Chapter six… here it is, I'm still not entirely certain this is where I wanted to go with it, but this is what my inner Batfamily (and the faithful reviewers) kept telling me to write… so here it is!

Just as a point of reference: the ones in charge of the prisons don't know exactly who all the prisoners are, most are just shoved in the camps. People of influence are worth a lot more, so they have to investigate any claims (to fame) made by the inmates; a process that sometimes takes months. So, there's a little information, that will be helpful later…

Also: special thanks to all those who have reviewed and have stayed with the story thus far. Thank you so much!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything DC does; I just write new situation that test the family… only my OCs belong, well, originally to me. ^^

ONWARD!

Chapter 6

"I have to hand it to you… That is one remarkable instinct for self-preservation you've got. I wonder how much more you need to feel before you cease to have limits."

The words resonated strangely, barely seeping through the layers of his shattered mind. The first thing that actually registered with him was the warmth. Then it was the sticky and wet sensation. Then the coppery taste and scent that flooded his senses. Finally, came the pain. Excruciating, beyond his tolerance. What the Joker had done to him had been horrible – but it couldn't hold a flame to this. He let out a strangled cry. And… oh god the blood was everywhere. His blood was everywhere.

"Bruce…" his words were broken, painful, pleading. More child-like than he could ever recall his voice sounding.

The thing smiled, leaving yet another laceration with the serrated knife.

"…Help me…"

The blade cut into him again. The arm. The stomach. Over old wounds and the newly healing ones. Then the kicks came, bruising him and causing more blood to fall.

"Please…"

It chocked him, forcing him to cough, forcing his lungs to spasm painfully against his ribs.

He was shaking now, not consciously, never consciously, but he felt it in the way the world shifted before him. The contrast between the warmth in his skin and the cold that reached his bones was nauseating. It was like laying in a warm bath outside right in the middle of a particularly icy winter. He probably looked like a dying animal, hell, he felt like one. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should terrified by his symptoms. He knew he should be searching for a way out, for anything that could help him survive…

But that echo was too far away to matter. He found he honestly didn't give a damn, not anymore. He wanted it to end – for all the pain to just go away, he just wanted to blink one more time… then never again. Flashes ran through his head in a sickening frame-by-frame: Bruce holding him during a particularly bad storm, Dick laughing at his shortcomings (how it had enraged and endeared him at the same time), Damian's many flaws and obvious desperation for acknowledgment, Tim… The damned replacement… smiling decently and saying he understood.

Jason hoped his family would understand, all of them… He hoped they would understand what he was about to do in order to protect himself.

With that, his mind shifted once again; setting itself to a new, more dangerous task.

…

Damian held the coin up to the light, it was just a quarter. Normal, insignificant, and overall spectacularly unspectacular. But that was what he needed right now, so he put the little paperweight in his pocket. He rubbed his fingers across the surface, tracing the familiarity and using the currency as a kind of worry stone. Sighing deeply he looked at the clock on the far east corner of the mess hall – an ritual that had become a habit lately. It showed about five minutes more than it had five minutes ago… That made sense. Still, it didn't sit well with him. He turned his eyes away from the infernal device and set them instead on his father.

The old man's face showed signs of aging. Damian wasn't sure if that was a result of the repeated attacks on his sons or the loss of one in particular. He decided he wasn't going to care. Bruce's deep blue eyes were blank as he too turned his gaze to watch the clock. It was disconcerting.

Two months had come and gone. Their transfer date was coming and Jason still had not returned. Usually the Bird's absence would be a blessing upon the makeshift family, but not now. Jason had proven himself worthy to hold the title of 'Wayne'… he guessed… in their waiting, three more riots had broken out and at least a dozen more inmates had gone off to whatever hellhole was waiting for them in the sky. This, too, he found off-putting.

The little boy wondered what his brother was thinking as his gaze at last slid to Dick.

