DCU FIC: Never a Hero (Part 1/3)
Title: Never a Hero
Author: iesika
Fandom: DCU
Rating: Mild
Pairing: None (unless you squint)
Summary: Sometimes, if a man is lucky, he gets a second chance to do the most important thing he's never done.
Notes: This is for floranna, who's been unbelievably patient. I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope it was worth the wait. This was written with utter disregard for continuity beyond about the start of Red Robin, which is when I stopped reading new DC comics. Thanks to kirax2 for a great deal of inspiration and repair work, and to batstalker for title help.
He doesn't know what's going on.
He's cold and he can't stop shaking, but his skin feels like it's on fire. There's an overwhelming chemical odor in his nostrils - something wrong that makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. When he vomits, the liquid that comes up tastes like rotting. Like death. His lungs burn, and he coughs up something thick and terrible that burns like bile. He thinks there's something moving in it, and he ends up vomiting again, until there's nothing left.
His muscles are spasming painfully all over his body, but he can't make them move under his control. His spine hurts, nerves raw like the world's worth toothache, and he can feel the pain of it from his hair down to his toenails. Something is holding him down despite his convulsions, holding his arms and legs firmly in place. He can't move, but his muscles won't stop twitching.
He can't see anything - until he can, and everything is too bright, and his eyes burn. There are shapes moving around him, things being said, but none of it makes sense. It takes him a long time to figure out that the screaming is coming from him.
It takes a long time after that for him to make himself stop.
Eventually, though, he does stop, and there's nothing left inside him to expel. The voices around him still don't make sense, and he still can't move, but his skin only feels like someone had set him on fire instead of maybe doing that and then dousing him with acid.
Maybe he's gone crazy. Maybe he's dying.
"Quite the opposite, actually," a voice says nearby - a man's voice, cultured and deep - so maybe that means he said that out loud. He doesn't understand what the voice means. The last thing he remembers...
What is the last thing he remembers? Something... Something... Pain. Fear. Or maybe that's now? He remembers... the sound of someone's voice. Not this voice. It had been a young man's voice. It had been frightened. He hadn't wanted that voice to be frightened, so he... what?
Something...
What's his name?
Tim. That's the first name he thinks of. But it's not his, is it? It's someone. Someone... important. The most important person. If he can just remember...
If he can remember who Tim is, he'll remember who he is.
"You're really taking this remarkably well. I was a bit concerned. The process can be... rather stressful, particularly the first time. particularly for one so far gone."
That voice again, closer this time. "Where's Tim?" Where is he for that matter? He opens his eyes again, and they barely feel like they're on fire at all. He thinks the wall - or maybe that's the ceiling - is made of rough stone, like a tunnel or maybe a cave. The light is strange, greenish and shifting.
"In due time. I'm sure he'll be here shortly." The voice sounds amused, pleased. He tries to turn his head, but he can't move that, either. "After all, that was rather the point, wasn't it?"
The point of what? What the hell is going on? What is his name?
"There will have been sensors in the grave, of course, after that last...nasty business with the rings. I'll be quite disappointed if I'm not at the top of his list of suspects."
Grave? Rings? Suspects?
There's a mechanical noise, creaking and old-fashioned, and then he's tilting, head rising and feet falling, or maybe it's the other way around. The owner of the voice comes into view, tall and brown-skinned, hair thick and black but tinged with silver. Something about the man sets his teeth on edge. The man smiles, and it makes him think of sharks. "But forgive my rudeness. We haven't been properly introduced. I am called Ra's al Ghul."
Something about the name is familiar. He thinks...maybe he's heard it before. He doesn't remember meeting this person, though. He thinks the word "demon," and he doesn't know why.
"And now," Ra's al Ghul says, "we shall wait for your son to arrive."
*
Jack. His name is Jack. He repeats that to himself inside his head, so he won't forget again. He thinks...that he's getting better. Still, the feeling of not knowing who he was lingers strong in his memory.
Tim is his son. Dana is his wife. So was Janet, but she's dead now. It's Tim his mind keeps drifting back to. He's starting to remember a little, bits and pieces. He thinks Tim was the one crying when he-
Not died. If he'd died, he wouldn't be sitting here on this bed, staring at the wall. It's really not a bad room, all things considered. He's pretty sure he's a prisoner. He's pretty sure he's bait. Tim will know better than to fall for a trap like this, though. He thinks, for a little while, that maybe Batman will be the one to come and save him. He did in Haiti, after all.
It takes some time for him to remember how much he'd hated the man for taking his son from him, leading him into danger and deceit, how it had felt to hold the gun in his hand, to point it at a face he thought he knew. When Bruce Wayne had narrowed his eyes at him, in that moment, Jack had realized he didn't know the man at all.
Maybe not Batman, then.
Surely someone will come, though. Tim's a superhero. He's spoken more times than Jack can count about how tightly knit that community is, how they depend so strongly on each other. Maybe Superman owes his son a favor. The thought makes him laugh, until he realizes what his own voice sounds like. Then he stops.
