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Chapter Text

Kon wakes suddenly, jolting himself upward and scanning for a threat before he actually takes stock of where he is. Nothing immediately jumps out to his enhanced senses— no immediate threats, at least. What jumps out at him is that he has no idea where the hell he is. Then he realizes that he can’t hear, or feel, much of anything. Not nearly as much as he would usually be able to.

Kon is sitting on the floor of someplace he does not know, and he can not feel any of his powers. Just by moving his body, he should feel his super strength, should feel the strength in his bones. But he can feel the difference, the absence of what should be in every inch of his being. Which must mean something important is going on. The question(s) being: where is he? Why is he here? Why doesn’t he have his powers?

But if this is not what his training is for, then there is no point in all his training at all.

He is experiencing no nausea or painful weakness at the moment, and Kon is never going to not be grateful for an absence of kryptonite. The surface beneath him is smooth and dark gray, but it is neither stone nor metal. Conner sees something to his left, so he reaches out, catching it with his arm to push himself up to his feet. He falls almost immediately, collapsing onto what he realizes is a cot attached to the wall. Gulping down breaths, he glances his eyes around more. There is nothing much to see. A sink is attached to the opposite wall, tucked into the back corner. Or, what has become a corner because of the half wall jutting out, block a small section of the back wall. A back wall, because that wall that is entirely made of glass is going to mentally be the ‘front’ wall for Conner.

He squints up, preparing to finally face whatever shitty fixture is bathing the whole room in the most atrocious lighting. Every theory and concern rushing around in his head promptly grinds to a halt. The light isn’t a painful fluorescent white or a weak yellow, but rather the long bulb radiates a stark red.

That raises so many questions.

A red sun lamp does explain the lack of powers, but it raises far more questions. Well, mainly just ‘why’. Kryptonite is not easy to get by any means, Conner understands this fact. He also understands that he probably has a disproportionate amount of experiences with it, given he is one of the handful of living beings it is relevant to, but still… everyone uses kryptonite on Kryptonians! The only other main defense against them is just other metas with super strength. Red sun lamps? It isn’t stupid, in fact, it’s smart, and someone had to come up with that idea. Someone decided to kidnap him and also go out of their way to get or make red sun lamps, which weaken him but don’t do the sort of harm that kryptonite does.

With a harsh sigh, Kon mentally shoves this new factor to the side. He attempts to get up again, this time a bit more aware and a bit more careful. Successfully standing, he walks all the way to the back of the cell, noting that there is, in fact, a toilet behind the half-wall. It really shouldn’t even be considered ‘half’ considering that it barely gets to his stomach.

Nothing else of note, nothing else at all, exists in the cell. Trying to deep breathe through his growing frustration, Conner approaches the glass wall. “Fuck,” he mutters.

He starts banging on the glass for a second, but none of the other figures he can see start moving. He thinks that straight across from him is Nightwing, which is not good because bat-identities are not to be messed with. But with the uncomfortably small rooms and amount of light in Kon’s cell, he can see clearly enough a comfortably fit domino mask. It doesn’t mean no one has seen the vigilante, but it is something.

Conner is on the edge of a ring of cells, just to the left he can see the one solid wall of the hexagonal center area, with the entryway. The door is not centered, though, it is pushed to the edge so that it is only a few feet away from the corner connecting to where Kon is now. Past that door, five panels are perfectly lined up, and, staring at technology all too familiar despite its generic appearance, it strikes Kon precisely where they are.

“Hey,” He slams on the glass again, yelling as loud as he can manage and just hoping it carries, “Wake up, come on!” He doesn’t have too much faith it will work, but he has to try something. At the very least, he needs to redirect the nervous energy quickly building in his throat. By some miracle, or probably more accurately the uniform dosage of whatever was used to knock them out, someone moves. Two people, from what Conner can see, those on either side of a still unconscious Nightwing. Bart is in the other edge cell, completing the five-sectioned ring that Kon starts. It’s mostly obvious because he groans and rolls over in a way that is far too recognizable to anyone who has spent a significant amount of time with the boy. The only time he isn’t hyper is right when he wakes up.

Fortunately, the other person waking up, in the center, is Kaldur. The warrior/prince/leader/mentor and whatever other words the team was using to tease him recently. The man is beyond disciplined: within moments of stirring, he is sitting up and looking around, that calculating look in his eyes. “Injuries?” Is the first thing out of his mouth. Kon is relieved to be able to hear him.

“No one else is conscious,” Kon responds, “but I don’t think anyone is hurt. I mean, I don’t see blood or bruises.” He motions first to Dick, still in a heap in the room next to Kaldur, then to his own side, where M’gann lays on the ground of her own cell, close enough to the front for Conner to see the top half of her body from where he stands. “Obviously, we can’t really know until they wake up.”

Kaldur nods, “Any clue where we are? Has anyone else been here?”

“I’ve only been awake for a couple of minutes, man. That being said… I’m pretty sure this is a Cadmus facility.” Kon jabs a finger at the row of consoles on the wall. “That looks like Cadmus tech. Plus, ya’ know… kidnapping me is pretty Luthor-ish. I guess we’ll see if they start trying to experiment on me or shit.”

Some of the tension on Kaldur’s face is melted by the softer sympathy. If anyone could understand Conner’s discomfort, it is one of the people who saw him in the Cadmus facility on that fateful day years ago. “So we have nothing. I see.”

Kon scoffs, “I don’t even remember what happened to get us here.” Kaldur hums, slowly examining everything in front of him. Then, he turns around and does the same for his cell.

From the back of the room, Kaldur speaks with his rare sarcasm, “I don’t understand the point of providing a toilet but not plumbing.”

“There’s no water in your toilet?” Conner blinks for a moment. “…Did they not even give you water in your goddamn toilet because of your mystic abilities?” He almost laughs at the ridiculous over-preparation, until he considers the solution. “Could you use that water? Like to break out or something?” Kaldur makes a face.

“Why are we talking about toilet magic?” Comes a quiet grumble. Dick’s crumpled form starts to shift.

“‘Cus unfortunately Ka—

“Aqualad,” Kaldur cuts in quickly.

“— Aqualad,” Kon corrects himself, “can’t do any to save our asses.” Dick turns enough to glare at him, then blinks. His hand whips up, grasping desperately on his face. After a moment, his fingers still, resting on his domino mask.

Dick processes it for several seconds, “Could Aqualad do toilet magic before?”

“He could do water magic,” Conner points out. “Even without his tools, he might be able to do a small amount of toilet-centric water magic.” Giving his most Batman-esque, long-suffering sigh, Dick lets his head fall back against the floor.

“What are the odds no one removed my mask?”

Kaldur smiles reassuringly, despite the fact that Dick is not looking at him. “I don’t think they would go to the effort of putting it back on. The chances that your mask’s defense mechanisms held up while you were unconscious.”

Dick laughs, “Oh, I envy your unfettered optimism. An important aspect for any fearless leader.”

“I am not without fear, Nightwing, and I would not claim to be. Besides, when have you ever known me to be unrealistic in an emergency situation for the sake of being optimistic?” This time, Dick doesn’t verbally respond, but he does actually smile. With an over dramatic groan, he takes several seconds to rise to his feet.

“Info—”

“Cadmus, we think, that’s literally it.” Conner wants to knock his head against a wall. “Unless you remember anything from before we got here.” Dick smiles sheepishly, obviously picking up on the frustration leaking into the other’s voice. Kon raises his voice, “Oi, B— Impulse! Are you up, or not?”

More incoherent, annoyed muttering as the red-and-white pile of limbs tried to protest his own consciousness. Kaldur clears his throat judgmentally. Bart starts falling over himself, scrambling to stand at the sound of the leader’s voice. “I’m up, whass goin’ on. Where’r we?’

“Kidnapped,” Kaldur informs him dryly, “thanks for joining us.”

“Huh?!” Bart’s body starts jerking strangely. After a moment, Kon processes that Bart is trying to whip around the cell or the room, and his body isn’t doing it. A thick metal collar is wrapped around his neck, and when the boy realizes, he sneers. “Fuck! Hate meta collars, this is bullshit!”

“No powers for you either, huh?” Kon sympathizes. Everyone turns to him again, staring openly.

“That…” Dick starts slowly, “is not kryptonite.”

“Nope, it’s a red sun lamp, I assume for obvious reasons. Don’t ask me how or why, by the way. I don’t fucking know.”

Dick paces back and forth by the glass. Conner wants to copy him, honestly, except he knows that the tight space will only aggravate him further. Something about this whole place is bugging him, and everytime he thinks about it, he wants to smack himself.

He’s kidnapped, that’s annoying. He’s in a facility, something he hates because of his past trauma, that’s annoying. The place he’s been kidnapped to is probably a facility belonging to the same people who caused that god damn past trauma, which is fucking annoying. Of course this place is bugging him.

But it feels like something beyond that. Nightwing’s mask is still on. His room is fitted with red sun lamps, not kryptonite. Hell, the stupid shit with Kaldur’s water. It is so specific, so careful. It’s more well thought out than most villain plots or kidnapping plots. Luthor would gladly tape a piece of kryptonite to his face, or just leave Kaldur unconscious if he was concerned about the risks. He would definitely want to know Nightwing’s identity, although Kaldur could be right about the bat-suit defense tech. It is wildly irritating how intense he feels about what really is just the weird vibes.

He shakes his head to try and focus on some present issue, “Is M’g— uh, Miss Martian awake yet? Miss M, you with us?”

This directs everyone else’s attention toward the Martian as well. She still has not moved at all, and it is starting to get troubling. There has not been the slightest inclination that she is even alive. It serves to add even more frustration to the storm raging within Conner’s mind that he can’t listen for her heartbeat or her breath. He hates the feeling of uselessness. He may have his issues with being a clone of Superman, but part of finding his own identity had led to pride in his Kryptonian blood. It is natural enough to feel pride in one’s heritage, and having these fucking lamps literally suppress all of these physical, material parts of his being is beyond aggravating. Not to mention how strange it feels.

It isn’t kryptonite, which he may not be used to, per se, but that he’s dealt with before. But he doesn’t feel tired, weak, or ill. He just feels the lack of strength, the strange phantom feeling of laser or x-ray beams not coming up behind his eyes, the straining of his muscles when he doesn’t lift off the ground. Not to mention that he is now also imprisoned, with his friends as hostages and no information or leverage about what villain they are facing.

“Miss Martian!” Kaldur exclaims. Conner refocuses, watching M’gann roll over slowly, onto her back. Her face is pinched, and she doesn’t move further. “Are you alright?”

When she opens her mouth, she speaks slowly, “Why is it so hot?”

“Hot?” Bart yelps. “You’re hot? It’s so cold! And I haven’t got, like, a blanket or anything despite the chilliness!”

“You’re chilly?” Nightwing asks.

“What?” M’gann mutters, “It’s…” She sets her face and turns back onto her side. Held up on one arm, she drags herself to one wall, leaning against it. “I’m just too warm. I— don’t think I’m hurting, it isn’t like fire. I just feel sluggish, kind of… it is just too warm.” She speaks dreamily. It certainly works to convince them that something in her cell is slightly different from the others. She reaches up distractedly, humming when she grabs onto the collar around her neck. She blinks a couple of times, before startling and grabbing at it with both hands. “Okay, okay, I seriously need to get myself together.”

“Well, I mean, being too hot makes most people sluggish and slightly confused,” Bart points out. “Which is with humans, who aren’t especially weak to excessive heat.”

“This is fucking weird, right?” Dick asks. He looks at everyone once before continuing, “Like, duh, heroes, kidnapped, probably villains, but still. I’m willing to bet on this being Cadmus, even if Superboy’s technically guessing. But this isn’t screaming ‘Cadmus’ or ‘Lex Luthor’ to me. Think about it, look at the freaking circumstances.”

“No, I understand what you mean. The ways we are detained,” Kaldur gestures to Conner, “something just feels off. The extra effort to use red sun lamps instead of sticking a piece of kryptonite into the wall, especially Luthor certainly has kryptonite. Impulse, the speedster, is in a colder environment, while Miss Martian is being kept in check with the warmth, but… both are uncomfortable. Impulse is chilly, and Miss Martian is uncomfortably warm. I don’t mean to be dismissive but…”

“I’m not in pain,” Miss Martian finishes. “None of us are.”

“And don’t forget,” Conner cuts in, “Aqualad’s toilet.” Kaldur sighs, while both Bart and M’gann stare, the latter of whom seems to decide it is not worth the mental effort. “It is what I was thinking, though. This is so specific.”

“It almost seems,” Dick ventures, “like someone put effort into being… humane.”

“At least our captors care about us,” Bart snorts ruefully, still moving his body in an attempt to move faster than his collar will allow.

The words spark something in the back of Conner’s head. He just really wants someone, even fucking Luthor, to come in and give them some clues as to what the purpose for having them here is. The scratching in the back of his brain has been present for months is so much worse in this setting. For almost a year now, he has been piecing together memories he did not realize he had about the time before Dick, Wally, and Kaldur freed him from Cadmus.

When the anonymous vigilante calling himself Cardinal appeared as a symbol on the screens of Mount Justice, no one really trusted him at first. At least, no one except Bart, who insisted the figure was trustworthy. But with insider information about various villains, and Bart’s reassurance, they had settled into a sort of trust for the Good Samaritan, as Cassie has been calling him. Then, he started helping Kon with his abilities, and Kon had decided to go out on a limb. Cardinal had offered him a solution: a way to start aging like an actual person, even a way to unlock his full kryptonian powers. Cardinal had known about Luthor’s shields, had promised that the patches of fabric couldn’t just somehow make him fly, that the abilities came from Conner.

Then it worked. Cardinal’s solution helped Kon, made him feel better and helped him find his own identity. It has been a whole fucking thing for him, as he navigated having fully kryptonian abilities, he also had to acclimate to all this time he had not realized he had been missing.

He has so many memories, now, that have a giant hole in the center of them. He can remember a voice, even the things he was told. He can remember tests and questions, even the occasional comfort. But he can not remember the person speaking to him, comforting him. And he knows it is someone important, but he has been struggling to put a complete picture together. Heroes in general having been trying to get something solid on Luthor for years, Kon has been trying to find a way to get justice for all the creatures, including genomorphs and even Match, who suffered because Luthor decided to play at being a god. A person, a sympathetic person who took care of Kon when he was first created, inside of Cadmus could be the smoking gun they need.

Not to mention the fact that even though Conner has met people from inside Project Cadmus, all happily employed as far as the eye could see, he will always have a subconscious negative connotation for the site. With Luthor, there is always a strong possibility that things are more nefarious than they seem, and if his forgotten person needs help, then Kon will save them.

So, after the year he’s had, this just feels too on the nose, too fucking connected to all his recent internal bullshit to be coincidental. The only possible positive to this situation, the possibility for answers, just seems too good to be true. Conner, of all people, doesn’t just get answers about his past: he needs to be manipulated or targeted by someone with more information than him trying to take advantage of his power first.

He is losing his mind over it, has been for some time, and now he just knows that whatever is going on right now is going to contribute to this. “So, we know nothing,” Kon spits, “except that our current captors are as confused as we are as to how to feel about this.”

Dick winces, but nods with a pained laugh. Perfectly on cue, the door swings open. The background analytical part of Conner’s mind notes that it opens to a perfect 90 degree angle, likely automatic. The rest of his mind grinds to a halt, as that puzzle slots into place as Tim walks into the room.

Because that’s him, that’s the missing piece. Tim is the thing, the person, that Kon couldn’t remember. Except he does, he remembers so much. At the same time, it still looks fuzzy. Internally, Kon is well aware that memory loss that isn’t permanent often requires time, above all else, to heal, but he can’t help but detest the fact that having Tim there, as a living, breathing reminder of everything that happens, doesn’t just slot his mind back into place.