…

Dick was sitting next to Damian at the table, slipping his plastic fork over his own tray of 'food'. He had to admit it now: He was a terrible brother. Sure, he could be supportive, he was the brother they all turned to for advice and emotional stability where Bruce had never been able to offer as much. He was the brother they looked to for leadership.

But Jason had been the strong one. He had been the raw backbone that no one had ever cared to acknowledge – but that didn't mean it didn't carry out its function. But now Jason was gone.

Dick was supposed to be the protector second only to their father… failing that – he was no brother at all.

He let the ramblings of his mind carry on, but tuned every word out. He couldn't listen right now. Instead he turned to Tim.

The younger man was doing much the same as he was, fiddling with the plate absently. He was no doubt thinking along the same lines as his older brother.

…

Tim's spirits had hit an all-time low. Not only had he taken full responsibility for what had happened to their brother, but he had also taken the brunt of the hate from Damian. The youngest had blamed his predecessor for not thinking ahead, for being blinded… The boy was right.

In a moment of weakness he had allowed himself to be distracted, thinking only of Dick and Damian and Bruce, excluding Jason from his circle trust. At one time he had told his older brother, the wayward Jason Todd, that he understood the older man. At one time he had idolized the older Robin… Yet in the darkest hour he had turned away from the Rogue. He had allowed all this to happen and he would never forgive nor forget his transgressions… He turned to Bruce. He wondered how their father-figure would recover… If he would recover a second time…

…

Bruce's eyes fell succinctly to the clock… again. If he kept his mind focused on something – anything – he wouldn't feel it. It couldn't crush him. he had built a wall. The wall was much like all the others, cumbersome, dark, and (inevitably) useless. He could feel the attack his emotions set into it. He would usually push it all back with this single line of defense.

But it wasn't working. Everytime he closed his eyes he was berated with emotions – images – senses… It was altogether too much to handle. A flash, Jason too cold in his arms… Jason bleeding, and so alone. His usually bright and angry eyes frozen and glassy…

If he kept the wall up, the images subsided to only attacking him when he closed his eyes. If the wall was damaged he'd see it every waking moment. His son, his son, his mind cried out at him. How had Bruce Wayne, the goddamn Batman managed to lose his son so utterly TWICE? The answer was lost on him. He couldn't accept it; the idea was too strong, it was by no means foreign (he'd seen it before, remembered the ache), but certainly that did not make it any easier to bear. He would see Jason alive again… He had to.

Because, Damn it, Jason Peter Todd-Wayne was too stubborn to die. He had come back before; he had to make a follow-up performance. He had to.

Damian stood from the table abruptly. All eyes slid to him. Before the family could stop the boy he had screamed the words that probably meant death for the Bat family. "My name is Damian Wayne! I am the Son of Bruce Wayne." He gestured to his father who watched him, dumbstruck, from below. "These are my brothers." He gestured to Tim and Dick. "And I," He paused dramatically, "am Robin."

The other inmates began to holler and yell with fury and the room mounted with tension.

Amazing. Four generations of Robins and in the blink of an eye their secret was out. But as the family watched the mayhem and pandemonium break loose, they understood; because Damian was just as reckless as Jason sometimes – just a fearless and headstrong as the wayward son.

The guards mobilized, heading in their direction. The family held their hands in the air, waiting patiently.

"What the hell, Dami?" Dick hissed. Before the youngest member could respond, Tim cut in.

"He just delayed our transfer… The damned demon-spawn just gave us an extra three months… he just gave Jason an extra three months. They have to delay our transfer until they get this straightened out." Tim's eyes were full of wonder.

Happiness, that was the word. That was the emotion. Bruce smiled. He let himself hope. And suddenly the wall was not so painfully difficult to keep up.

…

The room was small. It was blank, no formal decoration at all. The door to the left, the desk front and center, one chair behind it. Simplistic. No sentimentality nor ornaments to be associated; the room was probably not used often – if at all. Bruce took it all in simultaneously as he answered the guard before him seriously.