Jack. His name is Jack. He has a son named Tim. Tim is Robin. Robin is a superhero.
Someone's going to rescue him from this place eventually.
*
They bring him food three times a day. It's pretty decent food. Like the room, with its bed and table and wooden chairs, it's an unexpected luxury. Jack never spent much time before now thinking about what it would be like to be held hostage by a proper supervillain, but even if he had, he wouldn't have pictured it like this. It's a far cry from Haiti.
On the second day - or at least he thinks it's the second day, but his only real clue is the food cycle - Ra's al Ghul is standing behind the guy who brings the food when the door opens with lunch. "Mr. Drake," the man says, somehow making it sound like he's addressing Jack across a board table instead of the door of a prison cell. "I trust the accommodations are comfortable?"
"Much better than the last time I was kidnapped, thanks. I especially appreciate the toilet. I don't suppose you've got any books you could lend me, though?"
Al Ghul looks at him levelly for a long moment. Jack gets the feeling the man is amused. "The reading selection in your tongue might be rather limited. I haven't used this base in some time."
Jack shrugs. "What have you got?" He takes a stab, based on the man's name and things he's heard said in the hallway as people have passed his door. "My Arabic's passable, but I'm a bit out of practice at reading it. I'm afraid my Coptic is really pretty rusty, though." And that was a shock, hearing a mostly-dead language being spoken conversationally by the men who inhabit this place. He hasn't really bothered with the language since grad school, when he decided he'd rather study the new world than the old. From the language, and from the desert air and all the sandstone, Jack feels reasonably sure that he's in Egypt. Or Sudan, maybe but... probably Egypt. He's been in tombs that looked like this place. "Spanish or French would be really nice. Or Latin."
Now the man is definitely amused. He waves a hand toward someone or something out of sight without turning his head. "I'll see what I can do."
It's on the tip of Jack's tongue to ask for some way to exercise, but a more pressing question comes out instead. "What do you intend to do to my son?"
Al Ghul just smiles. He steps back as the servant or whatever he is finishes setting the table and returns to the door.
The lack of answer is chilling, though it's not like Jack ever thought the guy wanted to lure Tim over to have tea. "I said, what do you want with my son," He tries to put more force into the question this time despite the way his heart is thumping.
"That will depend," al Ghul says as the door clanks shut and locks, "entirely on the young detective."
*
Jack frets for a while, pacing and tugging on his hair. Eventually he decides that if he's going to be a prisoner for very long, he can't just sit around and slowly go insane.. He does jumping jacks and push ups and squats until he's tired and sore all over. It takes a distressingly short amount of time. Dana would tease the hell out of him, if she could see him.
Dana... It would be really nice to see her right now. He lies on his back once he's tired, thinking of the soft curves of her body over runner's muscle and sinew. It's a nice diversion, but his mind keeps coming back to his situation. He's not sure if Tim can, or will, tell Dana what's going on. She might think he's dead.
Try as he might, he can't remember being kidnapped. Maybe he was drugged - or a head injury could explain the memory loss and fuzzy thinking. Either one might account for all the weird pains and vomiting he vaguely remembers. He's not sure how they got him out of Gotham, out of the country, without anyone realizing it. Then again, supervillains probably have their ways.
He tries to think of everything he knows about Ra's al Ghul. The man had been active in Gotham a time or two, and Jack had seen it on the news or read about it in the paper. He never used to pay too much attention to that kind of thing, except to bemoan that he was raising his son in a city full of psychos and criminals. After he found out about Tim's...secret... well, he paid more attention to the news after that.
The man was some kind of terrorist, wasn't he? Not a religious nut - or rather, not a nut following some religion. From what he's seen since he came to, al Ghul seems to be at the head of his own little cult of personality. Does he have powers? Jack can't remember. Lightning breath or acid touch or gamma ray eyes... All that stuff always seemed so stupid before he knew it was being pointed at his son. Try as he might, though, he can't pin something that showy onto al Ghul.
They bring him books with his supper. The volumes are old, but the dry air and minimal handling have been good for them. Two volumes in French, three in Latin, one in Greek. Well, it will give him something to do besides stare at the walls at least.
It's the books that give him his clue. The longer he looks at them, the older he realizes them to be. Not the French books - one of those even has a date written inside the cover, from the turn of the nineteenth century. That reinforces the idea that he's probably in Egypt, since Napoleon was running the place at that time. The other books are much older. He runs his fingers over the vellum, the leather, the glue at their bindings. The words on the pages are faintly imprinted with the force of the press on which they were made.
"Huh," he says, and turns a Latin volume over in the light.
I haven't used this base in some time.
Ra's al Ghul is immortal, or close to it. He remembers now.
Wow.
He really hopes Superman owes his son a favor.
*
If Tim were captured by a supervillain, what would he do?
