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The chair is bolted to the floor.
Dick tests it anyway.
It rocks back a fraction of an inch before a fist slams down on the metal table and the chair screeches forward, legs screaming against concrete. The sound echoes in the small room, sharp and final, like punctuation.
“Don’t,” says the officer on the left.
Dick smiles. It shows too much teeth.
The room smells like disinfectant and old coffee, the kind that’s been reheated so many times it’s forgotten what it used to be. A single bulb hums overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. The walls are bare concrete, painted a dull institutional gray meant to flatten everything inside it—including people.
His wrists are cuffed behind his back, metal biting into bone every time he shifts. He rolls his shoulders anyway, settling in like this is a briefing room and not an interrogation chamber.
The officer on the right—older, heavier, with a scar pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer—leans forward. “Name.”
“Robin,” Dick says lightly.
“That’s not a name.”
“It is if you don’t plan on inviting me to dinner.”
The scarred officer backhands him.
Not hard enough to knock him out. Hard enough to make a point. Dick’s head snaps to the side.
His vision sparks white for half a second before snapping back into focus. The taste of copper floods his mouth. He swallows once, then spits blood onto the floor—along with a chipped tooth that skitters across the concrete.
“Asshole,” he says, smiling again. “That one’s been with me since middle school.”
The younger officer across the table doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile. He just watches.
“You think this is funny,” the younger one says.
“I think,” Dick replies, tilting his head so his dark hair falls into his eyes, “you’re about to ask questions I won’t answer, and you’re going to get mad about it.”
The scarred officer grabs his jacket and hauls him forward, chair screeching again. “Where did you get the access codes?”
“Cereal box.”
The grip tightens. Dick’s breath goes shallow despite himself. He keeps smiling.
“This doesn’t have to go this way,” the younger officer says.
Dick laughs, sharp and sudden. “You tied me to a chair and punched me,” Dick says. We passed ‘doesn’t have to’ a while ago.”
The next hit comes harder.
His jaw rings. He catalogs the pain automatically—cheek, jaw, nothing broken. He files it away.
Pain is manageable. Silence is worse.
“Where are the others?” he asks casually.
Silence.
He presses. “KF hates quiet rooms. Red too. You separate us?”
The scarred officer shoves him back down. “Answer.”
“Which question?”
Another hit. Then another.
Dick keeps talking. Keeps poking. Because angry men make mistakes, and because if he keeps his mouth moving, they can’t get inside his head.
Hours pass.
When they finally drag him out, unconscious, his body moves wrong—too loose, too heavy.
Blood soaks his shirt. His eyes are closed.
Wally sees it first.
Boots. Hands. Weight dragging weight.
He looks up just in time to see Dick’s head loll forward, dark hair matted black with blood. His feet don’t touch the ground. His body doesn’t resist. He looks emptied out.
“Oh,” Wally breathes.
For one sick, traitorous second, relief hits him so hard it makes him dizzy.
They’re done.
The hallway is quiet now. No more muffled impacts. No more sounds that twist his stomach into knots. Whatever they were doing to Dick—whatever he was enduring—it’s over.
For now.
The soldiers don’t even look at Wally as they pass. Dick is just cargo. Something used up.
They throw Dick into the cell like discarded equipment. Wally hears the dull thud of his body hitting the floor. The door slams shut.
Wally stays very still.
His chest hurts. His throat feels too tight to swallow. He keeps smiling anyway, because that’s what he does when he’s scared. When he’s cornered. When he’s waiting for the next blow.
Then the footsteps turn back.
Hands grab him before he can speak. They drag him down the hallway, cuffs biting into his wrists. The interrogation room smells the same—disinfectant, coffee, metal, control.
They tie him down.
They go easier on him.
He knows it almost immediately. The blows are measured. Controlled. Not curious. Like they don’t care enough to dig deep. It’s worse than the pain. It means he doesn’t matter to them.
That thought digs in deep.
He jokes anyway.
Flirts with danger, with the officers, with the idea that this isn’t hurting him. He laughs through blood and clenched teeth. He makes comments he knows will irritate but not enrage.
It works.
They stop sooner than they should.
When they drag him back to the cell, he’s barely conscious. His legs don’t work right. He collapses onto the floor and crawls—drags—himself toward Dick.
Roy is there too, tied to the wall, eyes wide and furious and terrified all at once.
Wally presses shaking fingers to Dick’s neck.
One second.
Two.
There.
“He’s alive,” Wally whispers.
Roy exhales like he’s been drowning.
They don’t get long.
Footsteps. Keys.
“Red Arrow,” a voice calls.
Roy is next.
Roy doesn’t walk.
They drag him down the corridor like he’s already decided to collapse. He lets them. Anger burns too hot in his chest to let fear take over.
