Damian woke up slowly, the effects of the drugs leaving his mouth dry and his thoughts cloudy. Before trying to move, he listened. It was deathly quiet, nothing like downtown Gotham. They must be underground.

Or they left the city.

Damian didn't hear anybody else, so risked cracking his eyes open. It was as dark as it was quiet, though as his eyes adjusted he could make out a sliver of light coming from somewhere above him.

The floor was smooth and hard; concrete, he guessed. It was cold to the touch on his bare skin, of which he had more than he had fallen asleep with. His feet, arms, and legs were bare. In a moment of panic, he moved to feel for his domino, but only managed to snag his wrists against whatever was binding them behind his back. Judging by the hard plastic feeling, zipties.

He reached for the lining of his tunic, where he hid his lockpicking kit. And that is when it hit him that the material was rougher than it should be, and lighter than his winter suit. Somebody had changed him out of his costume.

He thought back to before he was drugged. The other officer—Heymann—hadn't been shocked when he tampered with his suit earlier. It must have been easy for him to remove it.

He furrowed his brow in frustration (and yes, he could still feel his domino on his face, though that led to more questions than answers.) It meant no lock picks. No weapons at all, unless he could find one.

He tried not to think too hard about the implications of somebody undressing him while he was unconscious.

Footsteps. He froze, breath automatically evening out into deep sleep patterns. The heavy steps were coming from above him. They passed overhead, there was a scraping sound, and then silence again.

A basement, then. He could work with that.

He worked his way upright by leaning against the wall behind him. Other than his hands, he was unrestrained. The man was a fool if he thought this would be enough to contain him.

To be fair, the room was still spinning. He hoisted himself to standing with minimal wobbling.

A quick series of piercing, automated chirps chased away the rudimentary plans he was beginning to piece together. The room flooded with artificial light from overhead. Damian ducked his head while his eyes adjusted.

He was so distracted by the headache quickly forming that he missed the footsteps until they were coming down the steps above him.

"Robin? You're awake?"

Damian shot his head up. The voice was a near-perfect match to his father's. When he got a look at the figure standing in front of him, he felt his stomach drop. The giant man had donned a replica of the Batman's suit, cape, and cowl.

"I wasn't sure how much of the anesthetic to give you, so I wasn't sure when you'd wake up. Good thing I installed the motion detectors; you're an hour earlier than my estimation." As he spoke, he stepped forward.

Damian pushed his fear back behind his bravado, lifting his chest and chin. "What do you want?"

The larger man—Heymann, Damian was almost sure—hummed. "Give me a twirl."

Damian glowered. "What?"

"A twirl." He lifted a finger to illustrate the action. "I worked hard on that costume."

Damian looked down at himself. The heavy material was a red tunic, and his legs donned green scaly short shorts. Most telling was the 'R' insignia patched onto (the wrong side of) his chest. He sneered. "It's shit."

The kick came as a surprise. Not that he had anywhere to dodge, anyway. It landed squarely in his chest, forcing all of the air out of his lungs.

"Watch your language," Heymann stated unapologetically.

Damian gasped for breath as he forced himself to stand straight again. "I've seen better Halloween costumes sold to children."

"Oh?"

"Where are the gloves? The boots? The cape? You obviously haven't done your research."

"Haven't I?" Heymann took another step forward, close enough now Damian had to look up to maintain eye contact. Too close.

The taller man's breath ruffled his hair as he spoke. "Four months ago. Crime rates at an all-time low in Gotham. Batman has a new Robin. Then Batman disappears."

A black-gloved hand gripped his jaw and titled his chin up. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

Damian growled and snapped his teeth around the glove. It was harder than he would have expected, probably reinforced somehow. Heymann hissed and drew his hand back. "Brat!"

The backhand across his face was swift and brutal, snapping his head to the side. Damian had to blink black spots out of his vision. He could already feel the heat coming off his cheek; it would bruise badly.

Heymann continued, undeterred. "Then Batman came back. But he's not really Batman, is he?"

Damian kept his mouth shut, if only because he was trying to blink dark spots out of his vision.

"His fighting style is all wrong. He doesn't face anything straight on. No balls." Spittle landed on Damian's face. He desperately wished he could wipe it off.