The thought occurs to Jack while he's waiting for that servant to set the table again. Tim could probably overpower the man and make a break for it.
Maybe he would have found something in the room to use as a weapon. Broken a chair to use the leg like a club, or made a garotte out of the bedsheets.
If Tim got out of the room, what would he do? There's a guard station at the end of the hall; Jack can just see it from his door if he cranes his neck. He watches the guards watch the security feed sometimes, but mostly the screen shows nothing but some rocks. There was a goat herder, once, though. That was exciting.
So, a servant in the room, two or three guards at the end of the hall, and...Jack doesn't know anything else. He thinks they're probably underground - the air temperature is pretty constant and fairly comfortable, so they're out of the sun. Tim could probably take out those first few guys, but who knows what's up ahead? How big is this place? Big enough to hold a stable temperature underground, at least. Big enough to hold an army? Ra's al Ghul was that kind of villain, wasn't he? Not one crazy guy, like the Joker or Two Face, but an organized crime kind of guy. Or something like that, anyway. He probably should have paid more attention, but he doesn't think the guy has done much lately, so he hasn't been in the news since Jack found the secret compartment in his son's closet.
He's not sure if Tim could escape from a place like this, but he does know that he can't. Jack has been an archeologist, a gentleman adventurer, a businessman, a husband, a father. He's never been a hero.
"Excuse me," he says, as the servant is leaving. "Do you think I could get some stuff to exercise with? Maybe a jump-rope or something?" He pantomimes in case the man doesn't know the words, hopping in place and twirling his hands. "I'm going stir crazy in here."
The servant doesn't answer, but he watches Jack's little show before he turns to leave.
*
There's commotion in the middle of the night. Jack wakes up with a jerk and rolls out of bed, crouching on the floor and staring at the square of light from the door's barred window as men run by. No one opens the door, though. After a minute or two he gets up and goes to look out through the little barred window, to the guard station.
There are several men crowded around it in various states of dress. He wasn't the only one caught sleeping, then. One of the men moves, and Jack catches a glimpse of someone dressed in red and black moving across the security screen. His heart leaps, and he starts to get excited, but he realizes after a moment that the background is all wrong. The man is somewhere else, in a city made of grey concrete, not here.
Still, for the guards to be so agitated, something important must be going on. He presses himself flat to the door, craning his neck, trying to get the best view he can. The men are all jabbering at once, and his Coptic really is terrible, so he can't understand what they're saying to each other. It's supposed to be a dead language, outside of the church, and he thinks it's really not fair that his captors can't just speak Arabic or something else he'd have a chance at.
He concentrates and catches a word or two. The one he's hearing most often is "red." Well, the man's shirt is red, yes, but-
"Bird." "Red" and "bird", and the man on the screen is using a long white staff to send someone in body armor to his knees. "Robin," he whispers, staring at the tiny, distant figure.
Eventually, the excitement ends. The monitor reverts to security footage of a pile of boulders, and all but a few of the men disperse. There are four guards at the station, now, instead of two.
Tim is looking for him. Jack goes back to bed with a smile on his face.
He wonders why Tim changed his costume, though.
*
When his breakfast comes, the servant puts a jump-rope on the table without looking in Jack's direction. He leaves a bucket and a cloth, and as soon as he's gone, Jack strips down to wash himself. His breakfast is shakshouka, and he eats it with quiet enjoyment, sopping up egg yolk and tomato sauce with freshly made flatbread. It's the kind of fast, easy food one might get from a street vendor in Cairo for a few pennies - probably the same thing the guards are eating. In Gotham, though, he'd pay twenty bucks for a meal like this at a specialty restaurant, so he decides to think of it that way, even if he does have to refill his cup from the pitcher himself. He does miss having ice in his drink, but the water is cool enough.
After breakfast he does his push-ups and crunches and squats, and then he picks up the rope to examine it. The handles are wood, but he thinks he could get them off pretty easily if he had to. He's not sure if he remembers his knots, or if the kind of knots one learns for yachting would even be the kind of knots for this... but he's sure he could figure out something that would work.
Captivity is wearing. He'd really like to shave, and to wash his hair properly, and to see the sunlight. Still, the food is good. The bed is... comfortable enough, and there are no bugs in it. No rats in the room. It doesn't get too hot, or too cold. No one's hurt him, since the first day, or even threatened him. Even al Ghul was polite enough, for all that he set Jack's skin crawling and probably wants to murder his son.
Jack twists the rope between his hands, trying to make it into a loop. He gets something that looks serviceable and doesn't pull apart when he yanks on it. There's no way he can see to attach it to the ceiling, but he could tie it to the bars on the window, if he started on his knees.
Tim is looking for him.
He unties the jump rope. It would be a shame to use it if he doesn't have to. But at least now he has the option. He might not be able to escape, but there's a way out. That helps a little with the trapped feeling.
He can stay here for a while. He can wait for Tim, or one of Tim's friends. He should try to think of it as a vacation.
