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Dick glares up at the grinning face of Black Mask, the man looking far too pleased with himself for getting Dick in this position.
It's not even like he did anything; his grunts did all the work. It wasn't Sionis who slammed a bat against the back of Dick's head and sent him crashing to the floor. Wasn't Sionis who tied his hands and ankles before Dick could get his coordination back enough to fight. The guy is looking so smug and all he did was stand there and wait.
So many Gotham villains are like that, taking all the credit for the stuff their henchmen do. Faintly, Dick wonders if that bothers the henchmen. If they want credit for all their hard work. Have they ever tried to unionize? Have they ever stood up for themselves, with an elected representative at the head?
Okay, Dick's concussion might be worse than he thought. Unfortunately, that is currently the least of his worries.
"Well, well, well," Black Mask says, smirk widening, the grotesque wooden skin of his face shifting with an odd noise. "Hello, Nightwing. You're not looking too hot."
No, no he's not. His intel had been way off; he'd come to this warehouse to do some recon, check out the rumors of Black Mask expanding some of his operations. The warehouse certainly wasn't supposed to be active let alone filled, and they'd been on him immediately. Dick is skilled—one of the best, if he does say so himself—but even he can't take on forty guys all at once. Not by himself.
So now here he is, kneeling in front of Black Mask with a concussion, a stab wound to his leg, a few bullet grazes, and what feels like a couple cracked or broken ribs.
Yeah, not looking too hot at all.
"Still look better than you," Dick quips, his words slurring together slightly.
Mask's eyes narrow, but his smirk doesn't falter. "That mouth of yours," he muses. "How many criminals have wished to shut you up?"
Dick manages a roguish grin. "You guys are all the same. All want to shut me up. It never goes the way you want it to."
"Maybe," Mask agrees, inclining his head, but there's a dangerous glint in his eyes now that Dick doesn't like. "But it seems like I have you all to myself right now, don't I? No Batman and Robin crashing in through a skylight to save you...On your own, birdie? A man might take advantage."
Dick works to keep the anxiety he feels from showing on his face, but he has to admit this situation is far from ideal. He hadn't coordinated with Bruce before chasing down this lead, because there'd been no reason to. Which means to Bruce and Tim, Dick should be on his normal patrol route. They won't know anything's wrong until tomorrow afternoon, when Dick is supposed to go to the Manor for Alfred's birthday.
He is well and truly on his own right now, and Black Mask is not the sort he wants to be at the mercy of.
"Strip him," Mask orders his men. "Who knows how many fucking trackers are in that suit of his."
The grunts don't hesitate to follow the order, and Dick doesn't resist the urge to laugh when one of them yelps and collapses to the floor twitching because of the taser built into Dick's zipper.
Black Mask backhands him for that, hard enough that his teeth clack together and make his jaw rattle, but it's worth it.
They forgo the zipper all together after that, instead taking their knives and sawing through the material of Dick's suit, forcibly stripping him.
It's an unsettling thing. He breathes deeply and evenly, working to remain calm, but having multiple men yanking at his clothing and limbs, moving him about however they like, touching him like it's their right—it's an unsettling feeling. It makes nausea churn in Dick's gut, and he breathes through it, absolutely refusing to vomit. He can't show that weakness.
He shivers when they're finished, the cold Gotham air washing over his skin. He meets Black Mask's eyes with a glare, pretending he isn't bothered by the way the man is looking at him, the greedy gleam in his eyes.
"You know usually I make people buy me dinner first," Dick says with a grin, because when in doubt humor is a solid foundation to fall back on. "And you're not the type I break my rule for."
A gloved hand takes hold of his jaw, tight enough to ache. Dick's eyes narrow as Mask wrenches his head up, neck straining. His thumb brushes delicately over Dick's cheek, the touch utterly revolting.
"Such a pretty thing," Mask muses. "Too bad everything else about you is shit."
Dick snorts derisively, hoping it covers the way his heart is pounding. "Aren't you a charmer."
A flash of something in Black Mask's eyes, and then the man is letting go of him roughly, moving to turn and walk away.
"Knock him out," Mask calls over his shoulder. "We're moving."
Something hard hits the back of Dick's head again, and, with a sharp burst of pain, Dick succumbs to the darkness.
Clawing his way back towards consciousness is one of the most difficult things Dick's ever had to do.
It's like there's a fog over him, far worse than a concussion calls for. His thoughts are jumbled, the sensations of his body muted. This is...he's been drugged. Sedation, it feels like. Anesthesia. It's the same uncomfortable cloudiness that always happens when Dick undergoes surgery.
