "The knee's sprained," he said. "It's not too bad but it'll slow me down."
That wasn't the only thing that was going to slow him down. Guessing from the cracked lips, Dick hadn't had anything to eat or drink since he'd been taken, and with the bruises on his face, they couldn't rule out a concussion either. There was no way he was going to be able to keep up in that state, especially when they would be guiding him the entire way.
Jason made a decision and hoped Dick would be okay with it because there was no time to try and explain.
Reaching down, he wrapped one arm around Dick's upper back and the other around the back of his legs and lifted him up into a bridal carry.
There was a slight grunt from Dick as he was picked up but no words of protest, no sign of tension. In fact, he almost seemed to melt against Jason's chest, the arm slung over Jason's shoulder wrapping tightly around his back with complete and utter trust.
Something twisted in Jason's chest, something he didn't have the time or energy to analyze.
He gazed over at Tim. "Ready?"
Tim nodded. Releasing his bo staff, he took point and headed for the exit.
Jason followed behind, tightening his grip on Dick, keenly aware of the weight in his arms.
He still didn't know who it was who had taken Dick. He didn't know what they had planned to do with him. He didn't even know if what they had done to Dick was permanent or not.
But at that moment, none of it mattered.
All that mattered was getting their brother the hell out of that dismal place and delivering him safe and sound back home again.