He jumps rope until he's exhausted, and then sits on the bed to read for a while.
*
Someone is in the room when Jack wakes up. He lays there very still, feeling his heartbeat and trying to keep his breathing even, but he suspects from the way the chair creaks under his guest that he's already given himself away. After a few seconds, he rolls onto his back and sits up, turning to see who's in the room.
Ra's al Ghul is sitting in one of the two wooden chairs, legs crossed, just looking at Jack, ignoring the silent servant who is setting the table for two. Jack squints his bleary eyes and runs his hands through his hair, hating how greasy it feels.
"Now is a good time for the two of us to have a chat," al Ghul says. He nods absently at the servant without looking away from Jack, and the other man pours mint-infused tea from a silver pot into a pair of little gilded glasses.
Jack swings his legs over the side of the bed and stares back at him, not answering. He's not awake enough for this yet. The tea smells amazing, though, and Jack hasn't had any caffeine in... how long has be been here? A week? More? He should have been keeping better track, scratching tally marks into the wall or something. Tim probably would have. He gets up when the servant starts uncovering dishes.
It's a surprisingly simple meal, considering al Ghul seems likely to be sharing it with him - just soft yogurt cheese topped with olive oil and herbs, flatbread and some kind of tomato salad. The other man seems to be waiting for him before he starts, so Jack moves to the table and sits down. "If I thought I had any information you'd want from me, I'd be getting suspicious right now." He's suspicious anyway. "Sleep deprivation and suddenly friendly behavior..."
Al Ghul smiles. "Ah, but you may have information that I need after all. Timothy has already worked his way through all of my bases which were wired to the computer network he compromised. He's found two more since then. He could be here today." Jack's heart leaps, but al Ghul shrugs as if this is inconsequential. "Or it could be a month. I am a patient man, and if I had left him deliberate clues, he wouldn't have trusted them."
"There is absolutely nothing you could say or do that would make me work for you against my son," Jack says with conviction. He looks at the cup sitting in front of him, but decides not to touch the food until the other man does.
"Oh, honestly, if I intended to poison or drug you I'd have done it by now." Al Ghul sounds...miffed. Jack picks up a date and takes a bite. He watches as al Ghul sips his tea. "I had hoped to speak with you as one father to another. I have no sons, I am afraid, but I do have two rather...spirited daughters. That is why you are here."
"I'm here because you kidnapped me," Jack says, and rolls his eyes. "What do your daughters have to do with that?"
He watches as al Ghul suppresses a smile. "Is that what you think? Hm. Mr. Drake, I shall be blunt. My descendants will be heirs to a vast empire. What I am proposing is that yours should be as well."
It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together. No sons, but he has daughters; talking to Jack "father to father" about descendants... "Holy shit. You can't be serious."
Al Ghul's smile evaporates and his face darkens. "I assure you that I am most serious. My only grandson is a...terrible disappointment. Bruce Wayne took him from me, as he took your son from you. The boy was not ready to meet his father. Perhaps he never would have been." His expression and tone become more philosophical. "Though he did at least have the sense to immediately recognize your son as a significant threat and attempt to eliminate him."
"W-what?" Jack says, even though he saw Tim on the monitor just the night before, even though al Ghul has been talking as if Tim would show up any minute now.
"They are rivals for the affections of the current Batman. Your son is no longer Robin, Mr. Drake. He has been wandering the world, heartbroken, lost and alone. He no longer has a home, or a family. I propose to offer him one." He gestures in Jack's direction with a graceful turn of his wrist. "A father. And a bride."
Jack can only stare in stunned amazement.
"You see now, I hope. You are less a hostage than an offering. I went to considerable effort and expense to cause you to be here."
"Because you want grandchildren?" Jack sputters. Even Janet's mother had never been that bad.
"It is the purpose of every being on this earth to secure a place for its progeny. The wasp pierces the living grub so that her children will start their lives with sustenance. The songbird makes himself a target of hawks and hunters to win the most desirable mates. Man is no different. If your line and mine are joined, a Drake will one day rule the world."
Jack can only stare at the man, open-mouthed, trying to understand the words coming out of his mouth. "My God. You're completely insane, aren't you?"
Something fiery flashes in the other man's eyes, and Jack can suddenly understand how the man got a name like 'Head of the Demon.' "Perhaps it was foolish of me to attempt to speak to you as an equal. Let me make this plainer: when your son arrives, either you will convince him that a liason with my daughter is in both of your best interests, or I will be forced to do the convincing myself. If it is necessary to use you as leverage, you will be tortured until your son complies. The process will repeat until I am fully satisfied that I have a suitable heir. I can keep you and your son alive indefinitely, in constant torment, until I have what I want. And when I am through, I will return you to your grave, to the worms and the rot, without the courtesy of first ending your life.”