Why the fuck did they put him under?
It takes a majority of his limited energy to pry his eyes open, and he looks around himself blearily. He's in some kind of...cell, with metal walls and a rough stone floor. He's lying on a metal examination table, and though there aren't any bindings on his body, he can't muster up the energy to do more than twitch his fingers.
His jaw aches very faintly, and so he begins to shift it, wanting to open his mouth, maybe take in a deep breath.
But it doesn't budge.
Dick's brow furrows, and he tries again to open his mouth, to drop his jaw. It doesn't—it doesn't move. There's a slight twinge of pain, and it—it doesn't move—why doesn't it—why can't he—
There's a painfully loud clang sound, and a thick metal door is swinging open, the sharp noise of dress shoes clacking against stone.
Black Mask's face swims into Dick's vision as the man leans over the table with an awful grin.
"Welcome back, Nightwing. How are you feeling?"
Dick wants to speak. He wants to make some joke about Sionis' hospitality, but he can't—he can't open his fucking mouth.
Mask's grin widens. "Having trouble after your procedure? Oh shoot, did I forget to mention? I'm afraid we had to make some...modifications, you understand. Good objects don't talk back."
Dick's nostrils flare as he desperately draws in air, desperately tries to stay calm. This is...fine. It's fine, it's going to be alright. So Mask did something to his face. Okay, he can fix that. And said something ominous about...objects, but that's. It's all okay. It's gonna be just fine.
Black Mask pats his cheek condescendingly, a touch that aches in a distant sort of way. "You'll get used to it," he says, tone matching the action. "I'm sure having your jaw wired shut—" fuck, "—will be unpleasant at first but you'll get used to it! Maybe eventually you'll be trained enough that we can even take the wires out." He chuckles, drawing back. "But that's far down the road, of course..."
There's a pinch on Dick's neck, a needle sliding in. A rush of cold as whatever's in the syringe gets emptied into him. His heart thuds in his chest as he waits for whatever it is, still trying to not hyperventilate from the fact that his jaw is wired shut.
He can't panic. He can't panic here, in front of Black Mask. He needs to remain calm, or this will get even worse.
His body feels even heavier than it did before, his limbs going numb. Worse than numb, it's like they just go dead. Like his body is dead weight, nothing living inside of his bones, just a—a corpse, trapped in Black Mask's clutches—
He closes his eyes, breathing. He can't panic. It's going to be alright. This is...probably a paralytic. And his jaw is wired shut. And he's naked. And in enemy territory. And Bruce has no idea where he is.
But it's. It's gonna be okay. He can...he can get out of this. Or Bruce will find him. Bruce will always find him.
The press of a leather glove over his heart alerts Dick to the fact that he can still feel everything, he just can't—he can't move. He can't tense when Sionis' hand strokes his chest, can't startle when the man pats his neck.
"That's better," Black Mask says. "No obnoxious talking, no annoying attempts at fighting...just you trapped inside that little head of yours, all mine to play with."
Don't panic don't panic don't panic don't panic—
He really needs to not throw up. Because it'll just. There's nowhere for it to go. So he needs to control his nausea, he needs to calm down—
"Get him up," Sionis commands, and Dick can't even flinch when people come out of nowhere and grab him, shifting him into a seated position and then to his feet.
He wants to run, wants to fight, so desperately that it almost makes him cry. But he—he can't move. His feet scrap uselessly across the floor as the grunts drag him from the room, following after their boss as he leads the way. Dick's head hangs, his body limp. He can't—he can't fucking do anything.
Dick tries, desperately, to get something to respond to him. But even his fucking vocal chords are stilled by the paralytic, not a single sound escaping him despite how badly he wants to scream. He can do nothing as the men all but drop him, putting him on his knees, hands on his shoulders to keep him upright.
There's a soft white carpet under him, far more pleasant than the metal table or the warehouse floor. He wants to look around, figure out where he is, but he can't—his neck hangs loosely, his muscles refusing to cooperate.
He is horrifyingly compliant and still as he's maneuvered.
Cuffs are slid around his ankles, a bar locking them in place. Something is secured around his neck, and a bar clipped to it, one that raises his head and has his back straightening. The new position allows him to look, and he watches the other end of the bar connected to his neck get placed between his spread thighs, the base wide enough to keep it steady and keep Dick in his raised position. His hands are moved onto his thighs, placed gently to make sure they stay in place.