But Conner can hear Tim’s voice in his mind, patiently talking him through tests or even scolding, but he has no memories of the boy ever scolding him. He can see Tim smiling encouragingly, or rubbing much smaller hands over Kon’s own in an infinitely comforting gesture.

The boy suddenly in possession of all of Conner’s mind walks in totally stone faced. He is wearing a lab coat, and his hair is tied back. Unsurprisingly, he is older than in Kon’s memory, his hair now longer and defined bags under his eyes. He isn’t too tall, but he is very thin, in a way that sets off Conner’s hero alarms. Tim’s eyes lock onto Kon instantly, before flitting to each of the other captives exactly once.

Behind him, a middle aged man, also wearing a white coat, pushes a large cart loaded up with various equipment Conner could not name into the room. Kaldur squares his posture, looking at the two, “Who are you and what do you want with us?” He seems to slightly conflicted on who to defer to. Tim is obviously younger, but the older man walked in behind him and brought the equipment while Tim stood centered in the room..

“What position do you think you are in to start demanding information,” the older man cackles. Kon can barely hear him, and it processes that he might not be properly present. He has never quite felt so wrong. Because Tim is here, maybe Conner’s biological age, and the memories are being pulled together. The memories of Tim when Kon was first born, still in the Cadmus labs, and after a moment of mentally searching, Conner finds it. Tim was significantly younger than him when Conner was born, and Kon is pretty sure that the boy played a significant part in his creation. It is just too much to process all at once, especially in this situation. So, Kon shoves it all down.

Tim has ignored his creepily excited coworker, pulling a clipboard and a bottle of water from the cart. He approaches Miss Martian, causing everyone else to tense, and simply says, “Murphy.” Miss Martian blinks at him, but then the other captor moves to the consoles on the wall, and a small rectangle on the front of M’gann’s cell opens. Tim holds out the bottle of water, which she accepts quickly. “I’m not turning the temperature down,” he says, “for obvious reasons. You’ll need to stay hydrated. Are you feeling nauseated or feverish? Muscle aches?”

“No,” M’gann replies slowly. “I mean, I’m hot but… I don’t think it crosses over to feverish.”

Tim quickly writes on the clipboard, “Please let me know.” He walks a couple of steps over to Kaldur, “I will give you water eventually, so don’t ask about that. I do have some questions.” He waits until Kaldur makes a small gesture of acknowledgement. “You’re Atlantean, so I understand you need sufficient hydration, but from what I know Atlanteans live in oceans, even if you can go into freshwater. Do you have dietary sodium requirements beyond that of the average human?”

Kaldur regards the boy with the appropriate suspicion, but there is something akin to respect in his eyes, perhaps acknowledgment. “As far as I know, I do not. However, it just does not happen often that I go too long without being in the water, just by nature of my life.” It is too familiar to Conner. The confusing juxtaposition of the villains and criminals who control and run Cadmus and… Tim. Who just isn't cruel, or even apathetic. Kon is briefly reminded of an excited young Tim, talking to a supposedly unconscious Conner before he was brought out of the tube for the first time, rambling about architecture in his hometown of Gotham. And an anger, that is now also familiar, explodes in Conner’s chest. Not knowing how young Tim was when he ended up in Cadmus, or how he ended up here, or how he is treated and why he is here.

“Then let’s just leave it be,” the older scientist says excitedly. “We don’t know what’ll happen to an Atlantean that gets deprived of sodium, and that is the point of this, no?”

“I prefer my subjects alive, Murphy,” Tim scoffs, “and I prefer my important experiments not be tainted with your pointless Frankenstein-ian human experimentation.” The man— Murphy— glares at Tim’s back, silently sneering, but is ignored. Both Kaldur and Dick are staring at the boy too, trying to reconcile their situation with the way Tim is treating them thus far. It is Dick that Tim approaches next, as he makes his way around the room. “I don’t suppose you’ll just take the mask off, hm?”

“No,” Dick agrees, not unkindly.

“For fuck’s sake, lets just use some of all the fucking blades we’ve got and convince him.” Murphy shouts. Tim turns to him at last, expression completely cold, and raises a single eyebrow. It is more derogatory than Conner thought a minute change in expression could be.

“If you continue to prove yourself wholly incapable of both self-control and critical thinking skills,” Tim monotones, “I will have you redirected. Mr. Luthor,” everyone tenses at the affirmation of Luthor’s connection to the situation, “allowed you this opportunity to prove your competence, please remember that. You have not yet been granted any privilege. It would also serve you to remember that regardless of something as trivial as age, I am many years your senior here.” All of them had stilled at the implications of the unstable scientist’s desire to torture Dick’s identity out of him, but the reaction to Tim’s response could only be called collective incredulity.

Murphy blatantly pales, looking away with a pathetic huff. Tim shakes his head and moves to Bart. Before he can even ask any questions, Bart bounces to stand in front of him, “I am very cold, I am in desperate need of several blankets and hot chocolate!”

Kon swears that the responding scoff is covering actual amusement. “No, you aren’t,” Tim flips a page on his clipboard, “Are you experiencing any hunger pains? I noticed you woke up around the same time as everyone else.” There are cameras then, although that is a given.

“Are you testing my metabolism?” Bart sounds curious, but otherwise plain. He carries on the conversation with his own interest in science, as though they aren’t being held hostage.

Tim replies in kind, “The meta collar blocks your super speed, and as far as I know your super healing, so logically it also suppresses your increased metabolism. But, I don’t actually know, so obviously I am going to test my hypotheses.”

Bart grins, tapping the collar absentmindedly, “Now that you mention it, I’m not actually feeling too hungry. That is interesting.” Tim stares at Bart for several seconds, writing something else down without asking anything else.

Then, finally, Tim turns, crossing the room to stand face to face with Conner. Except, he does not look at Conner. Staring down at his papers, he inquires, somewhat harshly, “Any feelings of sickness, or weakness? Lightheaded, feelings like you’re going to pass out?”

“No,” Kon keeps his voice gentle. “Thanks to the red sun lamps, I feel fine. I mean, you know, no powers, but it’s better than kryptonite. That’s thanks to you, right?” Tim startles almost imperceptibly and glares harder at his notes.

The boy swallows and seems to ignore the grateful implication with a dismissal. “Having you half or mostly dead would contaminate my results, in most cases.” And just like that, he moves on to: “Are you feeling any ill effects, or anything strange, in the absence of your abilities?”

“Not at all,” Conner desperately wants Tim to look at him. This has all crashed into him too suddenly, his emotions are in terrible conflict. But he knows he wants Tim to look at him, to try and communicate the regret he feels for leaving his friend in this place, even if he isn’t quite sure how that came about. A determination that he hadn’t even noticed until this very moment to make sure TIm gets out of this place when they do. “I don’t think you’d do anything all that harmful, Tim.” Tim’s head snaps up, his jaw clenched. “You are the one who kept us all safe, Tim—”

“That’s enough, Kon!” Tim snaps loudly. Panic overtakes his face, his lip quivering for several seconds before he mouths several silent curses and spins on his heel. He throws his clipboard haphazardly at the cart and spits at Murphy, “Get the meals.” He strides out the door, Murphy following close behind with a troubling smile, and the door swings closed with a resounding clang.

Kon drops his head against the glass, resisting the urge to punch it, knowing that the only thing that might break is his hand. It was not shock, or anger, in Tim’s face, even as he got angry, but fear. Palpable fear at his own reaction, and Conner’s urge to get him as far away from Luthor as physically possible returns in full force. “This is definitely Cadmus,” Conner doesn’t wait for someone to ask, “because Tim was here— there, back when I was created.” This is clearly a different facility, but it feels too much the same. It’s still Cadmus.

“Those things you have been remembering,” M’gann prompts. Kon just nods, unable to debrief or some such thing in his current state of mind.

“Hold on,” Dick draws his attention, wearing a crease brown and an uncharacteristic frown, “how old would he have been…?”

“Ten or twelve when I was created. And I am pretty sure he had a significant part in that process. He was a scientist even when I was first here.” It makes Kon a little bit sick. He knows for sure that Tim is a genius, he remembers the fact that the boy is very much a prodigy. He can only imagine what Luthor would have gone through to get his hands on the boy capable of making his ultimate project against his greatest enemy possible.

The tension in Tim’s posture, the steel in his voice, deeply contrast the moments quickly coming together in Conner’s mind. When he was trapped and afraid, there was just Tim, talking before he realized Conner could hear him. Rambling about photography, about how much he missed skateboarding but he was excited about the new opportunities and access he has for his scientific endeavors. When Kon was irritated and aggravated after dealing with some other scientists or security personnel, or Luthor, Tim would come in and teach or quiz him until he felt better. Even though he was constantly monitored, needed to constantly walk a tightrope and pretend to be loyal and obedient to Luthor, Tim always put himself at risk for Conner’s sake.

He must have done the same now, pulling whatever built up reputation and influence he might have to protect the five of them from the most damaging forms of restraint that could be used on them.

“Do you have any more information?” Dick continues. Conner realizes belatedly that his friend has already gone full bat-detective mode.

“If you mean about the other guy? No idea.”

Dick hums, “That makes sense. This kid, uh, Tim? Did claim seniority and had obvious authority. He did also say that the, uhm— Murphy douchebag was being given an opportunity to prove himself. He’s, like, probationary, you know?” He gives Conner an appraising look. “Do you know more about Tim?”

“I don’t know how he got here, but I don’t think it was pretty.” Conner slumps onto his cot, forced to lie on his side to avoid staring straight into the lights. “I’m pretty sure he was here for a while before I happened. About him… uh, he’s a Gothamite, I remember something about, like, an affluent but shitty family.”

The whole room is silent, uncomfortably depressed. In a group full of heroes, all of whom started, or are still, young, no one can so easily gloss over the mental image of a young boy trapped by Lex Luthor to take advantage of his gifts.

Time passes in a sluggish haze of building frustration. They get a meal, then another, which Kon thinks means a most of the day has passed. They get water, M’gann twice as much and Kaldur none at all, and no other interaction with anyone or anything.

Kon can tell he isn’t the only one who has gone half mad by the time the door swings open and Luthor himself strolls in. He can also tell that he isn’t the only one who wants to throw himself against the glass until it breaks and then beat Luthor senseless. Luthor looks at him with a classic evil grin and slightly manic look in his eyes. “So glad to see you are all awake and alert. I do apologize for the delay, I have been a lackluster host, it would seem. For that reason, I do hope you will allow me to speak with all of you while Timothy does his work.”

Tim takes the prompt, and the moment he walks in, Bart, Dick, and Kaldur, tense up. It grabs Kon’s focus immediately, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the boy as he approaches the cart still sitting against the wall even though he has no idea what caused the reaction. Until Tim turns, several small pieces of medical equipment in hand, and the swelling purple bruise on his cheek is in full view.

Every muscle in Kon’s body locks up. This time, unlike before, Kon is the first person Tim approaches, and he looks Kon right in his eyes. “Lex, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” Luthor croons. Everything about him, even his voice, is slimy. He approaches one of the panels, and a long rectangle in the front of Conner’s cell slides open.

“Give me your arm, experiment 13,” Tim orders. Kon barely stops himself from flinching at the name— the title. But he sees the look in Tim’s eyes, he sees the color painting his face, and the message is clear. Kon holds out his arm obediently. Tim wraps a blue elastic strip around Kon’s upper arm, holding up a syringe with a slim tube attached to the needle at the end. “Make a fist with your hand,” he instructs. Kon obliges once again, giving no protest as Tim draws his blood. With the specificity of the words, both now and earlier, Kon wonders venomously if Tim got hit because he used Kon’s name.

Unfortunately, Conner is trapped in a plastic cage and Tim is out there, with Luthor. Luthor, who goes on despite the fact that no one wants to hear him, “Now, I am sure you have some questions—”

“I mean, yeah,” Dick sneers, “But Batman’s a pretty good detective, we can figure everything out in a couple days once our allies tear through this place and throw you in prison.”

Luthor’s face twists, “Ah, you bats are always so arrogant. But I think you are underestimating me, little birdy.” Tim moves away from Kon, switching out the now full vial of blood and used equipment for new ones, and moves quickly over to M’gann. She, too, moves obediently, the message sent with Kon’s compliance and Tim’s face all too clear.

“Do you genuinely see this going well for you, Luthor?” Kaldur sounds truly disbelieving, calling upon all that condescension that is necessary for someone responsible for a bunch of superpowered teenagers.

“I see several incredibly unique subjects, including aliens, non-human terranean species, a meta human, and one of the most powerful types of metas at that. And you,” he frowns mockingly at Dick, “not special, sadly, but even you are a wonderful hostage, aren’t you? I do hope the bat comes, actually, I would love to see what I could get out of him just to avoid watching another of his birds gutted in front of him.”

Dick slams against the glass, snarling at Luthor like a flip switched in his brain. As if Kon didn’t hate Luthor enough, the bastard had to immediately attack Dick’s most sensitive trigger. Luthor tuts, shaking his head. “Now, now, boys and girls, I do hope you’ll behave. It would be a shame if I had to find some method of disciplining you. Poor Timothy would be so upset if I damaged his subjects.”

Conner bristles at the direct reference. He is not even sure if Luthor is threatening to torture someone for misbehaving, torture the others when someone misbehaves because he does have a pleatora of hostages, or actually threatening further violence against Tim should any of the heroes be disobedient. Luthor might not even be able to make such an implied threat against Tim, if he doesn’t consider his violence to be anything other than discipline.

Tim has been slowly making his way around the room, and now has reached Dick’s unit. Even seething, Dick does not fight against Tim’s prompting. It is not really surprising that Dick can put aside even rage at the flippant mention of his brother’s death for the sake of protecting another teenager. It is probably a small consolation that said brother is not dead anymore, not that Luthor knows that.

“It is impressive that you pulled this off,” Kaldur acquiesces, like the negotiator he is. “But this is just such a great risk to take, what is the pay off?”

Luthor grins, “Pay off? Do you know what I can do with access to all of you? Look what I could do with just one sample of Superman’s DNA!” He swings his hand to point at Kon. “With you five, I have a platter of super-genetics I can mix and match to create a true perfect weapon.”

“You couldn’t control me,” Kon reminds him. “What makes you think anything you do will end up differently from me? Or Match, for that matter.”

“Things have changed,” Luthor replies without pause, “and besides, the point of science is trial and error. We have learned from our mistakes, and we improve our methods to correct our mistakes.” This time, it is not presented as a threat. Nonetheless, Kon can almost physically see the tightrope Tim is walking on.

Conner has always sort of wondered how he managed to avoid becoming Luthor’s dream son, but he thinks Tim might be the reason. Tim was his exposure to anything other than Luthor’s teachings, who told him about humans and life and fucking art, as cliche as it is. It isn’t Kon’s fault that Tim is a photography nerd. And a nerd in general, considering he unlocked cloning as a preteen. Tim told Conner about the world through the eyes of someone who still loved it, still believed in it, and taught him, intentionally or not, about his own values by taking care of Kon, showing empathy and respect and fairness.

And now, despite Tim being right in front of him for Kon to repay that favor, to save Tim the way Tim saved him, Kon is left to wonder what the consequences will be if Tim makes another ‘mistake’. The boy in question finishes drawing blood from Bart and quickly exits the room, closely followed by Luthor. The man hadn’t even said anything important, just postured and threatened before sauntering back out.

“This is going to be so ridiculously complicated, isn’t it?” Conner huffs. Dick and Kaldur both reflect the anxiety he is feeling on their faces, but only M’gann responds.

“We’ll find a way,” to help ourselves and him is left unsaid, “we always do.”