"Jesus," Jack whispers, his body pressed flat against the back of his chair. What was the man even talking about? Torture, okay, terrifying yet comprehensible. What was that about graves supposed to mean? A madman's ranting, or... or... Jack finds his skin crawling, his hands shaking. He hugs himself. "I'll think about it."
"Indeed," al Ghul says, and it sounds like a threat, a curse, "you will think of nothing else." He stands and leaves the table, and the servant hurries to unlock the door for him. When al Ghul wrenches the iron door open, it creaks loudly under his hand.
The servant hurries after him, locking the door and leaving Jack alone with his breakfast.
There's no way he can eat another bite.
Continued here.
Author: iesika
Fandom: DCU
Rating: Mild
Pairing: None (unless you squint)
Summary: Sometimes, if a man is lucky, he gets a second chance to do the most important thing he's never done.
Notes: This is for floranna, who's been unbelievably patient. I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope it was worth the wait. This was written with utter disregard for continuity beyond about the start of Red Robin, which is when I stopped reading new DC comics. Thanks to kirax2 for a great deal of inspiration and repair work, and to batstalker for title help.
He doesn't know what's going on.
He's cold and he can't stop shaking, but his skin feels like it's on fire. There's an overwhelming chemical odor in his nostrils - something wrong that makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. When he vomits, the liquid that comes up tastes like rotting. Like death. His lungs burn, and he coughs up something thick and terrible that burns like bile. He thinks there's something moving in it, and he ends up vomiting again, until there's nothing left.
His muscles are spasming painfully all over his body, but he can't make them move under his control. His spine hurts, nerves raw like the world's worth toothache, and he can feel the pain of it from his hair down to his toenails. Something is holding him down despite his convulsions, holding his arms and legs firmly in place. He can't move, but his muscles won't stop twitching.
He can't see anything - until he can, and everything is too bright, and his eyes burn. There are shapes moving around him, things being said, but none of it makes sense. It takes him a long time to figure out that the screaming is coming from him.
It takes a long time after that for him to make himself stop.
Eventually, though, he does stop, and there's nothing left inside him to expel. The voices around him still don't make sense, and he still can't move, but his skin only feels like someone had set him on fire instead of maybe doing that and then dousing him with acid.
Maybe he's gone crazy. Maybe he's dying.
"Quite the opposite, actually," a voice says nearby - a man's voice, cultured and deep - so maybe that means he said that out loud. He doesn't understand what the voice means. The last thing he remembers...
What is the last thing he remembers? Something... Something... Pain. Fear. Or maybe that's now? He remembers... the sound of someone's voice. Not this voice. It had been a young man's voice. It had been frightened. He hadn't wanted that voice to be frightened, so he... what?
Something...
What's his name?
Tim. That's the first name he thinks of. But it's not his, is it? It's someone. Someone... important. The most important person. If he can just remember...
If he can remember who Tim is, he'll remember who he is.
"You're really taking this remarkably well. I was a bit concerned. The process can be... rather stressful, particularly the first time. particularly for one so far gone."
That voice again, closer this time. "Where's Tim?" Where is he for that matter? He opens his eyes again, and they barely feel like they're on fire at all. He thinks the wall - or maybe that's the ceiling - is made of rough stone, like a tunnel or maybe a cave. The light is strange, greenish and shifting.
"In due time. I'm sure he'll be here shortly." The voice sounds amused, pleased. He tries to turn his head, but he can't move that, either. "After all, that was rather the point, wasn't it?"
The point of what? What the hell is going on? What is his name?
"There will have been sensors in the grave, of course, after that last...nasty business with the rings. I'll be quite disappointed if I'm not at the top of his list of suspects."
Grave? Rings? Suspects?
There's a mechanical noise, creaking and old-fashioned, and then he's tilting, head rising and feet falling, or maybe it's the other way around. The owner of the voice comes into view, tall and brown-skinned, hair thick and black but tinged with silver. Something about the man sets his teeth on edge. The man smiles, and it makes him think of sharks. "But forgive my rudeness. We haven't been properly introduced. I am called Ra's al Ghul."
Something about the name is familiar. He thinks...maybe he's heard it before. He doesn't remember meeting this person, though. He thinks the word "demon," and he doesn't know why.
"And now," Ra's al Ghul says, "we shall wait for your son to arrive."
*
Jack. His name is Jack. He repeats that to himself inside his head, so he won't forget again. He thinks...that he's getting better. Still, the feeling of not knowing who he was lingers strong in his memory.
Tim is his son. Dana is his wife. So was Janet, but she's dead now. It's Tim his mind keeps drifting back to. He's starting to remember a little, bits and pieces. He thinks Tim was the one crying when he-
Not died. If he'd died, he wouldn't be sitting here on this bed, staring at the wall. It's really not a bad room, all things considered. He's pretty sure he's a prisoner. He's pretty sure he's bait. Tim will know better than to fall for a trap like this, though. He thinks, for a little while, that maybe Batman will be the one to come and save him. He did in Haiti, after all.