There's a low, long whistle. Slow clapping paired with the snap of expensive dress shoes. Black Mask steps into view, standing in front of him.
"Don't you make an excellent piece of art," Sionis purrs, grinning nastily. "The perfect addition to my home."
Dick's eyes flick around, half to avoid the look on Mask's face, half to finally see where he is. It's some expensive-looking apartment, with a large living room filled with modern, minimalist furniture. There's a giant wall of windows that look out over Gotham, the position of the sun telling Dick that it's mid-morning. They're very high up, and the buildings Dick can see tell him that this is Sionis' building. They're in his penthouse apartment.
And Dick is...frozen in place. Like a piece of living art.
The back of Black Mask's hand strokes down the side of Dick's face, and he can't jerk away from the touch. Can't so much as twitch.
"Oh yes," Sionis murmurs. "Yes, I think I'm going to enjoy this."
They're very consistent in giving Dick his injections.
Every six hours, like clockwork, one of Roman's grunts approaches him with a syringe and presses the needle into his neck, once again dosing him with the paralytic.
Never once does Dick get to feel his body, doesn't get to wiggle his fingers or crinkle his nose. They inject him long before any of that can begin. He remains locked away inside his skull no matter what, all hours of the day. Completely unable to move.
An IV bag is what he gets his sustenance from. Even if his jaw wasn't wired shut (don't think about it, don't think about it, don't panic), he wouldn't be able to swallow anything on his own, and he's grateful that he doesn't have to go through the indignity of having them use a feeding tube on him. Just the IV has him feel weak and easily exhausted, but it keeps him hydrated and 'fed'. Keeps him alive.
As the days go on, he can't help but wonder if he wouldn't prefer for the IV to go away.
Sionis wasn't kidding when he called Dick a piece of art, an object. He treats Dick like he's simply a possession, something to sit and look pretty and be admired. Dick remains in the living room, sometimes alone for hours and hours, sometimes watching Sionis do whatever it is the man does, sometimes surrounded.
Those are the worst days. The days where Sionis has meetings, or has guests over. He enjoys showing off the pretty new addition to his home, grabbing Dick's hair and touching Dick's body as if all of it belongs to him, as if there's nothing unusual about handling Dick the same way he'd handle anything else he owns.
Dick hates it, having all of these disgusting people treat him like a thing. They stare and admire and talk about him. They smile and laugh and applaud Sionis for his genius. They trace his scars and stroke his skin as if he's nothing more than a lovely painting or fucking couch that couldn't possibly be bothered by the fact that it's being touched.
And Sionis left his mask on. So everyone who sees him—they know.
All of this is...incredibly dehumanizing. To be looked at like an object, to be talked about like an object—Dick can barely stand it. No, he can't stand it. It's horrific, and terrifying, and nauseating, and humiliating, and—
He wishes Sionis would talk to him, wishes any of them would just fucking talk to him. Wants one single person to acknowledge him as human, as more than just a thing that is sitting in Black Mask's apartment—
But for all that people look at him, and talk about him—for all that Sionis boasts about his accomplishment and shows off what he's done to Nightwing, none of them ever—they just—they don't—not a single fucking word to Dick.
It's—it's getting to him. It is. He wishes it wasn't, but as days and days begin to pass—he can't remember the last time someone looked at him and addressed him. Can't remember the last time someone said his name. When was the last time someone looked at him with the intent to engage, instead of just look?
He wants Bruce. He doesn't know how long he's been here, but he knows it's been long enough that his family has to know he's missing. Why haven't they found him yet? Was Mask that successful in covering his tracks? Or had Dick been the successful one, keeping his cases too close to the vest? Did they have anything to go off of, to find him? Were they going in circles?
Would they ever show up?
It was getting harder and harder to believe that they would. It was getting harder and harder to care. Would they even want him anymore, even if they did find him? He's been reduced to a piece of—of art, of furniture. He's been nothing more than Black Mask's possession. Would he even matter to any of them, like this? Would they think him worthy of taking home?
He curses himself inside his head. He needs to stop thinking like that. He has to keep it together, or he'll lose himself. He's already caught himself dissociating more and more lately, which is terrifying—in the moment it feels...good, to escape what his existence has become. But in the long run? The less present he is, the more he becomes exactly what Sionis wants him to be.
Dissociating is far better than being tuned in to one of Sionis' parties, though. It's far better than listening to someone praise Sionis as a hand slides carelessly through his hair, across his face. Far better than hearing the laughter and derisive comments. Definitely far better than the few times people have—have touched him, in places they have no business touching.