"This new Batman is ineffective. Gotham needs somebody who can throw real punches, make a real difference."

"And you think that's supposed to be you?" Damian clenched his teeth. "You think wearing a Deluxe Batman costume from Gotham Express makes you the Batman?"

Heymann grinned. It was nothing like Grayon's—or his father's, had he ever grinned in the cowl. It was malicious. "No, but you will."

He pulled something from underneath his suit, obscured by the cape until he had a hand on Damian's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Damian's eyes widened when he recognized the red loop of fabric for what it was: a collar.

He dove to the side, sliding out from beneath Heymann's hand with minimal burn. His back was to the wall, so he ducked down underneath the man's left arm.

He only got a few steps before a wave of dizziness overtook him, the drugs still wearing off. A well-placed kick to his back sent his knees cracking onto the hard floor. It wasn't another second before the collar was looped around his neck. His heart skipped a beat when he heard it click into place.

Two fingers looped between the rough material and his neck and pulled. Damian choked as he was yanked back to his feet. "Too tight?" Heymann asked, still using his dead father's voice.

Damian turned to glare at the man. "What the hell is this?"

"I asked you a question. Answer me, Robin."

Damian remained stonily silent, his hands clenched into fists behind him. He ached to kick the man, but knew his bare feet would suffer more damage than the armor he wore.

Heymann used those two fingers to drag him close, so Damian was staring into the whites of his lenses. "Answer me, or I will make it tighter." He punctuated the last word with a twisting tug that left an uncomfortable burning sensation across the back of his neck.

"No, it fits perfectly," Damian spat. He had no desire to be found strangled to death with a dog collar.

"Good," Heymann grunted. With a dawning horror Damian watched as he pulled out a chain with his free hand. There was a locking mechanism on one end and a loop on the other.

"Don't you dare—"

Without preamble Heymann attached the end of the leash to the ring on the front of the collar. He removed his fingers as he did.

Damian reacted to the panic beginning to creep into his throat with instinct, driving his knee up and forward into Heymann's groin. Predictably, with the hard cup that he hit, the man barely reacted outside of a wince.

Instead, he calmly rolled the slack of the leash in his hand until Damian didn't have any wiggle room, then pulled back his free arm. Damian flinched, trying to dodge the blow but coming up short. The punch would have sent him to the floor if it weren't for the collar holding him up. He had to fight the urge to throw up.

"I'm in charge now," Heymann growled. He dropped Damian to the floor. The man stalked toward the stairs in the corner, unwinding the chain from around his hand as he did. Damian watched, recovering from his protective curl too slowly to stop him.

The banister for the steps was held up by a series of metal poles set into each step, and it was around one of these that Heymann wrapped the end of the leash, where he locked it in place with a padlock. It was about six inches over Damian's head, were he standing, with enough slack he could lie down or walk a perimeter of about five feet. And the padlock looked cheap. Easy enough to break.

Heymann stepped back to examine his work. "There, that should hold you."

Damian coughed as he lifted himself to his full height. "We'll see."

Heymann, wisely, stepped out of his range of reach. He cocked his head to the side, examining him.

Damian started to raise his chin then thought better of it. The collar left his neck feeling bare.

"You know," Heymann started, finally dropping his imitation for his own voice, "If you behave, we could be a great team. I've seen you fight. You're brutal."

Damian barely hid his wince at the word.

"Gotham needs a brutal hand, one that acts swiftly and without remorse." He opened a pocket on his utility belt and pulled out a knife. Damian fought not to shrink back away from it as Heymann approached him.

"Together, we could rid Gotham of all its vermin." Heymann reached around him with the knife in an almost pseudo-hug and Damian felt the pressure around his wrists snap.

Without a moment of hesitation, Damian pushed Heymann far back enough he could properly move. Then he aimed for his jugular.

Heymann just chuckled, stepping backward. Damian pulled up short, the force of his attack nearly choking him. "That's exactly what I mean."

Damian glared through eyes made watery by the sudden oxygen deprivation. "I will never work with you."

Heymann put his knife away and made his way up the stairs. "We'll see."