"Just a name. That's all. Just give me a name and all this will end."
Dick's bloody fingers twitched in the handcuffs above his head, red-smeared fists eventually clenching angrily. If he trusted his voice to not break when he spoke, he would have. His silence was enough of an answer, though it was not the one that was wanted. The arch, crack, and pain of the whip broke through his pain and drug muddled thoughts.
"Fine, be that way! I can go through this another two weeks. You… You I'm not so sure about." The words were snarled, biting. A small smirk rested on Dick's features at the frustration. He was fine, perfectly fine. He could go through this for eternity and another after that to keep his family safe. The pain was an afterthought. The hunger and anger were an afterthought. The only thing keeping him sane was knowing that this… This was all for them. If all went well, they'd never know that, but knowing this was all for a reason was somehow comforting.
"What's that expression for?!" Freezing fingers (or perhaps he was just feverish- that was more likely) pushed up his chin and forced his own eyes to meet a cold color he could still not remember, up to meet calm, dangerously calm, words, that increased in anger and decibels by the word. "You're not winning. You will never win. I promise you, no, I can guarantee, I will break you. I don't care how long it takes or what the hell I have to do to you, but I will do it. And the first name that will exit your sobbing lips will be your own."
Those fingers fell away, and so did his head, as he did not have the strength to hold it up at this point. The voice fell to a whisper once more. "Everyone has a breaking point. Something they can't handle. This is just a matter of finding yours." Dick's eyes narrowed at the crimson stained, dirty floor. His captor then snapped his gloved fingers. "We're done here, boys."
His voice was quiet, cracked, and he was not able to put it anywhere above a whisper. But those retreating footsteps heard anyway. "Physically, you can do whatever you want to me. But I love them more than I fear pain. Much more than I'll ever fear you."
He snapped his fingers again, and he knew that his little comment had cost him. But Dick didn't care. He really didn't.
Even as there wasn't even a break in the worsening pain and the cracks of the whip, he knew he had won.
He didn't scream when they tortured him, but he certainly did when they poured a bucket of ice cold salt water on the open wounds of his back to wake him up.
He knew that they liked that.
Dick move, he thought angrily, ignoring the irony in the insult. Honestly, if the handcuffs were just loosened he wouldn't bat an eye at breaking his wrist and slipping out of them, but they were usually so tight they bled, and the only time they weren't was when they were moving him into an easier position or place for whatever torture they had in mind for that day.
They moved him a lot, but drugged him every time. It was frustrating and he hated it, not to mention that an addiction to that drug was a possibility… which wasn't fantastic.
His fingers twitched in the restraints again, this time tightly bound to the arms of the chair he'd been forced into. The chair was partially why that was so painful. The water didn't just slip away. It stayed, seeping into his skin. Burning. It was not fun. Of course, none of this was fun, but the way Dick was acting it could be. Too bad he screamed. He was pissed they had caught him off guard like that. It just-
-ruined this fucked up game of truth or dare. Except it was always truth and Dick never told. But fun, right?
"Morning, sunshine!" Ah, that false happiness. False hospitality. So that's how he wanted to play, huh? "How are you feeling?" More compliant, he probably hopes.
"Can't say it's that great. Feel a little hung over." There we go… Anger flashed in those eyes he still can't remember the color of. Ha, one point Dick, zero points asshole.
"Is that so?" Cold, fake compassion. Well, shit, that can't be good. He still doesn't regret it though. These tiny victories keep him sane. "Well, I happen to have the perfect remedy for that.
Fuck. He did not like the sound of that, no he did not.
He really, really didn't, he found out moments later as the butts of cigarettes and the flames of lighters burned his skin. It never hurt so much to be right.
He really didn't like how much this was affecting him, more than anything. Already, the smell makes him feel sick. He probably would have thrown up eventually, if he had anything left in his stomach to do so.
(Ah, I might have to really start make Jason take showers after he smokes…)
Okay, one Dick, one for the asshole. They're tied now. Time for another something stupid to get him in the lead again.
"Isn't it a l-little too early for a smoke break?" he asks, hating that stutter. Hating that weakness. Hating everything. He still forces a smirk though. Fake it until you make it. Or until you die. Whichever comes first. He didn't have much of a preference anymore.