Chapter Text

Bart is going to explode, in his own humble opinion. He is smarter than people give him credit for, in certain subjects. And sitting in this tiny cell, without any ability to even fidget at superspeed, he is going to actually, genuinely explode.

The small, minuscule consolation is that this Tim guy is pretty chill, so there is one factor in this terrible situation that is slightly not terrible. The guy spends a lot of time with Bart, not really caring to stop the speedster from rambling about his own superpowers. To be fair, he probably shouldn’t be telling anyone working with Lex Luthor so much about that superpower, but Bart is a bit of a nerd about his speed, and Tim makes it a fun conversation. Bart thinks it is that Tim is smart enough to sift useful input out of all the shit Bart spews, so he just lets Bart talk.

He would still like to be able to tap his fingers at Mach One. It would help distract his nerves from how off-kilter Kon is. Because while Conner might have changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, shaking off his brooding stoicism, he has kept his unflappability. According to the way Cassie puts it, Kon is reclaiming his freedom and impulsivity (pun always intended in Bart’s mind) and allowing himself to recenter himself at his biological age, because biology does play a role in emotions and personality because, you know, hormones and shit. Bart just thinks that Kon was forced to be the tank for, admittedly, an awesome team, and so he never got the space to make stupid, reckless decisions, so now he is actually being a teen. Jaime says that that’s what Cassie is saying, but whatever.

None of it changes Kon’s experience. But now, here in this already fucking shit circumstance, Conner is… uncertain. Bart is seriously not used to not seeing his super pal anything other than confident.

With three whole days of all this bullshit, Bart is going to explode. It is even worse when Tim walks in, and Bart thinks he is going to get the one slightly stimulating part of his day, only to not get Tim’s attention, or worse, getting the asshole assistant bitch’s attention. His name is Murphy, and Bart wants to uppercut him in the jaw at three hundred miles per hour. The bastard is definitely a sadist, or just a psychopath, who really wants to torture them. Thanks to Bart’s age, Murphy apparently wants to torture him the most, because what’s more fucked up than torture? Torturing kids. Even though Kon is like, a year older than him, he gets left alone. Possibly because Luthor is being equally or more crazy about Conner than Murphy is about anything, and Murphy is terrified of the man, despite obviously wanting to show off to his boss.

And today, Murphy is doing what is even more unforgivable, bothering M’gann. Tim is distracted with some nobody that Bart thinks is some sort of mechanic or engineer, who is trying to get through Nightwing’s mask tech.

The unknown guy screeches and jolts back, falling on his ass. Tim rolls his eyes, tossing a hand sign to the camera sitting above the door, and the glass to Dick’s cell slides closed. “I warned you,” Tim mutters to himself.

“Why don’t you get it off, then, boy genius?” The man spits out. Tim stares right back, unimpressed as ever. He does not actually respond, just jerks a thumb to the door. The man grumbles and walks out, while Tim turns to Murphy, still being a little bitch to M’gann.

“Dr. Murphy,” Tim says coldly, “If you can not act with basic professionalism, I will remind you again that I will have you removed.”

Murphy— Dr. Murphy?— glares at the boy, “Oh, and what professionalism am I lacking this time?”

“Threatening torture is as off limits as torture,” Tim shoots back. He has been firm about Dr. Murphy’s fixation on the idea of boiling M’gann alive. “Realize the amount of our research depends on the subjects’ explanations of their symptoms. By maintaining a decent relationship with the subjects, I can actually get decent consistency in my results. You’re fucking with my research, and I’m not sure how much longer I am going to put up with it.”

Bart is regularly impressed by the way Tim manages to fend off the openly evil weirdos while maintaining a reasonable cover for it through his research. Another reason Bart likes the boy so much. But the aforementioned evil weirdos, especially Murphy (Bart has decided he doesn’t deserve to be called doctor), seem to be getting sick of it.

“Defending the heroes an awful lot,” Murphy sneers, some obvious message laced in the words, if the tone is anything to go by. “You are proving your own ineptitude already, aren’t you? What, with us having access to one of the fucking bats in front of us, but the child prodigy who can do anything can’t get a fucking mask off of some bitch?”

Yeah, Bart is going to beat him up so bad. Judging by what happened with the bruise, making an allegation like purposeful disobedience against Tim could have real consequences. Tim doesn’t even flinch, though. “Do you want to have a battle of wits with Batman himself? Because if you think you can pull it off, go right ahead. But don’t think for a second anyone could out-hack Batman and Oracle.”

Bart doesn’t entirely agree with the statement, if only because he is biased towards thinking that Cardinal could. Frankly, he has no idea how skilled the anonymous bird actually is, but the figure had been present in the future that Bart had changed, leading the way against the Reach, always outmaneuvering them. Plus, Cardinal had appeared even earlier since Bart had changed history, popping up right after the Reach was defeated. Bart had never had direct contact with him, in the past (future? Bart’s past, everyone else’s future), but Neutron had. Back then (or years from now), he was (would have been) the one to help Nathaniel eventually. The closest contact Bart had had with Cardinal was the pill that he brought from the future to cure Nathaniel.

Cardinal had appeared earlier now. They didn’t know much about him, other than his call sign and symbol, except that they were pretty sure he was a defector, or possibly someone who was in deep but never morally aligned with their boss, from some criminal organization. They didn’t know how else Cardinal could get so much information on the Light and their plans. They suspected the Good Samaritan might be a Gothamite, considering the way he seemed to defer to Batman especially, but some people argued that everyone defers to Batman, because Batman. Bart occasionally points out that he is pretty partial to Nightwing and Red Hood, too, even the new Robin fucking around in Gotham, despite the stabby-Robin apparently being deeply torn between respecting the person’s intelligence and wanting to one-up him.

Bart has been trying to find out more about the bird (another point for him being a bat/bird fan), even if Cardinal could hack Oracle, and hide from them, hence Bart’s disagreement with Tim’s point. Bart couldn’t help but be curious. Most of the others had been hesitant to trust the anonymous source, which is fair, but Bart knew Cardinal was good. He’s the one who encouraged Kon to go for it when Cardinal offered him a chance to unlock his full potential, and age like a normal person (normal kryptonian?). Bart couldn’t exactly explain why he trusted Cardinal’s ability to do complicated gene therapy stuff, considering he never technically explained that he had slipped Nathaniel a cure for his Neutron-ness. Luckily, everyone already thought he was weird and quirky. Jaime is the only suspicious one, making it equally endearing and frustrating that Jaime doesn’t buy too much into Bart’s no-thoughts, head-empty shtick. Which is bullshit, because that is barely an act. In fact, some of the moments that reinforced that idea the most were unintentional.

But he isn’t going to intercede in an argument between two people working with a supervillain to make them aware of the person ratting out the supervillain. Even if Tim and Cardinal would probably get on like a house on fire. Bart would introduce them, when they break Tim out of this hell hole, if he could fucking remember what Neut told him Cardinal’s name is.

He especially is not going to interrupt when Tim’s argument finally shut Murphy the fuck up. Bart just can’t wait until he gets to be the one to shut Murphy up.

Bart notices it immediately, but the first ‘it’ that he notices is in Tim’s face first. Because the boy always keeps a tight rein on his emotions, on all his feelings really, including physical ones. Not an uncommon trauma response, certainly. So when he walks in, wincing with discomfort, his bunched up features set off alarm bells in Bart’s head instantly.

Then, Bart sees the limp. Tim is favoring his right foot, limping heavily, face tightening every time his left foot bears his weight. Conner is pressed against the glass of his cell in seconds, staring intently but apparently too on edge from the first incident to be too explicit with his relationship with the boy. Kaldur and Dick are trying, albeit failing, not to look too concerned, and Bart knows it is because they don’t want Luthor to realize he has even more hostages than he realizes. M’gann, with the temperature, is less able to control her more subtle expressions: her face is contorted with sympathy and rage in equal measures.

Tim doesn’t acknowledge them at all. He limps over towards Bart, grabbing some things on the cart as he passes it. “Alright, Impulse, we’re getting into some real testing now, okay? Sorry, considering this probably isn’t a good thing for you, but I find you my most interesting subject.”

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Tim cuts him off with a stern look. “What I want to test now is your endurance in the absence of your meta abilities.” As he speaks, he handles an ice pack carefully, cracking it and pressing it to his ankle, using a restraint of some kind to clip it in place. He gives no inclination that he is aware of his own injury, even as he treats it. He makes a signal to the camera, and the front door makes a deep click before a solid piece of metal slides into place in front of it. With another gesture, Bart’s cell slides open. “You’re going to come out here so I can run my tests. You aren’t going to try anything, including hurting me or escaping, because it won’t work and the consequences will be very severe.”

Bart meets his gaze, “I’ll be totally compliant if you tell me what happened.” Bart understands Kaldur and Dick’s idea, but he has never been that subtle, and he has already decided he likes Tim.

With a sigh, Tim relents, “I twisted my ankle.”

“How?” Tim glares, but Bart knows how to identify the raw look of fear that can’t be disguised as spite.

Tim adjusts his stance so his back is perfectly toward the camera, and, voice barely a whisper, admits, “Lex isn’t happy that I have yet to uncover Nightwing’s secret identity.” Bart clenches his fist, palm protected from his nails by the gloves of his costume. Still, his goal is achieved, and there isn’t much more he can do. He can’t help Tim yet. Tim throws another hand sign, and the floor starts moving. Not anything under them, but a strip of ground in the center of the hexagon. “That,” Tim points to the re-settled floor, “is a treadmill. We’re testing your endurance today, not your speed, so I recommend you pace yourself. It should automatically adjust to your speed as you run.”

It is a simple track, embedded right in the floor. Bart decides to take a risk when Tim says it is automatic, and faces Kaldur’s cell instead of the door. It actually works, so Bart can observe as Tim limps (Bart is going to beat the life out of Murphy, but he’ll graciously leave Luthor to Kon, who has not taken his eyes off of Tim for a second) over to Dick. He can also just barely hear them, as Dick speaks with his head tucked downward.

“Is the only microphone in the camera? ‘Cus that seems like the only camera, and you were willing to whisper before.” It is a risk, it’s definitely crossing the invisible line they have all been toeing up until now, but Tim gives a small nod. Carefully, Dick clarifies, “So at my current volume, they can not hear me? At all?”

“Yeah,” Tim affirms, “He didn’t want to risk having anything too incriminating recorded, or specific documentation of anything for the heroes to get their hands on. None of you passing messages from— from beyond the grave.” Dick takes the reference to Luthor’s eventual plan in stride.

Or rather, he ignores it to say, “You could get my mask off, couldn’t you?”

Tim pauses for several seconds. When he whispers back, Bart can hear the sad smile that he can’t see, “I was a genius before I came here, too, and a huge Batman fanboy. I used to deduce your patrol routes and follow you guys with my camera. I’ve known who you were since I was nine.”

Dick freezes. Kaldur does, too, but Bart knows he can’t falter. Neither M’gann nor Kon can pick up the conversation, but it is obvious to them that something has happened. “Nightwing,” Tim continues, “I’m a Gothamite at heart. It goes beyond that too, I guess. I protected Kon back then, I’ll protect you now.”

“You do not have to incur Luthor’s abuse to protect us,” Dick insists.

“What should I do instead, tell him?” Everyone knows the answer. It doesn’t matter what Luthor does, the bats’ identities are a very valuable secret. That revelation in Luthor’s hands would just be far too dangerous. That doesn’t mean this isn’t an impossible choice between one’s own safety and the safety of others. None of them would be able to make it, unless they themself were the hostage, because that self-sacrificial bullshit is what heroes do. Bart’s admiration for Tim grows.

Dick goes on much louder, obviously trying to cover for the boy, “Just tell me the truth, Timothy. You can tell me how you got here. A rich, smart young Gothamite who disappeared after the age of, what, nine…” It is meant to be a distraction, but Dick’s eyes grow wide. He hesitates, then adds softly, “You’re Timothy Drake.”

Bart fumbles, tripping over his own feet, and goes flying off the treadmill. Tim whips around in a shock, but Bart doesn’t even let the boy start. “Tim Drake! You’re fucking Tim Drake! The famous Tim Drake!” Tim gapes, unable to respond, and throws a fearful look toward the camera. Shit, he’s been locked up here since he was like ten, I shouldn’t know him, he’s gonna get in trouble— “I’m from the future, and I mean I changed it, obviously, but like when the Reach took over you were like the biggest resistance because of your genius in meta human science!” It isn’t quite true of course, but it is close, close enough to cover up the truth. Because Bart has finally remembered something, and it is where he has heard the name Tim Drake before.

A whirring alarm goes off, not too alarming (pun very intended) but rather, a simple warning, and white light pushes against the red tinge flowing out of Kon’s cell. Tim rushes over to Bart, dragging him up and herding him back into his cell frantically. It slides closed and a moment later the door swings open. Luthor marches in, Tim watching him unflinchingly the way a deer stares down a lion, or whatever is in the same habitat. Test time, Bart bemoans to himself, Gotta pass, for all our sakes.

“Now I wasn’t aware of your ‘personal timeline’, Mr. Impulse,” Luthor says smoothly.

Bart reminds himself of Tim’s limp, “It wouldn’t be much help to you, in all honesty, Lex. I come from several decades in the future, and I came back from stopping the Reach from taking over. Which, you know, you helped accomplish. Thanks to weird time bullshit, my ‘personal timeline’, as you cleverly call it, isn’t changing, I’m still the same person and still here, but like, my knowledge of the future no longer applies since I’ve made such significant changes.” He hopes the underlying message, ‘the world fell apart, you were probably fucked over, Tim wouldn’t have to betray you to become known to me’, gets through Lex’s thick skull. For good measure he adds conversationally, “I can’t believe I did it at all, I wasn’t even a hero in my-past-your-future, but I guess I picked up a good few things here.”

Thankfully, incredibly, Luthor seems satiated, “Then I suppose I owe you a thanks. I won’t even let Dr. Murphy dissect your digestive system just yet.” Ungrateful dickbag, Bart grumbles internally. “I am sorry for throwing off your plans, Timothy.”

“Oh, it isn’t a problem Lex,” Tim speaks like they’re work buddies, like Luthor didn’t fucking assault him at least twice, obviously more. “Really I shouldn’t have started an endurance test this late, I just let curiosity get the best of me. And I had to check Nightwing, but the goody-two-shoes won’t budge.”

“Ah, but this information is significant though,” Luthor assures kindly. Bart can bathe in the fact that as monumental a revelation as it is, it will not be nearly as useful in terms of unlocking time travel or whatever as Luthor thinks, or maybe hopes, it will be. Both men leave the room, Tim casting a last look back at Bart.

Now that the room is empty, Bart backs himself into the front corner of his cell. Tucked against the glass, he is confident enough that the camera can’t see his mouth and that he has everyone’s attention. This, too, is sort of risky, but he knows it is worth it. Because he remembers where he heard that name before, he remembers who it is. With an overly-excited grin, he mouths slowly, “Cardinal.”

Chapter Text

M’gann has sometimes struggled with interpersonal relationships, but at the end of the day, things work out because she cares, even if she can not always express it properly or receive others’ care, so she always tries to fix problems.

Her relationship with Conner is the perfect example. She had been so obsessed with trying to fit in, to make things work out, to avoid the abuse she had faced on Mars that she had become the abuser. It took her doing a terrible thing, facing the consequences for those actions, and almost losing some of the people closest to her to realize she had to draw a line for where to use her abilities and where they are unacceptable.

Then, of course, what she did to Kaldur is what made her draw the line of how to use her gifts. It had taken her way too long to figure out how immoral she had been. After so long being the underdog, having to use her psychic abilities to their full extent to look after herself and her white Martian family members and friends against the violence of other Martians, she had not even noticed when she was the overpowered one, taking advantage of her status.