The interrogation room is exactly what he expects. Chair. Table. Light.
They tie him down.
“Name.”
Roy smiles without humor. “You already know you won't get anything.”
The first hit snaps his head sideways. Pain blooms bright and sharp. He grits his teeth and brings his head back up.
They ask questions. Roy stays silent.
They hit him harder.
Roy leans into the anger. Lets it sharpen him. Every blow fuels it. Every insult proves they don’t own him.
“You think loyalty matters,” one officer says.
Roy spits blood. “You wouldn’t understand.”
That earns him a blow to the ribs that knocks the air out of him. He gasps, vision dimming. He thinks of Dick’s stupid grin. Wally’s constant noise.
He doesn’t answer.
Eventually they stop.
They drag him back to the cell and throw him inside.
All three of them are alive.
Barely.
A day passes.
Not cleanly. Not evenly. Time fragments into thirst, half-sleep, the ache settling deeper into bone.
Then the door opens again.
Six men this time.
They drag all three of them out and into a larger room.
Wally and Roy are tied to chairs side by side, facing him.
That’s when Dick understands.
Dick is placed in front of them, hands cuffed behind his back, two men gripping his shoulders.
Oh.
No.
They ask Wally a question.
“Kid Flash,” the officer says. “Names.”
Wally doesn’t answer.
They hit Dick.
Hard.
Dick gasps, folds, is hauled upright again.
“You can stop this,” the officer says calmly. “Just answer the question.”
“No!” Dick snaps, panic tearing through him. “KF—don’t. Don’t answer. I’m fine. I can take it.”
They turn to Roy.
“Red Arrow.”
Roy stays silent.
They hit Dick again.
“You can stop this,” the officer says again. “Give me just one answer, and we'll let your friend here catch a break.”
Dick laughs, wet and breathless. “Don’t.”
He turns his head as much as the cuffs allow, finding Wally and Roy through the white glare of the lights.
“Promise me,” he says, voice shaking now. “Don’t answer. I’ll be fine.”
They hit him again when no one speaks.
Wally watches every blow land like it’s hitting him instead. His body strains uselessly against the restraints. He sobs once, sharp and broken, but stays silent.
Roy snarls, curses them, demands they hit him instead.
They don’t listen.
Hours pass.
Dick jokes through blood and pain, defiance unwavering. He keeps talking so Wally doesn’t have to feel everything.
Then they stop.
For one fragile second, Dick believes it’s over.
Then the tub comes out.
Cold water. Familiar shape.
Wally goes still.
Roy recognizes it instantly.
Oh fuck.
They shove Dick’s head under.
“Rob!” Wally screams.
Roy shuts his eyes.
Dick fights, then goes limp on purpose to buy seconds. They yank him out. He coughs, chokes,
laughs weakly.
“That all you’ve got?” he breathes. It doesn't sound as confident as he'd like, even to his own ears.
They do it again.
And again.
And again.
Wally breaks inside but not outward. Roy burns with helpless fury.
They never answer.
The tub is rolled away.
Dick hangs forward, shaking, breath coming in broken pulls. His vision swims. Every nerve feels scraped raw.
The officer sighs, almost bored.
He watches Dick for a moment longer, then gives a small, decisive nod to the man by the wall.
A soldier steps forward with empty hands.
Then reaches out.
And pulls an iron rod from seemingly nowhere.
It’s thin. Almost unremarkable.
Until they light the flame beneath it.
The metal darkens. Then reddens. Then glows.
Heat rolls across the room in suffocating waves.
Wally’s breathing turns frantic. Roy goes rigid.
The officer turns to Wally again. “Kid Flash. Names.”
Wally squeezes his eyes shut.
“Look at me,” Dick begs hoarsely. “KF. Red. Please. Don't tell-”
The iron touches him.
The pain explodes.
Dick screams this time—can’t stop it, can’t hold it back. It tears out of him raw and broken. Tears streamed down his face. Wally screams with him. Roy thrashes so hard the chair skids.
The iron is pulled away.
“Answer,” the officer says calmly. “And this ends.”
Dick lifts his head, shaking violently, blood streaking his chin.
“Fuck you,” he whispers.
The officer turns back to the flame.
“Again.”
Dick closes his eyes.
If this is the price, he pays it.
Because Wally keeps breathing.
Roy keeps breathing.
And as long as its not them being hurt—
he’s done his job.
The iron shifts, glowing dully now, heat warping the air around it. Dick tightens his jaw and sets his shoulders by instinct, breath hitching once before he forces it steady. He doesn’t look at Wally. He doesn’t look at Roy. He stares at the far wall and waits.
The lights go out.
Not a flicker.
Gone.
The hum of electricity cuts dead, plunging the room into a sudden, suffocating dark. For half a heartbeat, no one moves—like the world itself is holding its breath.
