Dick Grayson

Brutal. The transport from the med unit to an armored van was brutal. My new CO and torturer extraordinaire, Novak, was as bad as Davis. Worse, maybe, because at least Davis had the decency to look me in the eye when he beat me senseless for fun. Novak kept his focus on whatever cruel task was at hand, refusing to acknowledge me at all. Viciously, he pulled me off the bed in the medical ward and slammed me against the wall to cuff me. But broken ribs don't heal that fast, and in spite of myself I screamed.

Novak laughed.

Mercifully, the vertigo and headache had improved, and I was able to keep a mostly straight line as I was marched toward the transport headed to the heavily guarded choke point on and off Blackgate Island: Sutter Bridge. I dragged my feet in the gravel as we approached. Honestly? There was a small part of me that didn't care what they did to me anymore. A part that was just interested in making whatever it was as difficult as possible. After all, I was a dead man walking. Tribunals couldn't last more than a few hours. LeGrande had made it clear it was a farce anyway - and sentencing was carried out same-day. At the rate this was going, I'd be dead by dinnertime.

The van was like any other used to transport prisoners. Tether points for cuffs. A long, metal bench for seating. I was shivering as they shoved me in - prison greys weren't exactly weather proof - and the steel surroundings of the vehicle only sapped away more heat.

Novak climbed in behind me, shoving me down into my seat and tugging my arms down to the bar behind my back, restraining me in place. I buried a grimace as the sudden jerk jostled my chest and head. Ok, so my headache wasn't completely gone yet.

You know it's bad when you start outright lying to yourself.

Under normal circumstances, I could've taken Novak. Easy. He was tall, thin, and his knobby elbows stuck out from beneath his rolled-up sleeves. But with my ribs screaming at me, and my brain so clouded I was having trouble staying present, keeping focus?

Not so much.

Besides, it'd be pointless to struggle. Even if I did get the drop on Novak, I'd still be trapped on the island, with an impossible expanse of bridge between me and freedom

No, my last, best shot would come once we were in the city proper. So, as much as it bolstered me to give them hell, all I was really doing was wasting my limited energy. Energy I'd need for later. Either to attempt another escape, or to face my very public execution with as much dignity as I could manage.

With two sharp bangs on the inside of the van, Novak signaled that we were ready, and the doors slammed shut. I kept my head up, shoulders back, eyes fixed on the sadist sitting across from me. I may have been starved, concussed, beaten, and bruised, but I could at least pretend I wasn't fazed. Pretend I wasn't scared out of my mind. Lies, if not for their benefit, than for my own.

Alfred would have a field day with that train of thought.

"We are not liars, Master Richard. Liars bend the world to ease their efforts in walking astride it. Without care for the lives warped beneath them. We are not liars. We are performers."

If that were true, then I intended to give the Enforcers, LeGrande, and the good people of Gotham watching this atrocity unfold, a hell of a show. After all, it wasn't like I didn't have an awareness of the political implications at play. It wouldn't do anyone any good for me to beg and plead on global television.

Not like I'd want to give these psychopaths the satisfaction, anyway.

Slowly, the van began to trundle away. I could hear the seams in the concrete and metal "thud-thudding" when we passed over the junction of the drawbridge. As much as I would have liked to keep my bearings, it was impossible. The back windows were painted black, and I couldn't lean forward enough to catch any glimpses out of the windshield. Novak kicked me in my shins when I tried anyway.

Before martial law, before the war, a trip across town could take up to an hour and a half in bad traffic. It's why rooftops were almost always faster. But with the streets empty and Gothamites huddled in their homes, it was only about fifteen or twenty minutes before the van slowed to a halt.

I closed my eyes when I heard the latch on the back door release. I'd seen and participated in my fair share of court proceedings. I don't know why I expected this time to be anything like before. Instead of a throng of shouting reporters and onlookers spilling down the steps and into the street, everything was disturbingly quiet. I opened my eyes again as Novak reached down over my shoulder, releasing the tether that kept me in place on the seat.

He's so close. Take him down and then you can run.

I leaned back, and then stood abruptly, aiming my forehead for his nose. I only had one shot, and it had to be a knockout.