It had taken so long to rebuild her relationships, to regain trust, and to start trusting herself. She had become so much more empathetic afterwards. Realizing that she wasn’t always aware when people were fearful, uncomfortable, or angry, she ended up having to be more purposefully aware of what others might be feeling. It helped her learn how to read people and pick up on social cues without using her abilities.

Now, it is her purpose for being a hero, the part of this job that she cares about the most, is using her strength to stand for the weak, to even the playing field for everyone. She is still learning just how to balance fairness with compassion, but it is her priority, and the thing she passes on to the young heroes who come under her tutelage. She does sometimes struggle with the weight of the things heroes have to hold onto, the tragic backstories that don’t excuse the actions of villains, and victims that weren’t saved.

That is made all the worse in this situation, for a myriad of reasons. For one thing, she may not be in pain, but her brain is mush from the temperature. Beyond that, with her adopted younger brother on her mind and her recent additional bonding with some of the younger girls on the team as a mentor has made her a bit vulnerable to teens with hero-complexes. It is a combination of all of these things, and of course the atrocious situation in general, that is making her so upset about Tim.

At Dick’s estimates he is seventeen, just a child. He has been here for almost eight years, since he was kidnapped at the age of ten.

From her own observation, he is extremely intelligent, just as compassionate, and severely broken. Being here for so long, forced to corrupt his gifted mind through obviously unethical experiments, while facing down constant abuse and therefore immense pressure, he seems exhausted, not to mention extremely nihilistic. And yet he has only given up on himself, not on others. Because she can tell he cares about Kon, and that he is secretly star-struck by Dick, and entertained by Bart. She can tell that he is privately reassured, even minimally, by Kaldur’s strong presence, and that he is deeply upset by her own condition, despite being the one keeping her decently healthy while exploiting her weakness.

Late at night, when she was just a tad too hot to sleep soundly and would watch as an unconscious Kaldur is carefully administered water by a gentle Tim, she would wonder if he had ever had a sleepover, or a movie night, or gone to a Halloween party. If he had ever gone to the beach or the mall or a fair with a group of friends. Dick had not said much, but it was clear to see he was upset. He had mentioned that Tim’s case was one of the ones that stuck with him and Batman, and the implications of his sparse words is that Tim’s situation had not been very good even before he disappeared. The terrible thing is that this means Tim might have never believed someone was coming to save him, might have never seen a light at the end of the tunnel. It horrified M’gann, and she knew it horrified the others too.

She wishes she had the energy to lend herself to the solution the way Bart has been doing. For all Conner obviously cares so much, and Dick worries so much, Bart has been doing something more. Joking and making friends with Tim, lightening the mood and keeping a silent eye on the boy, scanning his body every time he appears looking for new injuries. And, for a couple of days, there weren’t any.

They were getting Tim to open up more, at least. With the subtle hints from M’gann and Conner, Dick picked up on Tim’s hero worship. The boy couldn’t tamper his admiration for his hometown heroes, the most fired up M’gann had yet to see him was arguing against Dick’s pointing out that he is, technically, Blüdhaven’s hero. Tim looked like he wanted to slap him for the mere implication that the first robin isn’t a Gotham hero, even if he operates somewhere else now. Meanwhile, Conner has slowly been prodding Tim with the pieces of memories he has, drawing out the occasional story about the time they knew each other. They still have not gotten him to talk about his time at Cadmus apart from when Kon was with him, most of his past shrouded in mystery.

According to Tim, they are on day seven. The first few days were mostly mind numbing, most of Tim’s testing was pretty basic. He had warned them, in a quiet, quivering voice, that it would be getting more intense. Yesterday, Dr. Murphy has come in, without Tim, and dragged Kaldur away gleefully. Tim escorted him back in much later, Kaldur’s hands thoroughly wrapped in bandaging. Tim had muttered, in a painfully small whisper, that there would not be any further experimentation without his supervision, and that Dr. Murphy was in trouble for the reckless torture. He also reminded them that that didn’t mean that things would not be getting worse from here.

Right now, M’gann is stuck, trying desperately to think of anything she or any of them could do other than just sit and wait to be rescued. She hates just sitting here watching evil happen.

But she might not have to, as an alarm blares out suddenly, making her jump right off the cot she was sitting on. “What’s going on?” Bart yelps.

M’gann opens her mouth, if only to add her own confusion to the conversation, but all that comes out is a scream as agony overtakes her. After a couple of seconds, she processes that it is the collar that is doing something. A few more, and she realizes that nothing is happening to anyone else. Distantly, she hears a loud clang, followed by a hollow swish.

“Miss Martian, can you hear me?” Is that Tim? Something is definitely wrong if Tim is here. “Alright, hold her down— carefully, don’t damage her.” There is more pressure now, she can hardly feel it over the electrifying pain. She hears no more talking, nothing to tell her what time is passing, all she can do is writhe in pain.

Eventually, the pain cuts off, just as suddenly as it began. She lies panting and trying to calm the shaking in her limbs.

By the time M’gann is capable of getting her wits about her, whatever Luthor or Cadmus goons that had been around her are no longer in her cell. “Miss Martian?” She hears again, in the very same voice. Tim is crouched just outside the glass, calculating gaze softened by fear as it scans over her. She drags herself forward, at least wanting to sit up, if she could not stand. Like this, they are very close, but Tim leans in close enough that his forehead is resting against the translucent wall. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” when he speaks, his voice is a raw whisper. “I’m so, so sorry, but it was the only way, I swear. I have to go.” And he does, rising and whisking himself away with impressive haste.

What is he talking about? She thinks desperately, her feelings overpowering in the moment. He wouldn’t do something, would he?

M’gann? Kon’s voice rings through her head. Like a trigger, she reaches out with her power before she even really means to, psychic signals radiating outward.

Can you all hear me? After a moment, everyone mentally voices their confirmation.

How is this possible? Dick asks. Don’t you still have your collar?

The collar! It broke. Hello, Megan! Half of her statement could probably be a private thought, not a public one, but this tends to happen with her telepathy.

But isn’t it fixed? They were acting like it was fixed. It is whiplash every time she has to hear Bart’s thoughts directly from his head. M’gann thinks this is true for everyone else too, if Dick’s physical wince is anything to go by. The boy thinks fast enough to actually make her feel out of breath.

No, no, Tim was saying sorry before he left, like the technological issue was his fault. M’gann explains. He must have done something to the collar.

If he made it break remotely, Kaldur catches on, then he has an excuse to mess with your collar.

Can you do anything else? Conner asks. M’gann spends several seconds switching between her powers, or the feelings that she usually associates with her powers, to no avail.

No, I don’t think so, M’gann sighs. It was like this on the Black Manta’s ship, he used the collar to block some of my powers, but not the ones I needed to heal Kaldur.

Well, if he could pull it off, Tim definitely could, Bart points out. But this is something.

It is more than something, Kaldur sounds cautiously hopeful. This is incredibly useful. I am going to remind everyone to be very careful to be subtle. We can’t let the camera catch any suspicious behavior.

M’gann tries to tamper her own optimism, not wanting to get her hopes up or cloud her judgment. Nonetheless, this development does give them a serious leg up. She can feel the hope radiating off of the others, too.

Dick pipes up, I’m just putting it out there, the B-man is going to love this kid.

Oh, most definitely, Kaldur concurs dryly. M’gann watches Bart launch himself into his cot, flipping onto his stomach. She realizes he is trying to hide a sudden fit of laughter.

M’gann’s hope dies, within seconds of the door sliding open. They just won’t last long enough. It’s clear to see when the ever graceful Tim stumbles inside.

In any other situation, M’gann would be amused by the moments when team members visibly enact their training, all springing to the exact same reaction at the exact same time. It isn’t the same when that training is straining their vision for a hint of an injury.

Tim’s eyes are glancing around, unfocused and fearful. He stumbles again, casting his eyes toward Conner but immediately wincing and turning away. “The light in my cell is harsh,” Kon soothes, “It will be pretty bad like this. Did you hit your head?”

“I made a mistake with Miss Martian,” Tim mutters, and M’gann shivers for the first time in a while at the confirmation that whatever happened was because of him helping them, again. “Lex demands results, I understand that I need discipline to improve myself in the future.”

Tim…, M’gann can’t resist reaching out. She doesn’t mean to project quite as much sadness as she does.

Oh, it worked perfectly, even his thoughts are jumbled and sluggish, but they’re audible enough in the mindlink. Don’t worry about… the, uh, troubling rhetoric, I find the ‘effectively indoctrinated via the abuse’ approach to be pretty effective with Lex. Despite his recoiling against the light, Tim drags himself over to Kon and slumps down against the glass so they can sit side by side, separated by only the pane. I can’t pull off an act of being on their level, I just can’t fake the, like, lack of empathy and willingness to hurt people and stuff. But the whole ‘wanting Lex’s approval and not fighting his methods’ approach covers my bases pretty well.

It is a little bit concerning, how slowly he thinks to them. Conner is pressed against the glass, face contorted with pain, but he doesn’t speak up in the mindlink, probably to hold back his building emotions from the psychic connection. Instead, it is Dick who replies, Hey, Tim, can you fill us in on what happened?

He shoved me, duh, there is no convincing sarcasm in Tim’s tone.

Dick continues gently, Did you hit your head?

Uh, Tim blinks, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

It is reassuring that he isn’t actually buying Luthor’s shit, but there is some serious denial. M’gann can only imagine what it is like for such a young, and intelligent, person to be forced to pull off what has essentially become an eight-year deep cover act to hide all his true feelings and his nature. Which is completely ignoring all the physical or psychological abuse, and being forced to witness and partaking in completely unethical… essentially torture.

Tim, Kaldur draws his attention, I think you have a concussion. You’re off-balance, you have a headache, and sensitivity to light, right?

Hmmm, what are the other symptoms of— He cuts himself off, lurching to his feet and towards the cart, barely in time to grab a bucket and throw up. He slumps down onto the floor, Can’t decide if it would have been better or worse to not make it to the bucket if it meant I didn’t need to move so fast. What do I do?

Sorry, Tim, M’gann wishes she could do more for him. There’s no real treatment for a mild concussion, you just can’t be alone.

Oh, wonderful, Tim has not gotten the hang of telepathic communication, he can’t cover the panic in his tone with dry humor or rage like he might vocally, the worst fucking circumstance for my situation.

You should stay here, Tim, Kon finally adds. M’gann can sense Tim gearing up for a response when he literally stalls.

Urgh, that is terrible, holy fuck, how did I just, like, feel you all judgmentally agreeing, I have a concussion thing, please.

Welcome to telepathy, we probably shouldn’t have introduced you to it while you have a concussion, Bart purposefully uses a humorous tone. If Tim is uncharacteristically unable to control his persona in the mindlink, Bart is always surprisingly good at self-regulation, even when psychically connected to others.

Fuck— I… fuck, Tim tips his head back against the wall.

Will you be okay, staying here? Dick ventures reluctantly.

Probably, Tim settles on eventually. This is the type of thing I was referring to earlier. I can’t always be stone hearted enough to put everything aside, so I just do the thing Lex wouldn’t like, but make sure he thinks that I’m too afraid to betray him, even if I’m ‘too soft’. He expects me to do things he doesn’t necessarily like just because I’m a normal person with feelings, but he has faith in my dependence on him.

It is a terrible thing for Tim to understand and plan for. M’gann wonders what trial and error led Tim to know exactly how to balance his basic empathy with Luthor’s preference for his personality.

“It looks like a concussion, Tim,” Conner recaps, likely for the sake of the camera. “You’re just going to have to wait it out.”

“Eh,” Tim shrugs, then winces, “That’s what I do for most of my injuries anyway. I’ll live.” More aware of Tim’s nausea this time, M’gann makes sure to hold back the collective anger simmering to a boil between the five of them. “Wouldn’t mind a distraction, though.”

“I think it would be better for you to get some rest,” Kaldur says. I would rather have a private conversation, he adds mentally.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” Tim sighs.

There’s something I want to ask you, but if it’s too delicate a conversation, we can do it another time. Kaldur sits on the edge of his cot, watching Tim until the boy nods slowly. I don’t think this is the first thing you’ve done to undermine Luthor, by a long shot. I think Gotham’s got one more bird watching over it than it thought.

…Damn, what gave me away? Tim sounds a little amused, thankfully not cagey or afraid. I thought I was covering better than that.

Nothing, actually, I’m just from the future! Bart assures.

Oh, that’s what that was about the other day?

You are Cardinal? Conner cuts in, barely covering a conflicted expression.

Tim looks over with a small smirk, I gave you guys a map at one point. Who else could hack Lex Luthor?

You have been quite impressive, Kaldur replies. All we really knew was that we were dealing with some mole in some criminal organization, incredibly intelligent, and most likely a Gotham native. We were never going to find— He cut himself off, frowning.

How did you know I was a Gothamite? Tim doesn’t notice Kaldur’s shut down.

Your persona didn’t hide the Batman admiration as well as you apparently thought, Dick smiles. Or, I guess you did, but the B-man could easily pick up on the subtle difference in your admiration for the other heroes and your ingrained trust in him. He thought you likely grew up with the bats and the birds.

I used to want to be Robin, Tim muses distractedly. Didn’t think I could be Batman, the dark protector who can take on anything. But Robin is— the light, the balance, the reminder to Gotham that there is still hope. When I was little I thought I might be able to be that, or I wanted to be that. I couldn’t anymore.

That’s too far for M’gann. I think that’s exactly what you could be. You would sort of be the perfect Robin, wouldn’t you? A native Gothamite who has so much faith in Batman’s ability to change things for the better, who can keep up with him in terms of intelligence. A perfect combination of highly competent and strong morality.

You vastly overestimate my worth, Tim snorts, seemingly genuine.

I disagree, Conner shoots back. I think you underestimate yourself. You outsmart Lex Luthor and his criminal partners while putting yourself at risk to help protect the heroes because you know what is right and refuse to let Luthor do as he pleases.

I also helped him break every law and code of ethics in the book. Tim reminds them blankly, He couldn’t have done half the shit he’s done in the past decade-ish if I hadn’t enabled him to do so. I almost helped the Reach subjugate humanity.

Bart jolts and promptly tries to cover up the action by leaping to his feet and pacing back and forth. That genetically engineered food stuff that Lexcorp was making when the Light was working with the Reach. You did that?

Well, plants aren’t my expertise, so I only assisted in the development. A dull noise echoes into the room from some other part of the building. With a glance toward it, Tim drags himself back over to curl against the front of Kon’s cell.

What are your expertise? Conner having actual conversation skills, like subtly turning a topic to something positive, still surprises M’gann sometimes. He had gone from stoic to more brazen, so his maturity is often unnoticed.

That’s a long list. Tim doesn’t brag. In fact, he states it somewhat lifelessly. I’m already intelligent and I’m good at learning. I was already fairly interested in some things, like coding and, yes, genetic engineering. Then, I just sort of learned what I needed to. Got better at regular engineering, you know, get the hardware skills to match my software skills, and I became something of an expert in metahumans and aliens in relation to human genetics. I’m a pretty good detective, I think, and I learned most of the business skills that I would have learned at the Drake heir. Got a lot of biology stuff, too, though I won’t try and define it ‘cus it is really just whatever miscellaneous knowledge is used to make the sort of metas that end up as animal hybrids.

One of our early missions with the team led us to the Brain, who was making hyper intelligent animals, Kaldur recounts. He doesn’t actually ask anything, simply leaving the open-ended prompt.

Oh, I think I know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t involved, but I went back over that a while ago, picked up some stuff. I was investigating if something similar had played a role in the creation of Beast Boy. Tim is visibly and audibly starting to doze off.

Actually, M’gann starts, Beast Boy got—

Don’t tell me! Tim snaps. After a second, he continues weakly, it’s really better if I don’t know. It’s always a challenge to keep secrets from Lex.