"My friend here didn't know what he was saying. He read about the Wayne family a while ago, he must have just blurted out what he read. Kids can say stupid things when they're hungry."

Border eyed him with suspicion, as he shifted in his seat sporadically. "Right. Nice try. We'll have to look into your claims…" His gaze raked over the members of the family. All regarded him similarly, without emotion.

The man leaned forward, looking directly at Bruce. "If this little allegation is true, then that means the kid that I transferred a while ago was your kid, Jason Todd, right? Yeah. His description would match up perfectly." Border smiled almost maniacally, lowering his tone. "I heard the bastard we transferred was one of the hardest to break – but make no mistake, he was broken."

The muscles in his jaw clenched, a small twitch of his mouth, but he made no further outward response. The brothers were watching him, waiting for a signal on how they should react to the information. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

They remained silent.

"Not talking, huh?" Border said, "Well, that's all right. A shame you're not the Waynes… I hear 'Jake' talks about them all the time. Whiny little bitch he turned out to be." He smiled.

Inwardly Bruce was breaking and every fiber of him was screaming 'my son!' It was almost primal, the need to act out. He wanted to punch the guard. He wanted to put him in a body cast. He wanted to make the man suffer. But he didn't. His hands formed fists, ready for action and shaking slightly from the rage and anticipation of a fight… but it never came. Bruce filed the moment away. Compartmentalized it for later.

Right now, the guard was untouchable. But when they broke out, with Jason, Bruce would be sure to save some energy and time to return the favor.

"If there's nothing else, we'll take our leave." Bruce said curtly.

Border smiled again, "Why of course. By all means. Guards!" The three that had escorted them here entered the room. "escort these fine gentlemen back to their cells."

Bruce nodded brusquely and filed out with his boys.

…

The boys winced as one when Bruce's fist collided with the wall. They were sure that he had exposed at least two knuckles – and this was only his third round with the solid stone.

Their father didn't look at him when Dick spoke up "You know, however many times you fight it, the wall will always win. Something about the laws of physics or something…" He trailed off.

"At least we know he's still alive," Tim squeaked quietly. Seriously, he squeaked. They didn't need to ask who he was referring to.

The brothers turned their eyes downward and Bruce had resigned from his war with the wall. "yes. We know he's alive. And that he's being tortured." Their father's voice was detached, obviously lost in thought. Aberrations filled their minds, what exactly was happening to the wayward Robin? They shuddered to think of it. "Just like with the Joker…" His voice was broken, and held a note of sadness reserved only for his wayward son.

Bruce turned piercing blue eyes on Damian. "What were you thinking? You should have talked it out with us before you just stood up and announced to the world who we were." His tone was scolding, yet not nearly harsh enough to be a full reprimand.

Damian still looked downcast. "I did the right thing."

Bruce had no response, he simply stared at his youngest vacantly. They seemed to do that too often now; looking away from one another wordlessly, unable to meet each other head on. Had that always been? It seemed like things were so skewed now.

"I wonder if they know he was drugged. That he was sick. Hurt. Delerious. Would knowing have made a difference?" His words were so soft, the brothers wondered if it had been Bruce that had said them at all.

Truth be told, there wasn't a favorable answer. There was nothing to be done. They just had to wait.

Suddenly the burly frame of Barracks appeared in the cell opening. "There's going to be a match tomorrow. Rob and Nick are going at it again, be aware and stick to the cells."

And with that advice, the man disappeared. The family had no more time to spare for the lost member. They had to carry on and hope for the best. It was all they had left to do. Bruce sighed, then shook out the burning sensation in his knuckles. It was going to be a long day, and no matter how hard he tried, Border's insinuations kept berating him from behind the wall. Any day now, Bruce knew it would crumble.

But for now, he had his other children to think about.

"Let's go."

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