It takes some time for him to remember how much he'd hated the man for taking his son from him, leading him into danger and deceit, how it had felt to hold the gun in his hand, to point it at a face he thought he knew. When Bruce Wayne had narrowed his eyes at him, in that moment, Jack had realized he didn't know the man at all.
Maybe not Batman, then.
Surely someone will come, though. Tim's a superhero. He's spoken more times than Jack can count about how tightly knit that community is, how they depend so strongly on each other. Maybe Superman owes his son a favor. The thought makes him laugh, until he realizes what his own voice sounds like. Then he stops.
Jack. His name is Jack. He has a son named Tim. Tim is Robin. Robin is a superhero.
Someone's going to rescue him from this place eventually.
*
They bring him food three times a day. It's pretty decent food. Like the room, with its bed and table and wooden chairs, it's an unexpected luxury. Jack never spent much time before now thinking about what it would be like to be held hostage by a proper supervillain, but even if he had, he wouldn't have pictured it like this. It's a far cry from Haiti.
On the second day - or at least he thinks it's the second day, but his only real clue is the food cycle - Ra's al Ghul is standing behind the guy who brings the food when the door opens with lunch. "Mr. Drake," the man says, somehow making it sound like he's addressing Jack across a board table instead of the door of a prison cell. "I trust the accommodations are comfortable?"
"Much better than the last time I was kidnapped, thanks. I especially appreciate the toilet. I don't suppose you've got any books you could lend me, though?"
Al Ghul looks at him levelly for a long moment. Jack gets the feeling the man is amused. "The reading selection in your tongue might be rather limited. I haven't used this base in some time."
Jack shrugs. "What have you got?" He takes a stab, based on the man's name and things he's heard said in the hallway as people have passed his door. "My Arabic's passable, but I'm a bit out of practice at reading it. I'm afraid my Coptic is really pretty rusty, though." And that was a shock, hearing a mostly-dead language being spoken conversationally by the men who inhabit this place. He hasn't really bothered with the language since grad school, when he decided he'd rather study the new world than the old. From the language, and from the desert air and all the sandstone, Jack feels reasonably sure that he's in Egypt. Or Sudan, maybe but... probably Egypt. He's been in tombs that looked like this place. "Spanish or French would be really nice. Or Latin."
Now the man is definitely amused. He waves a hand toward someone or something out of sight without turning his head. "I'll see what I can do."
It's on the tip of Jack's tongue to ask for some way to exercise, but a more pressing question comes out instead. "What do you intend to do to my son?"
Al Ghul just smiles. He steps back as the servant or whatever he is finishes setting the table and returns to the door.
The lack of answer is chilling, though it's not like Jack ever thought the guy wanted to lure Tim over to have tea. "I said, what do you want with my son," He tries to put more force into the question this time despite the way his heart is thumping.
"That will depend," al Ghul says as the door clanks shut and locks, "entirely on the young detective."
*
Jack frets for a while, pacing and tugging on his hair. Eventually he decides that if he's going to be a prisoner for very long, he can't just sit around and slowly go insane.. He does jumping jacks and push ups and squats until he's tired and sore all over. It takes a distressingly short amount of time. Dana would tease the hell out of him, if she could see him.
Dana... It would be really nice to see her right now. He lies on his back once he's tired, thinking of the soft curves of her body over runner's muscle and sinew. It's a nice diversion, but his mind keeps coming back to his situation. He's not sure if Tim can, or will, tell Dana what's going on. She might think he's dead.
Try as he might, he can't remember being kidnapped. Maybe he was drugged - or a head injury could explain the memory loss and fuzzy thinking. Either one might account for all the weird pains and vomiting he vaguely remembers. He's not sure how they got him out of Gotham, out of the country, without anyone realizing it. Then again, supervillains probably have their ways.
He tries to think of everything he knows about Ra's al Ghul. The man had been active in Gotham a time or two, and Jack had seen it on the news or read about it in the paper. He never used to pay too much attention to that kind of thing, except to bemoan that he was raising his son in a city full of psychos and criminals. After he found out about Tim's...secret... well, he paid more attention to the news after that.
The man was some kind of terrorist, wasn't he? Not a religious nut - or rather, not a nut following some religion. From what he's seen since he came to, al Ghul seems to be at the head of his own little cult of personality. Does he have powers? Jack can't remember. Lightning breath or acid touch or gamma ray eyes... All that stuff always seemed so stupid before he knew it was being pointed at his son. Try as he might, though, he can't pin something that showy onto al Ghul.
They bring him books with his supper. The volumes are old, but the dry air and minimal handling have been good for them. Two volumes in French, three in Latin, one in Greek. Well, it will give him something to do besides stare at the walls at least.
It's the books that give him his clue. The longer he looks at them, the older he realizes them to be. Not the French books - one of those even has a date written inside the cover, from the turn of the nineteenth century. That reinforces the idea that he's probably in Egypt, since Napoleon was running the place at that time. The other books are much older. He runs his fingers over the vellum, the leather, the glue at their bindings. The words on the pages are faintly imprinted with the force of the press on which they were made.