Anxiety radiates off Dick, but even with the bout of excitement, Tim is still exhausted. He slips into unconsciousness, the only thing stopping him from slumping onto Conner’s shoulder being the wall of glass.

What do we do? Bart whispers into the mindlink. M’gann carefully shields Tim’s mind from the connection to avoid waking him.

We’ll get him out of here, Kon insists with barely restrained rage. As annoying as the absence of her powers has been, and as difficult, M’gann has been mostly focused on the heat and discomfort that are the cause. Now, though, with Tim merely inches away from him, it is plain to see how incredibly frustrated Conner is with his inability to break the glass, to break them out. M’gann just hopes their back up gets here soon, because she isn’t sure how much more Tim can take.

Chapter Text

Kaldur is starting to get restless. His usual patient personality was already going to be limited by the fact that his friends are in cages behind enemy lines, and it is wearing thin after a week. The first several days being relatively calm, apart from the occasional nods to the darker aspects of Tim’s life in Cadmus, only worsened the tension. It made it relieving for him, in the end, that Kaldur himself was the first to be exposed to the real intensity of being held hostage by a villain such as Lex Luthor.

Tim hadn’t been present as Kaldur had been led to an experiment, which was the first warning sign. He had realized why Tim was absent when the unidentified ‘scientists’ explained that they would be testing the extent of his mystic abilities the hard way. For the sake of ‘the validity of their results’, apparently.

For the next several hours, he endured having various liquids poured on his hands. He isn’t one to care about pride to an excessive degree, but even as they shift into the boiling hot and the highly acidic substances, he holds in his screams. He knew Tim was likely just outside, proven correct when the boy walked in at the end, looking terribly ashamed. That, more than his own torture, is what made Kaldur rife with anger. Tim had treated his hands in a heavy silence until Kaldur broke it, to quietly assure him that none of this was his fault, that he couldn’t have stopped this.

Kaldur had waited until well after Tim had left to explain what had occurred to his friends. The next day had been the incident with M’gann’s suppression collar, and Tim’s near-breakdown with his concussion. Apparently, Lex Luthor has been thinking carefully about how to get what he wants out of them most effectively. After those incidents, nobody entered the cell block except for the people bringing their meals and changing Kaldur’s bandaging. The five of them can barely plan for anything, with no powers, no information, and never being moved aside from rarely on an irregular schedule. By now, Kon is pacing his cell like a caged tiger. They had not seen Tim, and the mindlink has essentially been an echo chamber of concern for the past several hours.

From what Kaldur can tell, M’gann has essentially muted Conner in the collective psychic connection, for their sakes and his own. Kaldur almost wants her to block him out entirely, because the one amongst them with the strongest emotional connection to Tim isn’t exactly going to calm down by listening to Dick and Bart’s growing fear.

The closest they can get to any sort of awareness if the situation is approximations of time. It is late right now, Kaldur only knows because they’ve had their third meal some time ago. This means that the lights, aside from Conner’s, are bound to go out soon. Yet, off schedule, the door swings open. An exhausted looking Tim trudges in.

“No need to bristle,” the boy sighs, “We’re testing your endurance properly this time. Or training? Or the difference between each of you and the average human? I don’t know, their explanations are pretty good, in all honestly, despite the fact that this might just be torture. Sometimes I actually can’t tell. Point is, you guys aren’t getting sleep for a while. Please try to stay awake, I don’t want to have to keep you up by force.”

After a moment of tense silence, Kaldur starts, “Intentional sleep deprivation definitely sounds like torture…”

“Right?” Tim carefully rearranges what look to be charts on the clipboard he plucked from the ever-present cart. “But you have to remember, these people aren’t, like, ‘evil’, you know? Like, in the classic, figure of speech way, ‘cus I’m not debating ethics right now. The point is that people forget that morality dominates large portions of your subconscious decision making. This could be a genuine experiment done out of a lack of care for your well being, not necessarily a decision fueled by an active want to harm you.”

Kaldur hums his agreement, in no way prepared to unpack that statement under these circumstances. Luckily, M’gann mentally calls out, Tim, are you alright? We haven’t seen you in—

Two days, Tim confirms absently, scribbling away seemingly simultaneously, Your friends and mentors are good, guys, seriously. It’s been a real headache trying to keep you concealed. Sorry about that, by the way, I obviously want you to get found, but, like, if I don’t, then I’m giving myself away—

We get it, Tim, Kon cuts off Tim’s rambling gently. That’s what you should be doing, in fact. Cooperation with your captors ensures your safety, you definitely shouldn’t reveal yourself. Conner is making a recognizable effort to control his agitation, radianting comfort outward into the psychic connection.

“But why are you being tortured?” Dick asks aloud.

Tim scoffs, “Oh, I get to sleep. Not now, unfortunately, but that’s a shitty work thing in, like, the way work is just shitty. Everyone knows work sucks sometimes and overtime is inevitable. Also, my normal sleep schedule would give a somnologist night terrors.”

“Sonmo— Snom—” Bart huffs, and finally manages, “Somnologist?”

“Sleep doctor,” Tim replies. “To your point, Nightwing, I won’t be supervising throughout the entire experiment. Along with being allowed to sleep, I do have work to do. This has been such a vacation for you guys because just having you as sources for your genetic material is an astounding opportunity. I’ve been sitting in a lab for most of this.” Y’all are probably gonna get the Resident.

Is that like a bad villain name…? Dick cuts Kaldur a glance, but there is no information to silently share.

Oh, right, ah— no. Just what I call Murphy sometimes to be a bitch to him.

Resident? Kaldur muses. So he really has only been here for a short time.

Only got approved to get here a couple months ago. I’m way~ senior to him, he hates it. Narcissism and all that jazz.

Kaldur exchanges another glance with Dick, but at present, Dr. Murphy is a problem for the future. Tim makes a signal at the camera, and several unknown people push in large pieces of equipment. “I’m going to take your heart rates, blood pressure, et cetera. You get more food, if that makes it better, because the only reason most people go more than six to eight hours without food is because they are asleep.”

All of the assistants exit as quickly as they entered, except for one, who stands back silently next to the cells’ control panels. Tim moves blankly from one person to the next, pushing the medical equipment as he notes down every reading while the woman standing on the wall moves perfectly to open and close the glass panels as needed without hesitation.

Seeing the tension masked beneath Tim’s bored demeanor, and the growing impatience making Bart increasingly fidgety, Kaldur slowly thinks outwardly, …Tim? Something’s wrong, right?

Without flinching, Tim responds, The woman, it’s Lex’s assistant. She’s a cyborg, by the way. You know, Lex’s personal assistant who is completely loyal and has a bunch of lasers in her body.

There’s a fucking robot? Bart groans. Fuck, fuck everything!

Well, technically a partial-robot. Your team really is getting close, Tim explains. Lex is getting antsy.

Define antsy, Conner’s internal voice is tense, thick with the stress of the situation.

Because tiredness apparently makes him sarcastic and slightly unaware, Tim snarks back, Trust me, you don’t want me to. He has made it all the way around to Kon’s cell. Face to face, the tension is thick between the two. Kaldur wonders how long Kon is going to blame himself for Tim’s imprisonment, considering how long has passed since Conner escaped. In all fairness, Conner’s a hero. Kaldur is going to need all hands on deck to pry the self-loathing out of Kon’s hands the hard way. Sometimes Kaldur really resents becoming emotionally invested in heroes at all, never mind being friends with so many.

Under the cyborg's supervision, Tim moves lifelessly, conducting the examinations utterly silent even in the mindlink. M’gann mentally urges everyone else to silence, repeatedly reminding Bart specifically that even a mental conversation could create some signal in their body language. Especially considering the one keeping a close eye on them has computers in her brain.

As he has gone around, Tim has left one machine attached to each of them via multiple wires, leaving each of them with an arm sticking out of their cells. Suddenly, the cyborg speaks, “I will advise you all now to answer the questions Mr. Luthor poses. I’m sure most of you are aware that things can get worse for you. We are not here to underestimate your intelligence. You must realize the situation you are in.”

“As must you,” Kaldur monotones. “You have five heroes held prisoner. Lex Luthor can not be foolish enough to believe he will not face consequences for this action.”

“What haven’t we gotten away with?” The cyborg smiles.

“Please tell me we aren’t just doing this to interrogate them when they’re sleep deprived.” Tim sighs in annoyance. He has paced a few steps back to speak to the woman.

“Tim—”

“Don’t call me that.”

The cyborg shakes her head, looking amused, “Timothy, we are contributing to your research. You know how Mr. Luthor hates to sully the scientific endeavors he invests in with the less savory aspects of his other business. He is deeply apologetic.”

Tim nods, “I know, I know. I’m just frustrated.” The cyborg pats his shoulder. Kaldur mentally chides his friends, trying to get Kon and Dick to reign in their obvious hostility. Kaldur does not much like watching Tim be forced to place house, having casual, familiar conversations with his captors like Luthor is a friendly boss either.

The negativity rolling off of Bart is also quite troubling. No one knows too much about the future that Bart left behind, other than the fact that it was controlled by Reach overlords, but Jaime had broken down to M’gann and Dick a while back when Bart had unintentionally informed his friends that the situation was apparently slavery for all humans, with especially harsh conditions for metahumans. This sort of captivity could hardly be palatable for the young speedster.

The door, once again, opens silently. “Alright, you’ve got your setup done.” Dr. Murphy sneers as he enters. Tim hands off the clipboard and his eyes sweep over the room once more. There’s a cautionary look in his eyes, a dark warning to all of them.

“No more mistakes,” Tim addresses Dr. Murphy blandly, “Any more proof of your incompetence will be damning.”

“I can monitor blood pressure,” the man scowls. Tim mutters something that sounds an awful lot like ‘yeah, maybe’ and nods at the cyborg. She follows him out of the room. Dr. Murphy’s sour expression morphs into a grin as he appraises the heroes in front of him. “Well, boys and girls, I’ll be your chaperone today, I do hope we can be pals.”

“Yeah,” Conner scoffs, “I don’t think so.”

Dr. Murphy turns his twisted grin onto Superboy, “Why not? You get along so well with your other captors, what’s with the bias against me?”

“Don’t tell me you think I get along with Luthor.”

“Actually, I was referring to Timothy.” The venom in the doctor’s voice chills Kaldur to the bone. If the murderous glare is anything to go by, Conner shares the feeling. The threat is more than plain to see.

Tread carefully, Dick reminds them solemnly.

Everyone keep your guards up, Kaldur adds, if our allies are truly closing in on our location, then this situation is more volatile than ever.

Dr. Murphy’s presence is the torture, Kaldur realizes belatedly. Or Bart is getting more integrated into his mind as their time within the connection goes on. It is unclear.

Either way, the following hours are maddening, as Dr. Murphy spews a mix of threats and vulgar jokes and painful prodding as he checks or collects one thing or another with none of the professionalism, or possibly just basic ability, that Tim normally displays. It is clear the man holds no respect for humane treatment, which at least explains how he ended up in this place by choice, unlike Tim.

As they eat what is confirmed to be their morning meal, and therefore reach approximately twenty-four consecutive hours of consciousness, Kaldur starts experiencing the full force of this ‘experiment’. M’gann has gotten the worst, thus far. Between the normal effects of heat and the effects heat has on martians, she had eventually fallen asleep. Seeing the Doctor start moving, Conner had started slamming on their shared wall, but it wasn’t enough. Dr. Murphy had happily tapped the control panel and electrocuted her for several seconds after she woke up.

No one has fallen asleep since, Dick having passed around his bat-tips for staying awake for days on end.

Kaldur is losing his mind. He is meant to be their leader, meant to be dependable and to take care of them. His inability to relieve his teammates and friends is grating on him. He can tell the same is true for Dick, the way the other man’s attention is constantly split between the slowly weakening M’gann and the increasingly restless Bart. The youngest has been working out more than Kaldur has ever been able to get him to in training, in some attempt not to explode from his pent up energy. Kaldur assumes the speedster copied Conner, who has been working out his rage through whatever physical activity he’s capable of in the confined space. Dick had to convince Kon not to rip up his only sheet to wrap his fists and use the wall as a substitute punching bag. Or perhaps a substitute for Lex Luthor’s face.

As the people who bring the morning meal exit, Tim returns. Before the boy can say anything, Dr. Murphy says, full of faux-concern, “Oh no, Timothy! What happened to your hand!” Conner had been glaring at the Doctor as he spoke, but his head whips toward Tim as soon as the words are out.

Tim looks murderous, not pissed in a normal way but the determined way that Kaldur sees when people are actually about to do something terrible to someone they despise. His hand is wrapped in a layer of stark white bandaging. Kaldur is getting sick of Tim walking into the room with some new injury.

Tim’s hair looks slightly dirty, somewhat greasy even, knotted from the sloppy way it is pulled back. His loose clothes and lab coat are wrinkled, with multiple stains, and the bags under his eyes are worse than they have ever seen him. Tim even has a slight stubble, when remaining clean shaven is the one state he has constantly maintained. There is an unmistakable sharpness in his body.

By some miracle, or rather some terrible curse, Tim doesn’t attack the Doctor spontaneously. Rather, holding up his injured hand, the boy flips off the older man. “Your shift is over, fuck off.”

“Oh, you’re crabby today,” Dr. Murphy complains lightly. “No need to be snippy, Timothy.”

“Normally, I am tolerant of your incompetence because I am one of the more benevolent people here.” Tim explains plainly. “Today, I am tired from working late and carrying the slack of you and all my other completely stupid subordinates.” Knocking into the older man’s shoulder, Tim marches past while snatching away the clipboard. He begins examining the top chart, not looking up as the Doctor seemingly waits in some shock for some other order or confrontation or just something. After several moments, he slowly makes his way out.

Tim… Dick presses against the glass.

Are you guys going to react like this every time? There is humor in his tone that is sickening to Kaldur.

Every time you get injured by Luthor? Kon replies tersely. Yes, we will.

Don’t. You’ll wear yourself out quick. Without missing a beat, Tim continues, “I’m sure you know the drill, but arms out.” One at a time, from Bart to Conner, the panels in each cell slide open. “We’re drawing more blood this time.”

Bart sticks his arm out obediently. “You aren’t here a whole lot,” the redhead pouts, “Are we not even the most interesting thing in this compound?”

Tim chuckles, “You certainly are, that’s why I’m spending so much time bent over a microscope in a lab staring at your blood and tissue samples.”

“You could spend more time with us, though!” Bart continues. Kaldur can commend the resilience the speedster does not often display openly. Despite everything, Bart has the energy and forethought to try and initiate a sense of normalcy and peace. “You’re here now though, right? Like you’re the one observing us now, right?”

“Yes,” Tim seems genuinely lightened by Bart’s enthusiasm, “I’m here as the observer now. I hope Dr. Murphy was not too annoying to deal with for twelve hours straight.”

Dick shakes his head, “He was, unfortunately. He seriously was so annoying. Can we never see him again?”

“Nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. He’s the most qualified on paper who is present after me, plus he is being given the opportunity to prove his skills.” Tim starts his routine to address them one at a time. When he reaches Kaldur, he tugs harder than necessary. He isn’t stronger than Kaldur, couldn’t move him if he tried, but Kaldur moves with the prompting. Miss M needs a break, you need to break the connection more often. The psychic Psimon is coming here soon. Then, as he sets up the drawing of blood, he whispers, “A signal the Kid Flash or Red Tornado will trust.”

Kaldur assumes the verbal communication is to minimize the code’s vulnerability to Psimon. Should the meta arrive before they get out he will undeniably go after M’gann without hesitation. He contemplates slowly, knowing the necessity of a foolproof signal, “Act now, it is 7-4, today’s the day.” This, of course, is not close to the date, but Tim does not blink. He finishes promptly and prepares to move on, so Kaldur quickly adds, “It goes without saying with you, but remain cautious, Cardinal.”