He's not a person to any of them, not anymore. He's just...he's just...a thing.
Maybe it would be easier to just be a thing. He wouldn't be in constant anxiety and fear and distress, wouldn't constantly feel sick and disgusted. Wouldn't feel like crying every time he's dismissed as unimportant. Wouldn't be filled with humiliation whenever someone laughs at where Nightwing has found himself—itself, really, as so many of them adapt to referring to him almost immediately.
Dick is...exhausted. He's so tired. He'd wave a white flag, if he had enough freedom to even offer up his surrender. No, Sionis doesn't need him to surrender; he has Dick exactly where he wants him.
Would you need your table to tell you it's ready to be a table?
Dick just wants to sleep. Sleep and never wake up again, maybe. Drift into oblivion and just be done with all of this.
He feels Sionis pat the top of his head. In the beginning, he would've assumed that meant the man wanted his attention. Now he knows it has absolutely nothing to do with him. The conversation around him passes him by without a care, and Dick doesn't try to listen in. None of it matters. Nothing matters.
Dick stares vacantly out towards the window, quiet and still at the feet of the man who—who owns him.
"You ever have any fun with it?" someone asks, off to Dick's left.
There's laughter in his voice, a healthy amount of drunkenness. Sionis hates drunks, Dick has learned, but tolerates them on nights like these. Anything goes, on nights like these. When he throws a party and intends to get something out of everyone invited.
"Fun?" Sionis responds curiously.
"Yeah," the man says. "Y'know. Fun. Looks like that—can't help but wonder if its ass is as nice as its face."
Dick's gut clenches at the implication. He's been here...a very long time, and Sionis has never done anything like that to him. He doesn't know why (it's not like that's not a line Sionis is willing to cross, and has definitely made suggestive enough touches and comments) but he refuses to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it's to help Sionis' statements that Dick is just a piece of art. You wouldn't fuck a painting, after all.
He doesn't know, and frankly doesn't care. He's just been grateful it hasn't happened.
Sionis chuckles. "I rather like it right where it is. But who knows—it might make a nice fleshlight someday."
It. It it it.
Fuck, being an it would be so much simpler. Maybe he really is an it, and just hasn't accepted it yet. This would all hurt far less if he'd just accept that.
Dick lets his mind drift, the rest of the conversation fading out of his awareness. Thoughtlessness is so much better than being present.
It is quiet and dark. Dick is alone.
None of that matters to anyone.
Sionis watches TV. He doesn't spare Dick a single glance.
Dick doesn't even care enough to lift his eyes.
Jason can't think of a single thing he likes about Black Mask, but beggars can't be choosers when beggars need a certain type of weapon that only a few people are in possession of in the Gotham area.
Which, unfortunately, means going to Mask's stupidly opulent apartment to meet with the man to make a deal, when Jason would far rather be doing everything in his power to dismantle Mask's organization and maybe blow him up for good measure.
Well, now. There's a nice idea. He's got a couple grenade launchers and a bazooka that he's been dying to find a use for; this could be fun.
After he gets what he needs from Black Mask, of course. After that, Sionis is most definitely fair game.
"Can I offer you a drink?" Mask asks, gesturing towards the wet bar off to the side as they enter a large living area. Guy's got a nice view, Jason can give him that—you don't see any of the grime of Gotham up here, just shining lights and a sea of twinkling buildings. Almost makes the gothic architecture look refined instead of dirty.
Jason loves Gotham, but she sure is a shithole.
"No thanks," Jason replies, because there's not a chance in hell he'd ever drink something given to him by a snake like Roman Sionis, and that's even if he was willing to remove his helmet, which he's not. The greatest thing he's got going for him right now is his secret identity, and like hell is he giving anyone a piece of that yet, let alone Black Fucking Mask.
"Suit yourself."
Sionis starts to pour himself something amber-colored, and Jason glances around idly as he waits. No weapons in immediate line of sight, and all the grunts left outside. Jason could never stand to live in a place like this—too many sharp, clean lines, too much forced wealth—but he can admit that at least in art, Sionis has good taste. There's a painting hanging near the television that—
Jason freezes, breath stilling in his lungs.
There's a person in the room, kneeling by the wall, facing out into the room. His eyes are lowered to the floor, hands on his thighs, a collar around his throat that's attached to some strange bar that seems to be helping him keep straight posture. He's also fucking naked, and making no attempt to hide himself from view. Hasn't flinched or moved at all, or Jason would've noticed him right away.