Then something lands.
Not outside.
Inside.
The sound is wrong—too heavy, too deliberate to be human. Concrete cracks under impact. A shockwave ripples through the floor, rattling metal, chairs jerking violently against their restraints.
Before anyone can shout, the darkness moves.
A shape detaches itself from the shadows and slams into the nearest soldier. There’s a sharp, wet sound—bone meeting something much harder—and the man goes down without even managing a scream.
Another soldier turns.
He doesn’t finish turning.
A fist takes him in the throat. He collapses, choking, hands clawing uselessly at the air.
Gunfire erupts—panicked, blind. Muzzle flashes strobe the room in harsh white light, just enough to illuminate a cape snapping through the darkness like a living thing.
Wally’s breath catches painfully in his chest.
“Oh,” he whispers, equal parts awe and disbelief. “They’re so dead.”
Roy doesn’t blink. His eyes track the movement with fierce focus.
That’s not backup.
That’s a reckoning.
Batman doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t need to.
He moves like gravity given intent—efficient, brutal, terrifyingly calm. Every strike lands exactly where it needs to. Wrists break. Weapons are ripped away and crushed. A man lunges with the iron rod—
Batman catches it mid-swing.
The metal bends in his grip like it’s made of wax.
He drops it without looking and backhands the soldier so hard the man spins and collapses in a heap.
Silence crashes down just as suddenly as the violence.
Bodies are on the floor. The flame gutters uselessly in the dark.
Batman turns.
The moment his eyes land on Dick, something changes.
He’s across the room in three strides.
“Robin.”
The word isn’t barked. It isn’t sharp.
It’s tight.
Strained.
Batman grips Dick’s shoulders, scanning him with rapid, practiced precision—hands ghosting over his arms, his ribs, the back of his neck, careful but relentless.
“Talk to me,” he says, low and urgent. “Are you conscious?”
Dick tries to smile. It comes out crooked. “Define… conscious.”
Batman’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
His hand moves to Dick’s wrist, fingers pressing gently but insistently, checking his pulse. Too fast. He notes it instantly.
“Cuffs,” Batman says, already reaching behind him.
They’re off in seconds.
The moment the pressure leaves his wrists, Dick sways. Batman catches him immediately, hauling him closer, one arm firm around his back like he’s afraid Dick might disintegrate if he lets go.
Wally stares.
He’s never seen Batman hold anyone like that.
“Hey—uh—hi, B,” Wally offers weakly from his chair. “If you’re doing hugs now, I—”
Batman doesn’t look away from Dick. “Hng.”
“Yes, sir,” Wally squeaks, immediately shutting up.
Batman tilts Dick’s head slightly, inspecting his pupils through the white lenses. “Any dizziness?”
Dick exhales. “Only when I exist.”
Batman doesn’t react to the joke. His thumb brushes under Dick’s jaw, careful, assessing.
“Nausea?”
“Little.”
That earns a barely restrained flare of anger. Batman pulls Dick closer without meaning to, his grip tightening protectively.
Behind them, Roy’s restraints snap open.
Roy’s on his feet instantly, swaying but upright, eyes burning as he takes in the room. “You took your time.”
Batman finally looks at him.
Roy almost flinches—but Batman just nods once. “You held.”
Roy exhales sharply. He didn’t realize he’d needed to hear that.
Batman turns back to Dick. “You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”
Dick blinks up at him, confused. “Done… what?”
“Being brave,” Batman says flatly.
Wally’s chest tightens at that.
Alarms start wailing somewhere deeper in the facility. Red emergency lights flicker weakly to
life.
Batman doesn’t even glance at them.
He shifts, lifting Dick fully off his feet with infuriating ease.
“Hey—” Dick protests faintly. “I can walk.”
Batman ignores him completely. “You have multiple broken bones.”
“Allegedly.”
Batman’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Not funny.”
Wally gapes. Roy looks away, pretending not to notice the way Batman adjusts his grip to better support Dick’s weight, one hand braced protectively between his shoulder blades.
“Red Arrow,” Batman says. “Can you move?”
Roy nods. “Yeah.”
“Kid Flash?”
Wally pushes himself upright, legs shaking. “I mean, I’ve been better, but—yeah.”
Batman nods once. “Stay close.”
They move fast, Batman leading with Dick held securely against his chest, cape shielding him almost instinctively from the cold night air as they breach the outer wall.
Only once they’re clear—only once there is distance and darkness and no immediate threat—does Batman slow.
He lowers Dick carefully onto a flat surface in the Batwing, kneeling beside him immediately, one hand never leaving his shoulder.
Dick’s breathing evens out slightly.
Batman stays there anyway.
And for the first time since the door closed behind them hours ago, Dick feels safe enough to close his eyes.