It wasn't.

Novak staggered back, angry and very much still conscious. Blood pouring down his lips, dripping down his chin. A flash of unbridled rage kindled in his eyes. And then he smiled. Smiled behind the blood and lunged forward, sending me backwards and pinning me by my throat with his baton.

I could feel my windpipe slowly, inexorably crushing under the strain, and my lungs burned as they tried and failed to exhale that final gasp. He still wouldn't look me in the eyes. Not even as involuntary tears spilled over and down my cheeks, onto his hands. He just growled and pressed harder.

"Problem, Officer Novak?"

LeGrande stood, hands on her hips, just outside the open doors of the van, with an expression of exhausted irritation. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

At last Novak stepped back, and dropped his attention to his feet. "No, Ma'am."

I gasped and coughed, pulling in as much air as I could manage through my abused and bruising throat. When my reflexive wheezing had quieted enough for her to be heard, she handed Novak a bright white handkerchief and tutted in disdain, "Clean yourself up, Officer. And do not damage him again, lest you find yourself following too closely in your predecessors footsteps. Consider the optics. As soon as you step out of this van, you will be on camera. The world will be watching. Let's at least maintain the illusion of control and restraint, shall we?"

"As for you." She icily glared at me, and everything about her posture bristled with contempt. "You would do well to remember not only do I have the distinct pleasure of choosing the means of your execution, I am also more than willing to expose your perverse relationship with your own brother. If you want such a vile thing to be your legacy, then by all means, continue to test my patience."

Keeping my chin up suddenly seemed so much harder. My life was hours from being over, but Jason…

If the others find out, if Bruce finds out… Jason won't survive on his own.

Whatever the cost, I would keep our secret, and Jason, safe. My shoulders slumped a little, my head bowed in concession. LeGrande made a self-satisfied noise - something approaching a laugh - and motioned for Novak to pull me out of the van.

Burying a grimace as he wrenched my arm and dug his thin, bony fingers into my skin, I stepped down as carefully as I could, and craned my neck up to take in the looming building before me. The Eastside District Courthouse.

I've never been a connoisseur of architecture, but this particular courthouse was always one of my favorite buildings in this borough. I especially liked the statues that stood, glowering over the streets, from their perch above the facade: Truth, Law, and Justice.

All three were conspicuously absent. Torn from their pedestals. An ominous warning that their spirits had long since abandoned this place. The inscription above the grand entrance had been altered, too. Before, it read, "The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government."

The new words engraved over the too-smooth stone carried an altogether different message.

"Mercy for the Guilty is Treason to the Innocent"

I tore my horrified gaze away from the edifice and focused on the imposing stone stairs below. A single camera crew filmed from the top, and stationed on each step was an Enforcer in full tactical gear. An unmistakable show of power.

Beyond the perimeter guard, I could just make out the faces of civilians. Only a handful, each peering wide-eyed between the gaps. One man in particular gave me a small, furtive smile and a quick, reassuring nod. Bruce, Jason, and the others were nowhere to be found. There was no rescue. They weren't coming.

I wasn't sure if I should feel devastated or relieved.

— — — — — —

Before

"Figured I'd find you up here." Jason announced his presence with heavy footfalls behind me, his boots slapping against the wet tar-paper roof.

Sniffling, I didn't look back. "Oh? Why's that?"

He chuckled, his laugh more than a little gravelly after years of smoking. "Because this is the tallest point in the district. You always run for high ground when you're upset."

I didn't answer. Just shifted uncomfortably as I sat on the stone ledge, doing my best to inconspicuously cradle my dislocated shoulder. Jason flopped down beside me, and we stared out at the dim lights of the city together in silence.

In the four years since the war started, Gotham had decayed steadily. Without money or resources for infrastructure, buildings were cracked and crumbling. Sidewalks were permanently filthy and covered with garbage. Gutters were essentially open-pit sewers. The city was dying, rotting from the inside out. Sometimes I felt like I was, too.

"I fucked up, Jay," I said at last.

"Kinda figured, since you're holding your arm like it's made of glass. What'd you do this time?" Jason waited for my answer with a long-suffering sigh.