What the actual fuck—
And there's. There's a mask. Now that Jason's actually looking, that's—no fucking way, that can't be—
"Gorgeous, isn't it?"
Black Mask's voice pulls Jason out of his head a little bit, but he keeps one eye on D—on the kneeling man, moving his other to keep watch of the criminal. Mask has his glass in hand and is sipping it casually, looking not at all bothered by the scene in front of him.
"It?" Jason echoes, something uncomfortable curling in his gut.
Mask almost looks amused when he nods. He walks closer, and Jason fights the instinctive urge to tell him to back the fuck off, to not get anywhere near the—the—
Oh fucking hell, it's Dick.
Nightwing has been MIA for almost a month now, so say the criminals of Bludhaven and Gotham. Jason had figured at first that maybe Dick was just injured, but with the way Batman's been smashing his way through the underworld, it was made clear that something had truly happened. Jason hadn't paid much attention from there, honestly—he has a fucking lot on his plate right now, and tracking down Batman's lost birdie wasn't on the agenda.
But this is. It's actually Dick. Kneeling there, in Black Mask's living room. Not moving, not even twitching, not a single tensed or anxious muscle in his body. He's just—hanging out.
What the fuck is going on? What did Sionis do to him?
"Oh yes," Mask says, coming to a stop beside Dick. His free hand settles on Dick's shoulder, squeezing faintly, and Jason doesn't know where the protectiveness comes from but it hits him hard, and he wants to get Dick very far away from Sionis right fucking now.
Jason's quarrel is with Bruce, right now. Nightwing isn't his enemy. And even if he was—Jason would never condone...whatever this is.
"It's my favorite piece of art," Black Mask tells him, smiling. "Ever since I had it installed—just brightens up the place, don't you think? Such a pleasing thing to look at."
It. Thing. As if Dick isn't a person at all—
Has he been here this entire time, just under Batman's nose? Has he been like this? Is he awake? How horrific a thing to do to someone—
"What the fuck did you do to Nightwing?"
Mask takes his tone for simple incredulity rather than the rage Jason is beginning to feel. It's still hard to control it, sometimes. Made worse since he's been back in Gotham. His plan to take out the Joker and force Batman into a decision has helped him to stay focused, but this is—this is—
"Marvelous, isn't it? Once a mouthy, irritating hero and now nothing more than my décor."
Jason is going to need Mask to take his hand off of Dick right fucking now before he settles on accomplishing a permanent solution to this problem.
"You can come closer," Mask says, tone almost teasing, greatly misinterpreting why Jason is frozen. "It doesn't bite. Can't, actually. I took care of all the pesky little problems it had before."
The green tinging the edges of Jason's vision explodes forward, his fury rising until he can't stand it anymore. His gun is in his hand and aimed and he's pulling the trigger and—
He watches Black Mask fall in what feels like slow motion, seeing his head snap back, the blood spray, the way the body hits the ground with a dull thud.
Jason is moving forward in the next moment, across the room and crouching in front of Dick in record time.
"Wing," Jason says. He takes Dick's face in his hands, tilting his head up slightly so that his eyes meet Jason's own. The blue of them is distant and clouded over, not focusing on Jason despite the touching and how close they are. Fear pounds in Jason's chest.
"Wing, Dickie, c'mon man," he says. "You in there? Damn, what did he do to you? Dickie, c'mon."
Dick's eyes focus slightly. They drift for a moment before locking onto Jason, and there's obvious alarm in them when he sees the Red Hood sitting so close, touching him. The alarm is quickly growing, his nostrils flaring as he desperately sucks in air. He doesn't say anything, though. Doesn't move. Doesn't do anything.
Can't, Jason realizes. He truly can't. Whatever Sionis did—Dick's trapped like this. And currently being faced with what he can only think is a threat, after the things he must've heard about the Red Hood.
Jason has always been ruled far more by his heart than he likes people to know, especially since his return to life. So he knows the smart move right now is to get the fuck out before he messes up everything he's been working towards.
But he also knows what he's going to do instead, even if it completely fucks up his plans.
Jason lifts a hand to his helmet and releases the catch, pulling it off with a quiet hiss. He places it on the ground and then looks back up, meeting Dick's gaze steadily.
Shock, disbelief, pain, wonder. The emotions flicker through Dick's eyes so quickly Jason almost doesn't see them, and they make something pang in his chest.
"I'm getting you out of here," Jason tells him firmly.
A tear slips down Dick's cheek, followed quickly by another, but instead of sadness, the look in Dick's eyes tells Jason all he needs to know—he believes him.
