Gotham Arise #2
The Torch part 2: My Brother's Keeper
Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne
Rating: T
Fandom: preboot DCU with a twist
Thirsty.
I'm really thirsty.
Woah. My head really hurts too.
Don't open your eyes yet, Tim. Don't move. Not yet.
He was lying on his side on a hard, flat, moving surface. He was still wearing his tuxedo—the bow tie was cutting into his neck. Beneath his trousers he could feel his leg braces, still securely clamped over legs that were supposed to be all but immobile. His crutches were leaning against his side. Behind his closed eyelids, his surroundings were dark.
So I'm not dead. That's a plus. I guess.
He breathed in. The air was stale and musty, and a sudden lurch caused his crutches to slide off his legs. Some kind of vehicle, then. Over the hum of the engine Tim could hear one other breath beside his own. It was close, and laborious. It sounded like Damian.
Damian had been in the car with him when the gas went off. Tim remembered the sound of the canisters exploding, the sickening, swooping feeling in his stomach as the breath choked in his lungs, Damian's strangled cry as he slammed his fists into the bulletproof window. Tim hadn't thought that car ride could have possibly been worse. Damian's eyes were icy, accusatory, so like his father's. Tim hadn't been able to meet his gaze. Not since—
Tim opened his eyes.
The surroundings looked almost entirely like he'd guessed—a small rectangular space, low-ceilinged and dimly lit. The interior of a truck or large van, most likely. There was a tinted window on one side, which he supposed lead into the front seat, but it was tinted and Tim could see nothing through it.
On the floor beside him lay Damian, flat on his back, his gelled-back hair tousled and his bow tie askew. His mouth was open, his chin jutted out in a pout, his eyebrows drawn.
Tim started toward him, then stopped. Whoever had deposited their unconscious forms in this truck had folded Damian's arms across his chest. He looked like a cadaver in a coffin.
Tim dragged himself back, away from Damian, then tore his eyes away to pound on the tinted glass with his fist.
"Help!"
Stupid thing to say. Of course they're not going to help. Whoever they are.
He shook his head, then struck the window again. "You out there! What did you do to Damian? He looks like he's dying! Hello! Damian's dying!"
This time the window slid open a crack.
"What's wrong with him?" came a gruff voice.
"He's still unconscious."
"…This is a kidnapping."
"Yeah, I figured," Tim snapped. "Which means you probably want us unharmed, at least for now. So bring us some water and hope that your over-sedating a ten-year-old hasn't given him permanent nerve damage."
The man grunted. But after a moment the window slid open a bit further and a water bottle tumbled through it, then slammed closed again.
Tim scooped it up and dragged himself back to Damian's side, careful to leave his legs limp and useless. He shook Damian's shoulder. "Damian. Wake up."
Damian grunted but didn't wake.
Whatever they used to knock us out, they used way too much on him.
Damian looked younger up close. Less like Bruce. Tim unscrewed the water bottle top. He took a small sip, his lips barely touching the rim, then slipped a hand beneath Damian's head and lifted him up.
Damian growled thickly at his touch but made no other response. Tim poured a few drops of water into Damian's half-opened mouth; Damian coughed, his brow creasing, but after a few tries he swallowed, and Tim lifted the bottle to his mouth again.
After Damian had swallowed another few mouthfuls Tim set him down again. He loosened Damian's tie, then his own, then poured some water onto his tie and used it to wipe Damian's forehead.
A little shiver passed over Damian's face at the touch. Now he hardly looked like Bruce at all. Damian was so small, even for his ten years. His miniature tuxedo looked almost comical on him. Tim's brow creased as he poured Damian another mouthful of water. It was too much, this time; Damian choked and sputtered, spilling onto his collar.
Tim wiped away the drops with his hand. "Sorry, Damian," he said. "…I'm sorry."
He set Damian down and sat back, twisting so his shoulders rested against the wall, and dropped his head to his hands.
Were Damian and I kidnapped because we're Waynes, or because we're Robin and Red Robin? Does someone know our secret identities? If so, why did they take us during a Wayne family event? What are they trying to say?
Tim gripped his hair. It was long, and crunchy with the remains of his hair gel. Tim combed through it with his fingers.
I could probably kick the van door down. Doesn't look reinforced. But I'd have to use my legs. And my 'injury' is the only thing keeping Vicki Vale from publishing her "Bruce Wayne was Batman" expose. If this kidnapping is really for our Wayne connections, the last thing we need is for Batman to get involved.
Any more involved than just, say, swooping to our rescue, of course.Batman swooping to our rescue would be nice.
Dick might be on his way though.
Tim lifted his head, then dropped it again. His headache seemed to be getting worse. He took another sip of water and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. No way to tell what time it is. Did Dick make it to the park? Maybe Dick was attacked too. He could be captured. Or compromised. Or dead.
Tim shook his head, gripped his hair. No, no no. "No." Not helpful, Tim. Gotta stay focused on escaping. Either Dick's coming or he's not. Plan for both scenarios.
Does Barbara know what happened yet?Assuming Barbara and Cass weren't attacked too—and if they were then we're really in trouble. But Barbara's wheelchair is a mobile command center. She might be looking for us right now, no matter where she is. What other agents do we have in the field right now? Oh—
"Damn it," Tim muttered. "Damn it, Steph."