Nightwing hit the ground like a sack of fodder when he had finally been incapacitated by Gavrilo's men. It had taken over thirty fighters to do it, but all the strength and fight of the young warrior had, at long last, gone out of him. Gavrilo looked down at his captive, a blank expression on his face, but secretly impressed and apprehensive about how difficult capturing this lone, injured hero had been. He hoped the hero was not as skilled at evading questioning, but had faith in his country's ancient and proven techniques.

"Medic," he summoned, in his mother tongue.

"Medic," responded one of his loyal soldiers, sliding out of formation holstering his pistol and sheathing his knife.

"Assess our captive," ordered Gavrilo.

Warily, the medic obeyed. He crouched down, uncertainly, next to Nightwing, half-expecting to be attacked. To the medic's immense relief, the captive was as incapacitated as he looked. "There's damage, sir," he reported. "Of head and body, but he seems strong enough for questioning. I recommend moving him now, before he wakes."

"Good," said Gavrilo. "Escort our guest to the chamber. Time is of the essence. We must get as much out of him as we can before he's missed and that other bat whelp is able to give up our location."

Nightwing was gathered up and dragged by two soldiers to the same chamber from which he had just helped Red Robin escape. A thick trail of his blood glistened on the floor in their wake.

Provoked by a sharp, incessant pounding in his head, Dick slowly regained consciousness. Climbing the slippery slope back to awareness, he peeled his eyelids open the tiniest amount and winced into the dim artificial light that permeated the large chamber and assaulted his ocular nerves. He quickly shut his eyes again against the offending light. He smelled the dank mustiness of the old building, the metal and gun grease from his captors, and blood. His own blood, he realized.

What in the hell…

He concentrated on the images he had been able to make out before he had closed his eyes again and took stock of own body and the odd way in which is was positioned. His hands were bound and shackled to a chain that pulled them high above his head which proved horribly discourteous because his right arm was ablaze with pain. Broken, his numb mind supplied to him. It hurt like hell and the chains were worsening the fracture. His chin sagged low and rested against his chest. He could not feel the comforting weight of his beloved escrima sticks holstered in their customary location. The utility belt at his waist, his gauntlets, his communication devices- he'd somehow misplaced all of them. He was relieved to discover that he was still wearing his boots, but his right leg throbbed where he had been shot earlier and the wound was slowly weeping blood. The pounding in his head was almost unbearable.

Where am I? Who am I fighting? How long have I been like this? How can I escape? Where are my escrima sticks? Where are my gauntlets? Where's my belt and my comms?

A hundred questions filled his thoughts and threatened to overwhelm him, but his training as a partner to the Dark Knight took over. Think, concentrate, remember, assess. After a few more seconds… he remembered. His stomach twisted into knots.

Tim! Oh God was Tim alright? Was Jason able to get him home safely? He took a calming breath and continued his assessment. That was until…

Splash.

His captors doused him with a bucket load of icy, metallic-tasting Gotham City tap water.

So much for that idea, thought Dick ruefully.

"We know you're awake," said a brusque voice flavored with an Eastern European accent. "Open your eyes, scum."

Scum? How original, Dick thought, disappointed.

When Dick did not instantly comply, the cold water he had been doused with was replaced by a gloved backhand.

Thwack.

"Open. Your. Eyes," commanded the foreign criminal again, annunciating each word more angrily this time. The accent sounded so very familiar. Grudgingly, Dick opened his eyes behind his mask and looked up to meet those of his captors. They were the same men that had been trying to torture Tim for information about Bruce. And the leader… Dick had seen security footage still-shots of him in Bruce's recently opened case files.

"Gavrilo is it?" he said plainly through squinted eyes. "Thank you for the refreshment, sir. I was feeling quite parched until you so kindly provided me with some."

Thwack.

A soldier had delivered another punch to Dick, this time to his exposed chest and this time harder. Dick lost his footing slightly, and groaned as he swayed and his broken arm bore more weight via the chains by which he was bound. He was able to recover his composure, however.

"What, no chair?" he complained brashly. "The last guy got a chair, where's mine?"

Anger flashed in Gavrilo's eyes at the hero's apparent lack of fear or solemnity.

"Your smugness will not serve you here," began the crime boss from his seat. "You act like you are not hurt or afraid, but I can smell your fear."

"Hmm, nope," said Dick thoughtfully. "That would be my aftershave. It's nice right? I know this guy likes it," he turned his head to the side and winked at one of the men standing next to him. In anger, the man lashed out at him and punched him in the mouth.

Mmph, Dick grunted in pain. This wasn't going well, they hadn't even asked him any questions yet.

"Dude, come on, not the face," he ground out painfully, flashing the man a bloody smile. "I want to look good for our date later."

The man roared out in fury again and kicked the insolent captive in the gut. Dick's breath and next saucy remark was forced out of him and he doubled over in pain, causing more strain on his broken arm and left him reeling, breathless and dizzy with agony. As he hung there, gasping for breath, Gavrilo cut in.

"Enough!" he bellowed, finally showing a semblance of the amount of emotion due a villain when their captive refused to cooperate. "We have little time and so will you if you do not obey. I'm going to ask you a series of questions and you are going to answer them fully and to the best of your knowledge."

"Okay," said Dick still breathless and swaying painfully in his chains. "Just -nnn- warning you," he caught his breath and spit out a wad of blood. "I'm a -nnn- talker."

"We shall see," said Gavrilo as his soldiers moved in around Dick to begin the interrogation, in the expert manner that they knew.

Nightwing's questioning began with simple queries.

"What name do you go by?"

"Nigthwing. But I also answer to 'A Smaller-Quicker-Better-Looking Version of Batman' and 'The Amazingly Charming Nightwing.'"

Gavrilo's rage flashed, but he continued for the sake of the information he needed. He cared little and less about this inconvenient urchin of a hero. He had specific information requested from his employer and he would do whatever it would to get the answers. Including stomaching the brat's aggravating verboseness.

"Who is the Batman?" said Gavrilo.

"Aw dammit!" exclaimed Dick. "I thought you guys knew! That's what I was going to ask!"

He got punched in his bullet wound for that. It hurt. A lot.

"Where is the location of the Batman's home base?"

"Excellent question," began Dick sounding intrigued. "It's somewhere in or around either the Northern or Southern Hemisphere. I think."

His broken arm was manipulated cruelly for that, and he cried out a terrible shout of pain. He tried to lash out with one of his legs, but it was easily caught and tugged on, causing his arm to take even more weight.

Gavrilo rubbed his temple in impatience. "I see that are usual methods are not very effective tonight." He glanced down at Nightwing and then summoned more soldiers. "But we have other ways. And I will get from you what I need, one way or another."

As Nightwing composed himself from the bout of agony from the affront to his broken arm, he noticed more men filing into the room. One of them was holding a long, sharp, curved blade.

Dick took an educated guess about what was coming to him next.

Ok, Grayson, think. What would Bats do?