(Isn't it your job to be snarky, Jason? You're really rubbing off on me.)
"M-My boyfriend usually doesn't have one until-" Oh god another burn- "-until later in the day. He knows… He knows I don't like it. Trying to cut down, I think." Rambling about nothing. Rambling about everything. He wanted to remember. If he was stuck here, for who knows how long, for until he died, those little things were ones he never, ever wanted to forget.
"You're a real talker, you know that?" Oh that annoyance. A half point, maybe? "Just not about anything important." Ha, that's funny.
"Oh?" he says, eyes half lidded with pain and distraction, but also secrecy. Almost wisdom. Love. "You'd… You'd be surprised at what's important."
He laughs when they try to question him more, even when the burns get worse.
Two points Dick, one for Mr Loser.
He remembers the first time that one of them tried to take off his mask.
He'd only been there, that hell, a couple days. It had mostly been beatings up to that point, and a lack of food or water. It had weakened him for sure, but he was still able to defy in almost every way he normally could. Ways he was not able to by the end.
Had his grasping fingers been any closer, Dick honestly probably would have bit him. He was never afraid to do such things when he needed, having realized when he was much younger that you had to do what was necessary in desperate situations. This definitely qualified… and he wanted out before they did anything too awful. Anything that would leave scars.
He laughed about that way of thinking now. The only way he could have avoided that was to not be captured in the first place. (He just wished he could have kept the emotional scars from showing so much… But Jason had always been able to see through his bullshit, and Damian was learning) But even then… It was one thing to ambush him. It was another to fill a room with knockout gas and then come to retrieve him.
Cheating. Rude.
(He hadn't gotten to the point of really considering it a game at that point, but it was beginning)
But before Dick could even get the chance to discourage such behavior of reaching for his mask, a black gloved hand caught the wrist of the offender. In the next moment, there was a distinct, loud crack. The man called out, and the gloved man raised a brow.
"You should know better." He released the likely broken wrist and turned to Dick with almost hungry eyes. The other man moaned and hugged his wrist to his chest, his own accusing eyes flickering towards Dick. "We don't need to go to such measures. He is going to tell us his name. Aren't you?"
Dick shifted in his restraints.
"I don't mean to be rude with all of your gracious hospitality…" Hunger and thirst clawed at his stomach and mouth, exhaustion at his limbs. "..But usually people at least buy me a drink before asking questions like that. And I doubt my boyfriend would be happy with that, either. He is rather protective, you know."
"Rather snarky, aren't you?" was the angry answer. "By next week I'm sure that will be beaten out of you. We have quite the things in store for false heroes."
(More cruel men have tried, and though Dick might bend, he sure as hell won't break)
"Wanna bet?"
(Not again)
"Would this boyfriend you keep talking about still love you even if we cut up that pretty face?" The cold steel of a knife teased across his cheek. Dick's eyes narrowed.
"If either of us cared about looks, I wouldn't be in this business," Dick replied cooly. "...Besides, I know I'd still love him."
"You know what I think?"
"Honestly, I don't really give a damn." The knife pressed harder, though it did not break skin.
"Well, whether you're interested or not, I think you started young." The knife traveled down his cheek to his neck to his chest. "You already had an arsenal of scars when you came into my… care. Old ones. How old were you when you started? Ten? Eleven?"
"You act like it still wasn't a choice." Despite the fact that the blade was now cutting into his chest, Dick's voice was amused. "I was not forced into it. It was what I wanted to do. The fact I was young makes no difference."
"Most parents wouldn't allow a preteen to be a cute little superhero, fighting villains who would kill you if you got the chance."
"You're trying to get something from me. Some information. You're not going to get it." His teeth clenched tightly as the red ran down his abs.
"I'm just… curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat," Dick forces out, trying to keep his words and tone steady as the knife plunged deeper into his skin. Still shallow, but much more painful with how slow it was.
"That's rich coming from you." After all, you had be be curious to be a hero… curious enough to discover nefarious plots.
"Heh, t-true…" Dick replied, tensing as the knife traveled up his chest again, this time leaving a trail of red where it had shallowly cut. "There's one… there's one difference between us though."
"And what's that?"
Dick's teeth are bloody when he smiles.
"I know when I'm beat."