I considered lying. Wouldn't be the first time I'd lied to him. To save him worry, to avoid a fight, to spare myself from his well-deserved anger. But I was just so tired of it all. Exhausted with maintaining whatever this relationship was.

My reply was just above a whisper. "I missed a jump."

"What?!" He stood and stalked a few steps back, staring pointedly away from me. After a beat, he turned around, ready as ever to rage at me, "You? Missed a fucking jump? Jesus, Dick! You're lucky you weren't killed! Do you have any self-preservation skills anymore? Christ!"

I could tell he was waiting for an explanation. An excuse or a denial. He paced in a small circle, running his hands through his hair. Problem was, I didn't have any defense. Nothing to say to make this better. My body just didn't turn fast enough. Instead of landing and rolling with the inertia, I slammed into the retaining wall of a roof and grabbed ahold, pulling my shoulder out in the process.

There was no way I could say that. I didn't want to add more fuel to his fire - another example in a litany of reasons why he thought I should throw in the towel. But maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn't fit to keep this up anymore. Maybe…

"Do you know the average retirement age of Olympic gymnasts, Jay? Twenty-four."

He stopped walking and looked up, confused by the non-sequitur. "Okay?" I felt his fury steadily cool as he sat down beside me again.

"My parents were 28 when they died, and they were already cutting back on performances…"

"And you just turned thirty," Jason supplied in a whisper.

I nodded, swallowing hard on the sour acid creeping into my mouth. "You're right, you know. If I keep doing this, it's going to kill me. But I honestly never thought I'd live this long. Every day I make it through alive feels like a day on borrowed time. And the older I get, the more I'm ashamed to admit how terrified of dying I really am. So I just keep pushing, keep pretending like I'm invincible. Because actually acknowledging my looming mortality?" I attempted a laugh, but the strangled noise that came out was anything but. "Scares the shit out of me."

Jason sighed and dropped his head onto my good shoulder, then wrapped his arm around my waist. "Dying does suck. But you know what's worse? Dying alone. Hell, that's why we're doing this, isn't it? So we don't have to go through hell on our own?"

I leaned into him and nodded. "Yeah. I guess so." I pressed closer, claiming a small, tender kiss. "Thanks for coming to find me."

He laughed against my lips and kissed me again. "Don't be stupid, Dickiebird. I'll always come and find you."

— — — — — —

After

LeGrande took the lead as I was marched into the courthouse, the clipping of her heels echoing off of the marble floor in the rotunda. Beside me, Novak held an iron grip on my elbow, shoving me forward and keeping me off balance. Some of the Enforcers from the steps outside peeled off and took flank positions. Behind us, the ever-present camera crew from the Global News Network kept pace with the tableau before them; a dangerous terrorist, under escort, preparing to receive vengeance and damnation.

The actual courtroom looked nothing like I remembered it. All of the seating had been removed, replaced with a single, raised podium at the center. I wasn't surprised at the glint of metal - leg irons chained to the floor. This was where the accused would stand. Where I would stand.

Fully armed and armored Enforcers, motionless, stood on either side of the long, vacant judge's Bench - the focal point of the room. The wall behind it no longer bore the Gotham crest. In its place hung a massive tapestry of Lex Luthor, edged with fasces.

They're not even trying to be subtle with the fascism angle, are they?

My gait must have faltered as I took in the room, because Novak grunted and pushed me forward. I stepped up to the podium and did the best imitation of Damian I could manage - regal, arrogant, and aloof - as they shackled my legs to the floor. I refused to give any of them the satisfaction of knowing how much my panic grew by the minute, gnawing in my chest until I was convinced I would suffocate.

The camera was still rolling, positioned in the corner on its own, dedicated platform, LeGrande gave a nod to a soldier by a door on the back wall. Without any pomp, 5 'judges' entered, and took their seats at the Bench.