A near imperceptible hum of assent answers him. Kaldur’s eyes are drawn back to the thick swab of white, now slightly tinged red, on the younger boy’s hand. This clearly means that whatever presumably large gash Tim has acquired is on the back of his hand. And that it is bleeding fast. Nudging the psychic link and finding it maintained, Kaldur draws Conner’s attention. Check Tim’s hand when he gets to you somehow, it’s bleeding hard.

Kon’s understanding flashes in the link, so Kaldur instructs M’gann to drop the connection. She desperately needs to preserve what little strength she still has. Tim’s process with M’gann lasts longer than the others. First, he looks at her for a moment and walks off to the control panel, closing one panel on her cell and opening another, lower down. From her place slumped against the wall, M’gann can slip her arm out of the lower panel. Tim works slowly, especially gentle, as he draws a vial of green blood.

When he moves on to Kon, Kaldur can see the larger boy speaking. As annoying as it is that Kaldur, even with his proximity, can not hear the short exchange, he is well aware that it is occurring very close to the microphone attached to the camera. When Tim turns away, Conner shares a helpless look that Kaldur can most certainly sympathize with.

Dick calls out suddenly, desperation soaked into his voice, “Tim, what happened? To your hand, I mean.”

Tim’s body stiffens for a single moment, before it relaxes again, a perfected cover of innocent confusion. “My…? Oh! My hand,” he holds up the bandaged one with a slightly condescending smile. “I mean, things are getting frustrating. There was an accident, it happens are running high. I’m just glad it was an empty beaker this time.” The last sentence is played off as a joke, but it completes the picture. Tim has mentioned that the Team and the Justice League are closing in.

Dick is visibly upset by the dismissal of Lex Luthor’s obvious violent outburst. Kaldur knows that the trained vigilante knows exactly what Tim’s act is, but Dick already has four younger siblings and many younger sibling figures, and seeing the teenager in this increasingly disgusting situation is awfully close to Dick’s worst nightmare.

Swallowing back the nausea, Kaldur retreats to his cot. He crosses his legs and starts breathing, keeping his eyes as slits to watch Tim hand off the samples he has collected to someone outside. Everyone else finds getting as close to sleep as Kaldur is, meditating or just laying down, to be too risky in case they actually fall asleep. Kaldur, however, has used meditation for focusing and gathering energy for years. He knows that Tim, unlike perhaps Dr. Murphy, will not assault him for sitting still.

“I need to make sure you aren’t sleeping,” Tim sounds close to Kaldur, and reminds him of the camera beyond Tim’s eyes. Kaldur opens his eyes fully a does his best to grin at Tim.

“How?”

“I suppose that I have been wanting a real conversation, with you especially.” Tim mimic’s Kaldur’s position, on a folding chair Kaldur had barely noticed him setting up. “I’ve heard a lot about you, leader of the young heroes.”

Sensing the opportunity Tim is giving him, Kaldur schools his face, “At this point, I am willing to trade information.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I can’t remember how we got here, none of us can.” The mindlink snaps on, and M’gann whispers weakly, Conner forgot what first happened here, when you both were younger.

Without flinching, Tim replies, “I know quite a lot about biology and chemicals. Did you know how easy it is to induce temporary, short term amnesia with the right chemicals? At least, it's easy for me.”

You made me forget… on purpose? Conner’s internal voice is deeply pained.

It kept you safe this long, Tim maintains a smile as the sadness leaks through the connection. With apparent strain on M’gann’s part, Kaldur notes the absence of regret. It had been his theory for a while, but the confirmation cuts to the core. An eleven-year-old Tim, from Kon’s accounts having comforted and made friends with his newly created companion, making the impossible choice. You had your chance to leave, Kon. You would have died if you came back for me.

The psychic link collapses, as does M’gann’s posture, but she makes a small sound to stop any assumption that she has passed out. It might not even be M’gann’s inability to maintain the connection, but an inability to be delicate when she recognizes the need to block out Conner’s now bursting emotions.

For good measure, Tim prompts, “Miss Martian?”

“Yup, I’m… ‘ma— wake,” she lifts her head, eyes open, with a grimace. With a sudden groan, everyone’s attention is drawn to the other side of the room.

Dick slams his fist against the glass, “I’m losing my fucking mind here.” With a single glance, Bart takes up the mantle.

“Thank you!” Bart cries out. “Come on, I hate that this ain’t even active torture, I’m just bored.” The speedster thumps his head against his own cell’s glass. All eyes, likely including those watching outside the room, are now drawn to those two and their side of the cell block. “I thought Tim was at least going to give us a story time!”

“As in… the situation that got the five of you held prisoner by one of your deadliest enemies?” Tim sounds equally amused and exhausted. Bart looks to be physically holding back his opinion on Lex Luthor being ‘one of their deadliest enemies’, and Kaldur keeps his body turned toward him as he watches Conner crumple onto his cot. Brightly, Bart nods frantically, still seemingly hopeful for a story. “Okay… the basics? That mission you guys were on, it sort of split you all up on purpose. We had no way of picking and choosing our prey, but we were sort of fishing. Threw out a net to see what we would catch.

“We scattered a lot of new metas who were—” Tim swallows, “Who were more trouble than they were worth. Mostly volatile people, either excessively emotional or just those with poor control. When Lex decided he wanted to fish in order to try and get some fuel for big, new projects, we sent a bunch of especially explosive ones to one place while we scattered many others.” This much, Kaldur recalls. The mission had been, in a word, insane. They had scrambled to put together the teams and try to address all the problems that had popped up across the globe. Putting himself, Conner, M’gann, and Dick together was a bit of a risk. However, it was the highest threat, even though there were too many other threats.

“Impulse was not with us,” Kaldur reminds the others.

“‘Speedster as emergency backup’ was sort of predictable,” Tim smiles sympathetically. “It was the easiest thing for them to put together as everybody scrambled to organize everything we needed to capture a bunch of heroes.”

“You helped with the planning?” Dick assumes. There is no accusation, or malice, in his voice, only curiosity.

“A little,” Tim admits, resuming the shame he displayed after Kaldur’s torture, “I’m… well, actually just a genius, I guess? Not to be, like, arrogant. But, what I was saying is that I am a bit of an expert in dealing with heroes and metas. I’ve studied meta and alien biology, I’ve got a lot of practical experience and witnessing both heroes and villains, and I am really good with technology and engineering. At some point every so often, Lex starts to consult me.”

“I vaguely remember going in as backup for that team, and everything after that is foggy at best,” Bart paces back and forth. Kaldur finds it a small blessing that there are no more jumping jacks. “Wait— define ‘practical experience with heroes’.”

Tim shrugs, “I grew up in Gotham and I’m— I used to be a bit of a hero fanboy. But, again, I was a nine-year-old in a city protected by fucking Batman.” They knew that Tim had admired his hometown heroes, but Kaldur would love to know what being a hero fanboy looks like to someone like Tim. Actually, Kaldur would love to see what Tim could do with some free time in Mount Justice. He thinks Tim would have a lot of fun with the Team considering that at the age of nine he was sneaking past Batman, which really embodies the spirit of the group. The Team was founded on Dick’s urging of Kaldur and Wally to sneak past Batman.

As Bart, and even Dick, a Gotham boy himself, start to chatter with Tim, Kaldur finally looks back over to Kon. The kryptonian keeps his eyes locked on Tim, until he cuts a glance to Kaldur. That first hopeful sentiment is reflected under the grief raging in Kon’s eyes, a shared dedication to get all six of them home safely.

Chapter Text

Dick has spent a long time trying not to be his father, but damn he sort of understands the uncontrollable adoption urge. After all, he just found his newest younger brother.

Jason will adore Tim, Dick decides, that protective instinct will kick in immediately. Tim is a kid, after all, extremely gifted and taken advantage of by selfish adults, and once he is comfortable, he is the snarkiest teenager he could possibly be. Damien, too, will take an immediate claim to Tim, considering the teen’s incredible intelligence and strategic mind. The whole ‘manipulated and partially-indoctrinated by a higher power’ thing might also lend itself to some trauma bonding. Cass will definitely adore her new younger brother, for, just, all the reasons. And Duke would love spending time with Tim, his chill attitude and pension for finding trouble to keep himself entertained would be exactly the sort of thing Tim would have fun with.

And Bruce? The kid is practically a mini-Bruce already with his skills and the acting. With the clusterfuck that is Tim’s life, he’ll fit right in as a Wayne. And Dick is just getting that scratch in his brain that the kid will end up as part of the bat-brood, one way or another. All Dick has to do now is get Tim out of here.

This may seem like a difficult challenge, but he’s doing pretty well so far. The sleep deprivation thing had been dropped, suddenly, after two and a half days. Luthor had probably been trying to throw them off, it is easy enough to tell considering Dick had promptly dragged away to try and convince him to remove his domino mask. The torture, Dick can deal with. It is the unspoken threat of further violence against Tim for the boy’s ‘failure’ to unmask him that frightens Dick the most.

After three days of interrogation, his friends are getting antsy. Dick can take whatever Luthor throw at him, but he doesn’t know if he would be able to take watching one of his friends walk in with more injuries every day. Case in point, Tim, who crouches over Dick’s cot every day, carefully treating his wounds, and having whispered conversations without ever mentioning all those injuries.

Dick learns that Tim figured out his identity because of a fucking flip, which Jason will never let him live down. It is part of the reason Tim dresses his wounds so carefully, so cautiously. He admits to Dick, hesitantly as the topic demands, that he had been there that accursed day when Dick lost everything.

It must have been hell, for a child so young. By Tim’s admittance, Dick knows the boy barely remembers it, another painful reminder of just how small he would have been when he saw Dick’s parents fall to their deaths. Tim handles Dick’s injuries with such delicacy, and all Dick can think about is a three or four year old boy seeing the broken bodies of two people splattered against the ground. Dick learns a lot of terrible things in these stolen moments in the darkness.

He learns about how neglectful Tim’s parents were, and responds honestly when Tim demands to know how much time passed between his disappearance and the Drakes noticing it. Tim claims he is pleasantly surprised, that two months is less time than he might have thought. He pretty much lets way too much roll off his back, which is obviously a trauma response to survive under Luthor’s thumb, but it is still tragic. Dick tries not to puke when Tim happily remarks that the negligence is what allowed him the freedom to trail Batman and Robin.

Today, Tim whispers more hopefully than is normal for him, “My message got through, it’s clear from their movements. Your rescue is coming soon.” With a playful smirk, he adds, “I suggest blowing your way out. I’d try to give you direction if I could, but Lex is smarter than to make it easy to get out of, he’d probably catch up if you ran for the exits. This place is a maze.”

“How far has he had to go to keep you of all people from escaping him?” Dick mutters. Honestly, it is a small miracle Luthor has managed to stop Tim from getting out already.

“So far,” Tim complains, “The movement, the secrecy, he does so damn much to outsmart me. And, you know, being the head of an evil empire is quite the discouragement.” Dick laughs silently, trying not to let himself shake too much to avoid aggravating his bruised chest.

Unfortunately, the fucking Doctor comes traipsing in. His name is Murphy, which Dick thinks is a stupid name, and that’s coming from him. Dick has taken to calling the moron by said stupid name, because the guy hates not being addressed as ‘doctor’, and Dick hates him.

“Murphy!” Dick smiles, basking in his own gleeful attitude despite Murphy’s desperation for Dick to be afraid of him after three days of torture. “Back so soon? I didn’t think I’d get more company already.”

“Not here for you,” Murphy fails to mask his disdain, “Here for the little one.” He points at Bart, and Dick goes still. Tim does too, for a mere second, before pushing himself up and staring his subordinate down.

“For what? Don’t tell me you think you can just go rogue now, after all the shit that’s gone down the past two weeks.” Tim strolls up to Murphy, Dick’s glass wall sliding into place behind him. “I get that this really has just been a fragile situation, Dr. Murphy.”

Murphy, luckily for his own damn safety, is on his best behavior. “Of course not, Timothy, I did not mean for you to go uninformed. Mr. Luthor made a snap decision, so to speak. He wants to know more about this alleged future knowledge that the ‘Impulse’ suggests he possesses.”

God, he talks like a douche, Dick complains to himself. He can only manage to sit up on his cot. As much as he would like to get up, he reminds himself sourly that he wouldn’t be able to do anything. “Try me, bitch,” Bart snarls.

With a twisted smile, Murphy replies, “I intend to, child. That is the point.”

“Didn’t he explain that by defeating the Reach, we changed the future enough that his knowledge is negligible?” Tim’s posture does not in the slightest reveal how weak he knows this defense is. Dick is well aware that there is little anybody can do to protect Bart from Luthor’s ‘questioning’.

“Mr. Luthor is firm in his stance,” is Murphy’s only reply.

Bart’s transparent wall slides open, and before Murphy can even do anything other than approach, Bart socks him in the face. Murphy scrambles back, the wall sliding shut again, cursing and shouting. Unsurprisingly, Tim steps up for damage control.

“He’ll need a sedative for transportation,” Tim decides quickly. “Even without his super speed, he is probably most used to action as a reflex.”

“Oh, he definitely needs a fucking sedative,” Murphy sneers. He lunges for the control panel, slamming his hand against it. White mist sprays out of the walls, filling Bart’s cell with what Dick assumes is knock-out gas. Then, with a vindictive grin, Murphy punches the button again, and again. The gas keeps spraying.

Tim screams something, dashing over and shoving the older man away from the controls. A long, constant beep echoes out of the panel Murphy had been standing at. Tim shouts again, making a desperate signal towards the camera.

In a rush, Tim secures some form of gas-mask-rebreather over his face. With an armful of equipment, he throws himself into the now-open cell in which Bart lies motionless.

With Conner and M’gann shouting, Dick finally processes that the resounding beep is indicative of Bart flatlining from the amount of knock-out shit he has in his system.

Tim is the only one who can do anything, frantically performing first aid. He’s shouting too, at people Dick hadn’t noticed entering, and some of them are kneeling by his side to assist. Two others grab Murphy by the arms and drag him out struggling. Dick gruesomely hopes the bastard has to face Luthor’s idea of a punishment.

For several torturous minutes, the emergency medical assistance continues. The beep stops at some point. Dick isn’t sure when, exactly, because he is focused on trying to see the main scene from the poor angle as Tim and the other people remain crouched at Bart’s side. The only thing that draws Dick attention away from the two boys is Luthor himself waltzing in. Mercifully, he remains standing in the doorway, so for the time being, Dick can keep his attention on Bart. He distantly notes that Kaldur is keeping an eye on the villain.

Finally, the medical personnel stand and back away. They clear equipment and the ripped off section of Bart’s uniform with them, leaving Tim slowly standing next to a slightly conscious speedster. He backs up cautiously, prepared to dive back toward Bart, but the speedster slowly comes to full awareness, enough so to sit up.

Once Tim is fully outside the cell, Luthor approaches. He is holding something in his hand, a remote or some kind, Dick thinks, until he is standing right next to Tim.

In a flash, Luthor lashes his arm out. Tim goes stumbling backward, falling onto his back right in front of Dick’s cell.

Tim gurgles incoherently, choking on the blood gushing from his nose. Kon shouts once again, Dick thinks he might too. Luthor shakes his head and tsks, “I can not believe Dr. Murphy would be so irresponsible. This is a disaster. If it weren’t for you, Timothy, honestly.”