"Huh," he says, and turns a Latin volume over in the light.
I haven't used this base in some time.
Ra's al Ghul is immortal, or close to it. He remembers now.
Wow.
He really hopes Superman owes his son a favor.
*
If Tim were captured by a supervillain, what would he do?
The thought occurs to Jack while he's waiting for that servant to set the table again. Tim could probably overpower the man and make a break for it.
Maybe he would have found something in the room to use as a weapon. Broken a chair to use the leg like a club, or made a garotte out of the bedsheets.
If Tim got out of the room, what would he do? There's a guard station at the end of the hall; Jack can just see it from his door if he cranes his neck. He watches the guards watch the security feed sometimes, but mostly the screen shows nothing but some rocks. There was a goat herder, once, though. That was exciting.
So, a servant in the room, two or three guards at the end of the hall, and...Jack doesn't know anything else. He thinks they're probably underground - the air temperature is pretty constant and fairly comfortable, so they're out of the sun. Tim could probably take out those first few guys, but who knows what's up ahead? How big is this place? Big enough to hold a stable temperature underground, at least. Big enough to hold an army? Ra's al Ghul was that kind of villain, wasn't he? Not one crazy guy, like the Joker or Two Face, but an organized crime kind of guy. Or something like that, anyway. He probably should have paid more attention, but he doesn't think the guy has done much lately, so he hasn't been in the news since Jack found the secret compartment in his son's closet.
He's not sure if Tim could escape from a place like this, but he does know that he can't. Jack has been an archeologist, a gentleman adventurer, a businessman, a husband, a father. He's never been a hero.
"Excuse me," he says, as the servant is leaving. "Do you think I could get some stuff to exercise with? Maybe a jump-rope or something?" He pantomimes in case the man doesn't know the words, hopping in place and twirling his hands. "I'm going stir crazy in here."
The servant doesn't answer, but he watches Jack's little show before he turns to leave.
*
There's commotion in the middle of the night. Jack wakes up with a jerk and rolls out of bed, crouching on the floor and staring at the square of light from the door's barred window as men run by. No one opens the door, though. After a minute or two he gets up and goes to look out through the little barred window, to the guard station.
There are several men crowded around it in various states of dress. He wasn't the only one caught sleeping, then. One of the men moves, and Jack catches a glimpse of someone dressed in red and black moving across the security screen. His heart leaps, and he starts to get excited, but he realizes after a moment that the background is all wrong. The man is somewhere else, in a city made of grey concrete, not here.
Still, for the guards to be so agitated, something important must be going on. He presses himself flat to the door, craning his neck, trying to get the best view he can. The men are all jabbering at once, and his Coptic really is terrible, so he can't understand what they're saying to each other. It's supposed to be a dead language, outside of the church, and he thinks it's really not fair that his captors can't just speak Arabic or something else he'd have a chance at.
He concentrates and catches a word or two. The one he's hearing most often is "red." Well, the man's shirt is red, yes, but-
"Bird." "Red" and "bird", and the man on the screen is using a long white staff to send someone in body armor to his knees. "Robin," he whispers, staring at the tiny, distant figure.
Eventually, the excitement ends. The monitor reverts to security footage of a pile of boulders, and all but a few of the men disperse. There are four guards at the station, now, instead of two.
Tim is looking for him. Jack goes back to bed with a smile on his face.
He wonders why Tim changed his costume, though.
*
When his breakfast comes, the servant puts a jump-rope on the table without looking in Jack's direction. He leaves a bucket and a cloth, and as soon as he's gone, Jack strips down to wash himself. His breakfast is shakshouka, and he eats it with quiet enjoyment, sopping up egg yolk and tomato sauce with freshly made flatbread. It's the kind of fast, easy food one might get from a street vendor in Cairo for a few pennies - probably the same thing the guards are eating. In Gotham, though, he'd pay twenty bucks for a meal like this at a specialty restaurant, so he decides to think of it that way, even if he does have to refill his cup from the pitcher himself. He does miss having ice in his drink, but the water is cool enough.
After breakfast he does his push-ups and crunches and squats, and then he picks up the rope to examine it. The handles are wood, but he thinks he could get them off pretty easily if he had to. He's not sure if he remembers his knots, or if the kind of knots one learns for yachting would even be the kind of knots for this... but he's sure he could figure out something that would work.
Captivity is wearing. He'd really like to shave, and to wash his hair properly, and to see the sunlight. Still, the food is good. The bed is... comfortable enough, and there are no bugs in it. No rats in the room. It doesn't get too hot, or too cold. No one's hurt him, since the first day, or even threatened him. Even al Ghul was polite enough, for all that he set Jack's skin crawling and probably wants to murder his son.