"The Supreme Criminal Tribunal is called to order," the center justice began, flipping through the pages in front of him before leaning forward and scowling at me. "Richard Grayson. You have violated Terran Code 18 section 2331, and are guilty of Terrorism and Terroristic Threats. You have also committed blatant acts of war against the global government and, pursuant to section 2381, you are guilty of Treason. Inspector Marie LeGrande of Blackgate Penitentiary has gathered sufficient evidence of these charges, and will now submit her recommendation for sentencing and disposition." He finished his opening statement with a curt acknowledgment of LeGrande, who smiled broadly as she relished in the verdict. Her victory.

Not like this was ever going to go any other way. Wasn't even 'guilty until proven innocent'. I was condemned before I walked through the door.

This was it. The beginning of the end.

"Thank you, Honorable Justices." LeGrande looked up at me before continuing, and her face shone with a sadistic, barely restrained glee. "Mr. Grayson was brought into our custody shortly after participating in the bombings of two medical manufacturing facilities. During a routine patrol, he and another terrorist in his cell assaulted an Enforcer and fled. Our forces were able to peacefully subdue him and bring him to Blackgate for evaluation."

I did my best to appear passively resolute. But I wanted to sigh and roll my eyes. This was only the start of her 'testimony'. More distortion and outright lies were sure to follow.

"At his initial assessment," she continued, "I felt he was a reasonable candidate for our rehabilitation program, particularly because his involvement with known terrorist, Bruce Wayne, began when he was a small child. However, it quickly became apparent that he was beyond redemption. In under a week, he had coerced one of our trainee guards into assisting him in an escape attempt, where several officers were assaulted and the junior officer in question was killed. Over a dozen high risk prisoners did escape, and are still at large. A continuing threat to the citizens of Gotham."

Leaden guilt filled my stomach. I had failed to protect Terrance. Failed to rescue the other detainees. Failed to get myself to freedom. And those failures were being broadcast to every television in the world. Laid bare for everyone to see.

LeGrande wasn't finished. With a knowing smirk, she resumed her testimony. "It should also be noted that Mr. Grayson has displayed a complete absence of morality and decency. Before he was remanded to my custody, he and his brother, Jason Todd…"

She trailed off, suddenly looking behind her, as the 'judges' stood, murmuring and exchanging concerned looks.

I didn't hear it at first. Probably because my heart was pounding, filling my ears with a deafening thud, thud, terrified of what she would say next. Finally, I could make it out. Rapid bursts of gunfire, just outside the courthouse. Small explosions. And a distant, enraged roar.

Then a crash, as the leaded windows shattered inwards, spraying us all with glass, distracting us from the real danger. Three Molotov cocktails, already setting the hardwood panel walls and heavy damask curtains ablaze.

LeGrande shrieked and bolted for the door, followed closely by the justices and their cadre of Enforcers. To his credit, Novak glanced up at me, bristling with irritation, before starting to unfasten my shackles.

"Officer Novak!" LeGrande was yelling now, struggling to be heard above the din of the spreading flames. "We need to go! Now! Leave him!" She rolled her eyes and scoffed, as if it were the obvious course of action. He hesitated for another second, and I exploited what I thought was a crisis of conscience.

"Just leave the key. Please. You don't have to help me, just leave the key."

Waiting another heartbeat, considering, he pulled the key off the loop and held it up. With a savage smile, he tossed it onto the floor, out of reach. Then he shrugged, mockingly covering his mouth, following up with a sarcastic 'oops'.

I stared at him, not surprised at his utter lack of humanity, as he turned on his heel and jogged out of the room. LeGrande didn't even look at me as she closed the door behind them.

The smoke was getting so thick in the air I could barely see, and I knelt down as far as I could go against the floor of the podium, gasping at the vanishingly small amount of breathable air. I worked my sweat-slicked wrists against the biting metal of the cuffs behind my back. Expending precious energy and oxygen. There was little choice. I wouldn't be able to work on the leg irons without my hands.

This is taking too long. Work faster or you're going to die.

Finally, with a choked scream, I pulled one wrist free. But time was up. I felt my throat clench down around each breath of hot, smoky air. Panicking, I pulled uselessly at the chains keeping me in place. The effort just made my situation worse, and my lungs felt like they were on fire with each gasp until I couldn't take any more.

Jason said you wouldn't die alone. He promised he would always come for you. He's coming. He'll be here. He'll…