Tim put a hand over his nose, pushing himself forward until he is sitting, head bent over the knees he has pulled to his chest. “The utter lack of professionalism from some people,” Tim forces out, “is astounding. I try so hard to help him learn, and still…”

“Exactly!” Luthor huffs. “Christ, I had more hope for that imbecile.” Shaking his head again, he heads for the door, which slams shut behind him. In the shocked quiet, Tim finally releases a strangled sob.

“Fuck!” Kon shouts, “Shit, Tim—”

“Stop,” Tim grits. He drags himself to his feet and over to the cart, leaning back against the wall next to it. His nose is ripped into a sickening angle, blood gushing forward. The skin is stained, red at the moment but Dick knows it will soon turn black and blue. Tim touches it, just barely, and flinches. Conner makes a wounded noise in the corner.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Bart points out, “You should tilt your head back—”

“It’s broken,” Tim interrupts. “I need to tilt forward to avoid choking on any blood that washes back into my throat.” He looks up at Dick, the only bat in the room. Tim is far from help and he needs to do his own first aid on a broken bone. Dick nods, carving a reassuring smile onto his face no matter how much he wants to stop the boy from doing this. He sees the trust in Tim’s eyes.

Clenching his jaw, Tim puts both hands on his nose and jerks his hands against the bent corner. He shrieks, legs collapsing beneath him. Bart has somehow gotten to his feet, and has joined the rest of them in pressing against the glass as if they can phase through it if they use enough force.

Tim spends several seconds grasping around on the cart, finally grabbing something. Holding a towel to his face, he continues groping around and finds what looks to be a brace for his broken nose. Dick has no idea why it is just laying around, but he had already suspected Tim had stocked his equipment cart for every possible situation.

Kaldur’s ever-calm voice instructs, “Tim, if it is broken, you need to ice it quickly.” A subdued ‘mhm’ is the only response given, but Tim does comply with the suggestion. Setting down the brace, considering that his nose is still gushing blood, Tim presses a disposable ice pack over the quickly darkening rag bunched on his face. Dick is sickened by the calm way he faces down this sort of horror. He thinks of his parents, of seeing them die in front of him at just the age of eight. He thinks of Tim, a baby at the time. How much has Tim seen since then?

“Shit…’m gunna need to ice my back, too,” Tim mumbles to himself. He had fallen hard, the thud when his back struck the ground remains stuck in the back of Dick’s mind as most of his attention had focused on Tim’s face.

“I’m going to kill him,” Bart decides aloud.

“Get in line,” Conner growls. He might actually succeed in breaking the glass by sheer force of will, if the glare is anything to go by.

In turn, Tim chides, “Don’t lose focus.”

“What?” Dick snaps. Whatever exactly Tim meant, he seems serious about it. He is telling them not to pay attention to all of violence Luthor inflicts because there is allegedly some other, more important thing. Dick can only begin to understand how a kid is so steadfast, so— jaded.

Tim squints back at Dick, “Don’t get caught up on Lex.” Testing the mindlink, he continues, Your mission is to escape here, not deal with Lex. This isn’t the time or place to try and take down such a powerful pain in the ass.

Our mission right now is to get you the fuck out of here, Kon retorts. Tim turns to him, openly staring. He is incredulous, genuinely incredulous. Tim, you can’t stay here, it is too dangerous. You… get that—

I don’t want to stay here, Tim rushes, but I don’t need saving. Or… saving me should not be your goal. Your priorities—

Are to protect you and each other, Conner fires right back. Dick is silently egging his friend on. He feels too invested, too much of a mess for the conversation at hand. He wants to shout at Tim that he will be taking the boy home and he will have several brothers and one or more sisters depending on his interpretation and a good father figure for once. Which would be coming on too strong.

I don’t want you to get distracted or off course because of me. Tim sounds weaker now, less insistent and hopefully more willing to listen. Kon doesn’t respond with a fully formed thought, rather projecting comfort and security. Tim leans back, posture relaxing against the wall. It is a strange feeling, to sense Tim trying to hold back his grief from bubbling over. Dick knows he is becoming Bruce when his immediate thought is, God, I need to get this kid therapy. And a hug. He exchanges a glance with Kaldur, then M’gann.

Dick tries to take a deep breath, trying to reconcile the image of Tim sitting there, relatively peaceful, and the shocking scene of Tim collapsed on the floor, nose broken and bloody while holding a friendly conversation with the man who had just assaulted him. Or the other scenes, Tim stumbling with a concussion, treating Kaldur with a bandaged hand, and limping on a twisted ankle.

Bart glances up at the camera, then smiles at Tim, “You’ve been here for a long time, right? And, I’m betting you don’t get to watch TV a lot or something?”

“I suppose, yeah,” Tim is thoughtful enough, apparently taking the random question seriously. “I never watched too much TV before, either. I wanted to, I always thought adventure shows and movies seemed cool, but my parents insisted that childish shows are infantile and below ‘us’.” Tim snorts, “I never realized there was an ‘us’, considering they were barely even home most of the time.” Between the amount of shitty adult supervision Tim has had to deal with, he has pretty much never been a kid. It reminds Dick of Damian, and the boy’s lack of understanding toward any pop culture. He can see where Bart is going with this.

“Did you watch a lot of movies?” Bart presses, “Like good kids movies. ‘Cus you can’t watch those for the first time as an adult, you have to watch them as a kid. The good ones, that you realize are actually really deep, need that nostalgia factor.”

Tim smiles placatingly, “Nah, most of the stuff I was allowed to watch was educational fiction or documentaries.”

“Wrong answer,” Conner tuts. “They’re trying to get me to watch these fucking fairy movies—”

“And now we have two people who have never watched the Tinker Bell movies!” Bart interrupts. With a dramatic gasp, he continues, “Or Kung Fu Panda! I bet you never watched Disney XD shows—”

“Wait, aren’t you from the future?” Tim asks. “How the hell do you have a stake in childhood movies that aren’t from your childhood?”

Bart glares, more hateful than Dick has ever seen him, “I am the ultimate old movie buff!”

“Don’t claim you’re an old movie buff when you’re talking about Kung Fu Panda, please,” Dick complains ruefully. He already has a twelve year old brother to make him feel old.

“Disney Channel Originals!” Bart cries. “Teen Beach and its amazing songs. The biker brother was my first fictional crush! This is disgusting, I’ll have to at least show you two all the childhood movies and shows that people look back on realizing they had a crush after they realize they are queer. Another reason to watch Tinker Bell!”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Kon stage whispers.

Tim laughs slightly, and suddenly says, “I always wanted a pet as a kid, thought it would be good company. And to have a water balloon fight. I thought those were a movie universe thing until I was, like, eight.”

“The bats are going to adore you,” Dick blurts. It isn’t really his fault, Tim is making his heart hurt. Tim stares at him for a moment, looking panicked, and Dick properly registers what his body language means. “Yes, you’re probably gonna meet the bats. You’re a Gothamite anyway, and I’m taking you home. You’re not not going to meet Batman and the kiddies.”

“This is my home,” Tim barely sounds half-convinced as he says so. It is incredibly unclear if he is saying it for the benefit of the camera or if he really believes it.

“This isn’t what a home is,” M’gann finally speaks, voice strong and steady.

“It’s where I live, where I’ve spent half my life, and made most of my accomplishments,” Tim points out.

“That is not what a home is,” M’gann repeats. “If you’re not happy, not safe, not loved, then you are not at home.” The look in Tim’s eyes so clearly tells them that by that definition, he has never had a home.

“You do a bunch of science and shit,” Bart states, somewhat suddenly, “do you like science? Or like this stuff? Or are you just good at it? And if so, is that like, you’re good at it so you don’t mind, or you hate it but you’re good at it—”

“I’m good at learning,” Tim answers, “Though, yes, I do find the whole metahuman and alien biology thing interesting. I become good at pretty much whatever I study.”

“So, like, what do you like? That was my point. If you’re, like, a genius, what do you do for fun?” Bart chatters on, “If you start saying that you do math for fun, I’m never speaking to you again, just so you know.” Tim laughs again, fully this time.

However, it is Kon who speaks, “Photography.” He says it like even he is surprised, “You had a camera, before. You liked taking pictures of Gotham.”

Tim is smiling shyly, an expression that is so painfully real. “Yeah, I haven’t gotten to take photos in so long. I used to like skateboarding, too. That, I was pretty good at, it was fun. I had a cheap board, if I spent good money my parents would have noticed, but I always wanted one of those really well decorated, fancy boards.”

“Fancy, smart, rich boy likes skateboarding and photography?” Tim glares lightheartedly at Bart’s teasing, but for once he seems somewhat free. Dick thinks he would like flying. The feeling Dick got once on the trapeze, the feeling he found again grappling through the night as Robin, of both weightlessness and power.

Every single one of them tenses as the door opens again. A small man with severe features, wearing a lab coat like Tim, and says in a nasally voice, “Mr. Luthor requests we start preparing to move Project: Shadow, we can not do this without your assistance.”

Tim blanches, ignoring his injury as he shifts into business mode, “We can’t move Project: Shadow.”

The man shrugs, with the decency to look apologetic, “Orders are orders, boss.”

“Fuck’s sake, they love to give out orders without considering how we’re meant to do it.” Tim drags himself up, delicately cradling his nose.

“Hold on,” Dick starts, but Tim fixes him with a stern look. Dick really hates being this powerless. Tim simply swipes the brace he had once put down and exits the cell block, with one apologetic glance.

“Wait, wait!” Conner slams against the glass.

M’gann thinks to them, He’s going to do something. Dick barely stops himself from getting sick.

Chapter Text

Tim has always wanted the opportunity to laugh in Lex Luthor’s face.

He got close to that catharsis six years ago, when Kon escaped with the help of the other young heroes, and Lex lost his prized clone. Almost as satisfying was the loss of Match shortly after Lex had suspended Tim from trying to treat the clone. Now, though, it will not be one powerhouse that slips through his fingers, it will be five.

The Justice League is here, Tim knows before any alarms go off. He hooked into their systems years ago, and he’s been monitoring whenever possible since Lex decided kidnapping five heroes wasn’t stupid as hell. It is the middle of the night, but that has never really stopped Tim before. Using his computer the way he wants to is something that needs to be done in cover, outside of any work so as to not to disrupt it. His process for getting anything done for ‘Cardinal’ is ridiculously complicated, but he does not think it is any more convoluted than is necessary, given the circumstances. Tonight, it is time to act, no matter what consequences Tim faces for it. This is the pay off for almost eight years of acting and submitting.

He gets through door after door all too easily, really Lex has vastly underestimated him. Cameras are barely more difficult. When he makes the door swing open, he notices the people in his sight jolting awake. Light sleeping is probably another adaptation from so much hero work. Kon sees him in an instant.

Tim hates it, seeing Kon in another cage. The look in his eyes is so telling, he knows Kon can see that something is wrong, but there isn’t much to do now. If they try to save him, it will only make things worse.

His fingers close even tighter around the contraption he carries. Kon starts, backlit by the red light illuminating most of the room, “Tim…”

“Stop,” Tim insists. He doesn’t have a lot of time, he has to do this, no time for hesitation. He starts opening every fixture on the cells that he can from the panels on the wall. He explains, “I don’t know where the other controls are, to open the cells, Lex isn’t that stupid. I don’t have the time, we’ll be on the move in minutes. This, though, this I can do. Kon, step back.”

Thankfully, Kon listens to the demanding tone as Tim marches up to him. Pulling out his makeshift zip gun he cobbled together, he prays it works. He sticks his arm through one of the now open panels and turns his arm up, shooting a large nail straight into the red sun lamp.

The cell block is now almost completely dark. Tim knows he has everyone’s attention, including those outside. He looks straight at Kon, something he has rarely let himself do since they reunited, “It won’t take too long for your powers to return, but you’ll still be weak after so long without any sun. Your friends are already here.” As if on cue, the alarm starts blaring. “I knew they’d trip it, it’s a new one, I didn’t notice until it was too late. I got too distracted.” He knows they don’t want him to apologize, but this is going to hurt them. Tim never wanted to hurt them. “I’ll make sure they get to you.”

Kon charges forward, forcing Tim to jump back as Kon’s arm shoots out through a gap to try and grab him. Bart and Dick, names Tim shouldn’t even know, both start calling out his name. From the doorway, Tim looks at all the people he now cares about. “I promised I’d protect you,” he reminds gently.

He had. He had sworn to himself the day he realized Kon had succeeded, where all the other attempts except for Match had failed, that he would take care of his new friend. He’d only been eleven after all. But the day he let Kon see his camera, knowing that bringing it out would get it destroyed, and Kon made him promise to take him to Gotham, Tim had sworn that Kon would not stay in Cadmus.

When he had seen M’gann crumpled on the floor under the weight of the heat, seen Kaldur’s burned hands, watched Bart try to cheer him up, and Dick recognize him and care; he had decided, then, that none of them would stay here, that this is what he had been waiting for. Not his own escape, but theirs.

Tim imagined watching movies with Bart or returning to Gotham and meeting the Bats with Dick. Seeing Mount Justice in person, not just through a screen, with M’gann and Kaldur’ahm. Being free with Kon. God, it sounded like heaven. But if it is a choice, if it is him or them, Tim chooses them. Easily.

He turns away from the cell block and runs. On his handheld interface— it would be a mockery to call it a phone or a tablet, but it’s functional— he operates with less subtlety. Leaving a trail for Lex’s goons to follow him through the expansive underground facility. The heroes are here, with his previous message they should find Kon and the others efficiently. And Lex should find him, because he can’t let Tim go now. Tim is too great of an investment, too smart, to let loose or let leave. Tim will definitely get worse than Murphy got for almost fucking killing Bart, but he isn’t afraid.

Or, he is. But he can’t hear it, can’t feel it, over the roar of purpose. His goal is worth more than the consequences.

Tim runs past hordes of people, but the chaos works to his advantage. Everyone is rushing to break down labs and evacuate, grab what they can, destroy everything else, and move to a new location. Tim’s done this dozens of times, although only a couple under this sort of duress. No one is running for Project: Shadow, he knows this before he sees the hallway leading off to the isolated lab, but it still fills him with glee. There’s no way to move half stabilized cloning attempts in this situation, and Tim can keep his oath. No more clones.

“Timothy!” Someone shouts. It took so long to not flinch at people calling him like his parents did, but no one was allowed to call him Mr. or Dr. Drake and remind him of where he was before this place. It would be counterintuitive when they were sort of brainwashing him, at least trying to make sure he thought of this as his only place in the world. Calling his full name was the easiest way to display the respect of his position. No one had really called him ‘Tim’ since he was eleven, and succeeded where everyone else had failed. Except for the five people TIm needed to never see again and Luthor, and by extension that damn android, trying to be familiar.

Tim recognizes the voice of Nathan, the highest ranking security officer on site, so he doesn’t turn back to look. He needs to run towards the loading dock, because if they can’t get him out then they’ll turn their attention to the other captives, but he needs to go the long way. He already has the perfect route memorized for his wild goose chase. Does it count as a wild goose chase if the chasers will get something, but it is all part of Tim’s plan? Either way.

He hears the rifles firing, and he flinches involuntarily. He hates getting drugged way more than he hates getting hit, and he was only so able to mentally prepare to know tranquilizers were sailing toward him. Scott, another guard, is apparently there too, because Tim hears him yelling, “Timothy, don’t be foolish!” That almost makes Tim stop. This asshole’s current job is to hunt him down because he is too goddamn smart to lose, and he has the gall to imply that his thoughts are more intelligent than Tim’s? Forgive Tim for being egotistical, but his intelligence is the only thing he has ever truly had. He despises people who know this, and still have that subconscious condescension because they are older than him.

Bursting into a wide, multi-level laboratory, Tim vaults a railing, dropping about one story into a roll. His parkour skills leave much to be desired, but he has spent years being mostly confined to a couple of rooms at a time, and he always knew better than to not exercise while in such an enclosed area. He doesn’t have sports equipment, certainly didn’t have teammates or opponents, so he looked up articles and videos and practiced gymnastics and martial arts. He was a ten-year-old Batman fanboy when he got here. He isn’t experienced, but he is well practiced, strong and stable and flexible. He keeps running, staying ahead of his heavily armed pursuers.

From the way the ground and the walls are shaking, the heroes are well on their way. Tim trusts his mental timeline, he knows his estimations are solid, but anxiety still pools in his gut. He hits the turning point, where his track goes from ‘away from the exit point’ to ‘toward the exit point’. He’s halfway to the loading bay, the only above ground part of the lab, other than the singular entrance tunnel on the far side that the heroes will have used, or at least found. Tim knows, from his entrance several months ago and all the other identical places he has been, the loading bay should have the appearance of a random warehouse.

Distantly, he thinks that this is what it felt like to fly through Gotham. He can just barely remember trailing Batman and Robin, although it is hazy. He kept up tabs from his prison, both for his own work and out of nostalgia. He hopes that Kon visits Gotham, now that he will more or less remember those original few months. It’s definitely self-centered, but he hopes Nightwing mentions him in passing to Batman, he might because of the fact that Tim is a cold case. It would be so cool to be known about by Batman.

There’s radio static cutting in and out of Tim’s hearing range constantly, as people contact one another from on walkie-talkies. From what he can gather, this is a full raid, the exact number unclear, and they are headed straight for the captives. Most of their people are focused on escaping the siege. The heroes haven’t reached the five prisoners yet, but Tim is approaching the top level.

There was a small chance, with the kryptonians and the speedsters, that if the five were freed before the end of Tim’s race, one of them might be able to grab him. He had refused to let himself hope, but it is impossible to block out all faith by sheer force of will. So, Tim hardens his heart and holds back his tears, running straight for where he knows Lex is waiting.

Tim bursts into the bustling factory floor and slows to a halt. It only takes a couple of seconds for a hand to clamp down on his shoulder. Panting harder than his physical activity should warrant, he looks at Nathan, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You were before.” Mistakenly thinking he got lost or gave up, the moron.

“I know my place,” Tim forces out.

“Good,” Lex appears out of nowhere, face thunderous. “We’re leaving, now.” Tim is yanked unceremoniously by the wrist towards a large white truck. Not traveling in comfort is only going to piss Lex off more. Tim is silently vindicated.

They climb into the back of a trailer that is prepared for Lex’s trip, but still not nearly luxurious enough to tend to Lex’s massive ego. Tim presses his back to a wall for stability, it is definitely not his place right now to try and take a seat. He probably will later. The truck starts moving, and Tim, for some reason, feels something wither inside of him.

“Tell me what exactly you did, Timothy,” Lex sighs. He doesn’t have access to the security footage, and he has never gotten anything to make him remotely suspicious about Cardinal. He might not even know Cardinal exists.

“I freaked out when the alarm went off,” Tim is a very good liar. “I was already up, I’ve been so on edge with all of this, and I bolted to the cell block. Something was malfunctioning in— experiment thirteen’s containment unit. The neutralizing agent was spraying non-stop. I shot the fixture in the top of the cell through the panel I opened.”

“Shot?” Lex is buying it, he wants everything to be the heroes’ fault.

“I grabbed a gun from one of the guards on my way over. Not much I can do about a fucking superhero, but, you know. I felt the shaking and I ran, I just ran.” Accept some guilt, and a punishment, and it will be all the more believable. “Nathan’s committed to the job, Lex. He wouldn’t have evacuated if he thought dealing with the supers was the most important thing.”

Tim examines the opposite wall as he speaks, assuming lead-lined walls, reinforced, with white noise machines. Definitely anti-Superman. From the middle of the unit, lounging on a fucking couch, Lex sighs again. Really, he makes a great abusive parent, his ‘I’m disappointed because I care’ sigh is perfected. “You’ve always had a soft spot for Nathan. He’s been looking after you for a long time, hasn’t he.” It’s a shitty excuse in theory, but Lex has a very derogatory view of Tim’s continued empathy for other living beings.

“Yeah,” Tim nods. Kon, Dick, Bart, Kaldur, and M’gann will have been rescued by now. Hopefully treated and comforted by their friends and mentors. They’ll start scouring outward from the site of the lab, but they won’t find Tim and Lex. They entered too far away from the loading dock, the exit is too hard to find quickly if you don’t know where to look, Lex is well versed in slipping out of their grasp. A walkie-talkie crackles to life, and Lex stills. This discomfort draws Tim’s attention.

“Luthor, where is he?” It’s Kon. It’s Conner, Conner’s voice, terribly angry through the radio. “You think we’re going to walk away from you having a captive? You got too cocky, Luthor, you won’t get away with this.”

Lex turns his head slowly to look at Tim. His punishment will be worse than he originally estimated, he hadn’t expected the heroes to make contact trying to find him. “Timothy, I know you're a soft child.” Derogatory age based comments, Lex is mad. “I’ve tried to teach you how things need to be, how you need to act to face the cruelty of the world. I think you lost some of your toughness in favor of your extra intelligence.”

Lex approaches him and Tim realizes he may have miscalculated Lex’s rage when he notices the glass in the man’s hand. He does not move as Lex smashes it against his temple, only stumbling after the impact. Tim knows he shouldn’t let himself, but he is tired. This day has been so hard, and Tim has spent the last twenty minutes trying to convince himself that he hasn’t ‘lost’ anything, anyone today. So he falls, letting himself splay onto the floor, even though he knows putting himself near Lex’s feet is a bad call. He gets that small spark of accomplishment when Lex behaves exactly as Tim predicted, the man’s foot connecting harshly with Tim’s stomach.

Tim holds back his tears while fire explodes across his skin. Lex doesn’t deserve his emotions, isn’t worth his tears. But Tim has spent the past two weeks trying not to care about the others and push away how he feels, the fact that he feels, for Kon. That he cares about someone else, that he wanted to go with Kon and Bart to do normal fucking teenage things, or even do superhero things with Dick and Kaldur and M’gann. Lex sneers into the radio, “I have returned the hero children to the heroes, I would hope that I would be left with what belongs to me.”

“I swear to fucking god, Luthor,” Kon’s beautiful voice, reassuring through the pain, “I will hunt you down, this is your one chance to gain mercy.”

“And here I thought you were a hero,” Lex snorts cruelly.

“I am, and I will save him. You will not win and you will not keep him.” Kon is so angry, so desperate to know if Tim is safe. He is coming to find Tim.

Tim’s limbs ache and his chest burns. Every breath makes him want to cry more, like there is a cylinder with needles sticking out in each lung. But he holds firm like he always has. He held himself together through getting beaten, bruised, and broken by Lex. He can fucking deal with this bullshit. He’s felt this sort of pain hundreds of times, in every part of his body.

He can barely admit that it has rarely been this bad, been this painful or all encompassing.

The words from the radio are ringing in Tim’s ears, the promise that someone was coming for him, that he couldn’t help but believe no matter how much he resisted. The tears that resulted sting his eyes, so he squeezes them shut. But still, this is the difference. As everything screams in his body, as Lex beats him senseless in his rage, he can hear and he can see, at least when his eyes are open. For now, all there is to hear or see is Lex and his arrogant rage, but Tim has his eyes and his ears, and he has toppled empires with the things he has found before.

Likewise, as Tim comes to, it is his eyes and ears, only, that are free from the searing ache that consumes every other part of his body.

Much to his chagrin, he is in some medical setting. He assumes so, at least, by the sterile lighting and what feels like a skirt around his legs. He groans incoherently, just to express his irritation despite his inability to articulate words with his numb face, but pries his eyes open. Not smart to remain unaware and unprotected for any longer than is totally necessary. Tim forces himself to sit up, cataloging every part of his body in a rush.

The room is empty though, thank fuck, and it is definitely a med-bay or some such thing. Additionally, there is a button on the wall. Tim closes his eyes for three seconds, takes one full deep breath, and presses the button. “I’m awake,” he states blankly, and after a moment decides that he needs not say more.

The door in the corner slides into the wall and Tim mentally spits every curse he has ever learned. A genomorph, Tim believes he goes by the name Dubbilex, who Tim had been mildly concerned about due to the sudden bout of inaction from the usually prominent figure, walks up to him. “Hello,” the creature greets amicably, “Timothy, correct?”

“Yes,” Tim has reason to believe Dubbilex is a reliable ally, “Dubbilex, I presume?”

The G-Goblin blinks, and then smiles, “You’ve heard of me?”

“I hear a lot of things,” Tim swings his legs around so he can sit on the edge of the bed. “I feel fine, by the way, I would like to be discharged.” Tim needs to figure out where he is. Being in the presence of genomorphs is not a good sign. He feels bad for thinking it because from Tim’s information most genomorphs are similar to Kon, good creatures simply under the control of their rotten creator. This, however, is the issue. Tim does not want to be involved with the genomorphs, he has tried so hard to stay away from cloning and artificial creation of life, he doesn’t want to start manufacturing genomorphs for Lex. He isn’t sure he could bear it. “Where precisely am I?”

“I couldn’t tell you, if you are asking in terms of geography.” Dubbilex starts examining the machines that Tim is still attached to. “This is Laboratory Thirty-Six. I have only been here for a short time.”

Glancing around, Tim speaks quietly, “I was under the impression that the genomorphs were no longer under the restrictions of Lex Luthor. Cadmus does still operate publicly, I thought the genomorphs ended up on the right side of that.”

Suddenly, Tim hears the barely familiar voice in his head, We almost were, we came close, but the destruction that came with the Superboy’s battle with Project Match revealed our increasing organization to Lex Luthor.

Ah, I heard about that, Tim has sort of gotten used to telepathic communication since he met M’gann in person. I’m sorry, I’m sure that was not his intention.

It was not, nor do I blame him. The greater organization of heroes has been trying to deal with Lex Luthor’s manipulation of politics and the legal system for years, the Superboy is doing what he can.

Kon, Tim mentions, I believe he goes by Kon or Conner, as his name.

You were present for his recent captivity, Dubbilex notes, I understand you were also present in Project Kr. It is nice to have another reason for the heroes to get involved now. I have heard of you as well, Timothy.

For some reason, Tim feels embarrassed of all things. Something about Dubbilex’s immediate assumption that Tim’s presence will warrant Kon’s continued involvement. Tim has spent years trying not to hope. Not when more and more heroes sprung in Gotham, not when heroes started operating globally, nor when the League started engaging Lex more and more. He tries so hard to never let himself believe there is a chance, because waiting for someone to save him will only be painful. But his iron walls have been torn down.

For once, giving in, Tim flops back down onto the hospital bed. In the privacy of his own mind, he can not hold himself back, Please come save me, Kon.

After a couple of minutes of Dubbilex seemingly giving Tim space, the genomorph continues, “There have been problems with the connections to the G-Sprites. Lex Luthor wants this issue resolved as soon as possible.”

G-Sprites are the electricity-generating genomorphs, one of the many disturbing uses for living creatures in Lex’s dictatorship, and are mostly controlled by the G-Gnomes via telepathy. Considering the way genomorphs are designed and used, they are essentially biological machines, many considered incapable of independence. If there is a problem with receiving, following through, or enacting orders, it is highly likely a biological issue. Like the genomorphs are computers with a processing error, Tim is being brought in to fix it. This is precisely the situation Tim wanted to avoid. This is a punishment from Lex. “Do we have any information?”

“We have done some psychic examination, but I have found little inconsistency with the connection between the Gnomes and the Sprites.” Dubbilex starts leading Tim into the predictably plain maze of hallways, mind numbing to anyone within and horrifically confusing to anyone who is not well prepared for it. There was probably an examination outside of Dubbilex, because Lex is a thorough bastard, and Psimon was already due in. Tim is going to have to be careful with his mental energy and do his best to steer clear of the psychic psychopath.

“Have you checked for mechanical malfunctions? Collecting biologically-generated electrical energy is a new field with little precedent; there could be difficulties with the apparatuses connected to the G-Sprites.” Tim memorizes the route, trying to take note of any signs in front of labs, although many of them are labeled with project names or letters and numbers. First step, every time they move to a new location, build a mental map and learn every pathway.

“We are in the process of examining that angle,” Dubbilex replies, “but we have not drawn any conclusions as of yet.” A recent problem, that’s an interesting factor. Tim can not think of any inciting incidents off the top of his head.

Tim is also really starting to wish he could initiate the psychic connections. Dubbilex obviously has reason to be cautious, Tim would be disappointed if he was acting foolish, but he is clearly not yet going to ask how they are going to work together to fuck with Luthor before figuring out where Tim’s loyalties lie. Tim just wants to know how Dubbilex is managing to either siphon off the energy, and if so what he is doing with it, or getting the genomorphs to stop behaving, and if so how much independent thought is able to be encouraged in other genomorphs.

They arrive not at a large warehouse space but at what is clearly Tim’s living space. “Ah, I assumed I would be getting right to work.”

“You still need a short time to heal.” Dubbilex explains. “All of your work is uploaded to your computer, you can begin working in full tomorrow. For today, you will be left alone.” Tim nods and just waits for Dubbilex to leave.

This suite is smaller than the usual, another punishment. The main room has a bed, a desk with a fancy computer, and a wardrobe. It doesn’t give a lot of space for him to move around an exercise. The attached bathroom is equally small, and there was no third room, which he was accustomed to having for working on whatever larger projects he needed space set aside for. Leaning on the sink, Tim examines his beaten face in the mirror. His nose is stuck at an odd angle, not healing as it should be, much to his disappointment.

With a deep sigh, Tim ambles back to the main room. The computer is a large module, and there are few of his books around, none of the interesting ones, only the ones relevant to his research. No laptop, no tablet, nothing else he could take into the bathroom. He will have to check for cameras and listening devices, but it looks like Cardinal won’t be active for the foreseeable future if Tim has no way of getting any tech into an unmonitored area. There is no way for him to get a message out to the Team.

Tim shouldn’t even be here. Before the clusterfuck of Lex’s impulsive kidnapping of a bunch of heroes, Tim had been working on stabilizing the methods for creating new metas for months. He hated it, hated experimenting on people and creating metas, but Lex and his associates were doing it either way, and they just kept destabilizing the subjects’ genetics. Tim had once worked to try and help Match, to find a way to rectify the faulty construction of the clone’s brain and nervous system causing the ‘craziness’. Tim just wants the teens to stop dying, it is an ongoing issue across the globe, it is something Tim can change. And now Lex won’t let him, because his profits are slightly threatened, and Tim’s work saving lives does not take priority.

He allows his mind to rage as he systematically works over every part of his living space to find the cameras and microphones. He is proven correct by the usual lack of surveillance in the bathroom, because thank fucking god, Lex has some standards. Apparently.

Therefore, Tim retreats to the solitude. Looking in the mirror once more, he sees the bruises on his face, some still dark purple, one just fading toward a sickly green. He lifts his shirt to examine the damage to his ribs and stomach, poking and prodding to make sure nothing is broken or punctured. He has no pain meds, and no ice.

He crouches in the shower, knees at his chest and face buried in folded hands. The microphones are sensitive, and Tim refuses to give Lex the satisfaction. So he turns on the shower, as cold as possible if he can’t get an ice pack, letting the freezing water soak his clothes and body. And, he keeps his sobs quiet, he muffles the crying with his arms. He won’t let Lex know how successful the punishment is. He won’t admit to the grief and loss, won’t admit to the pain of still being here, won’t admit to the fear and desperate want for his heroes to come save him. He will keep his pain silent, until he has stockpiled enough of it to bury Lex under.

And he will. One day, somehow, he is going to be free, and he even allows himself the indulgent thought that he will see Kon again