Jack twists the rope between his hands, trying to make it into a loop. He gets something that looks serviceable and doesn't pull apart when he yanks on it. There's no way he can see to attach it to the ceiling, but he could tie it to the bars on the window, if he started on his knees.
Tim is looking for him.
He unties the jump rope. It would be a shame to use it if he doesn't have to. But at least now he has the option. He might not be able to escape, but there's a way out. That helps a little with the trapped feeling.
He can stay here for a while. He can wait for Tim, or one of Tim's friends. He should try to think of it as a vacation.
He jumps rope until he's exhausted, and then sits on the bed to read for a while.
*
Someone is in the room when Jack wakes up. He lays there very still, feeling his heartbeat and trying to keep his breathing even, but he suspects from the way the chair creaks under his guest that he's already given himself away. After a few seconds, he rolls onto his back and sits up, turning to see who's in the room.
Ra's al Ghul is sitting in one of the two wooden chairs, legs crossed, just looking at Jack, ignoring the silent servant who is setting the table for two. Jack squints his bleary eyes and runs his hands through his hair, hating how greasy it feels.
"Now is a good time for the two of us to have a chat," al Ghul says. He nods absently at the servant without looking away from Jack, and the other man pours mint-infused tea from a silver pot into a pair of little gilded glasses.
Jack swings his legs over the side of the bed and stares back at him, not answering. He's not awake enough for this yet. The tea smells amazing, though, and Jack hasn't had any caffeine in... how long has be been here? A week? More? He should have been keeping better track, scratching tally marks into the wall or something. Tim probably would have. He gets up when the servant starts uncovering dishes.
It's a surprisingly simple meal, considering al Ghul seems likely to be sharing it with him - just soft yogurt cheese topped with olive oil and herbs, flatbread and some kind of tomato salad. The other man seems to be waiting for him before he starts, so Jack moves to the table and sits down. "If I thought I had any information you'd want from me, I'd be getting suspicious right now." He's suspicious anyway. "Sleep deprivation and suddenly friendly behavior..."
Al Ghul smiles. "Ah, but you may have information that I need after all. Timothy has already worked his way through all of my bases which were wired to the computer network he compromised. He's found two more since then. He could be here today." Jack's heart leaps, but al Ghul shrugs as if this is inconsequential. "Or it could be a month. I am a patient man, and if I had left him deliberate clues, he wouldn't have trusted them."
"There is absolutely nothing you could say or do that would make me work for you against my son," Jack says with conviction. He looks at the cup sitting in front of him, but decides not to touch the food until the other man does.
"Oh, honestly, if I intended to poison or drug you I'd have done it by now." Al Ghul sounds...miffed. Jack picks up a date and takes a bite. He watches as al Ghul sips his tea. "I had hoped to speak with you as one father to another. I have no sons, I am afraid, but I do have two rather...spirited daughters. That is why you are here."
"I'm here because you kidnapped me," Jack says, and rolls his eyes. "What do your daughters have to do with that?"
He watches as al Ghul suppresses a smile. "Is that what you think? Hm. Mr. Drake, I shall be blunt. My descendants will be heirs to a vast empire. What I am proposing is that yours should be as well."
It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together. No sons, but he has daughters; talking to Jack "father to father" about descendants... "Holy shit. You can't be serious."
Al Ghul's smile evaporates and his face darkens. "I assure you that I am most serious. My only grandson is a...terrible disappointment. Bruce Wayne took him from me, as he took your son from you. The boy was not ready to meet his father. Perhaps he never would have been." His expression and tone become more philosophical. "Though he did at least have the sense to immediately recognize your son as a significant threat and attempt to eliminate him."
"W-what?" Jack says, even though he saw Tim on the monitor just the night before, even though al Ghul has been talking as if Tim would show up any minute now.
"They are rivals for the affections of the current Batman. Your son is no longer Robin, Mr. Drake. He has been wandering the world, heartbroken, lost and alone. He no longer has a home, or a family. I propose to offer him one." He gestures in Jack's direction with a graceful turn of his wrist. "A father. And a bride."
Jack can only stare in stunned amazement.
"You see now, I hope. You are less a hostage than an offering. I went to considerable effort and expense to cause you to be here."
"Because you want grandchildren?" Jack sputters. Even Janet's mother had never been that bad.
"It is the purpose of every being on this earth to secure a place for its progeny. The wasp pierces the living grub so that her children will start their lives with sustenance. The songbird makes himself a target of hawks and hunters to win the most desirable mates. Man is no different. If your line and mine are joined, a Drake will one day rule the world."
Jack can only stare at the man, open-mouthed, trying to understand the words coming out of his mouth. "My God. You're completely insane, aren't you?"
Something fiery flashes in the other man's eyes, and Jack can suddenly understand how the man got a name like 'Head of the Demon.' "Perhaps it was foolish of me to attempt to speak to you as an equal. Let me make this plainer: when your son arrives, either you will convince him that a liason with my daughter is in both of your best interests, or I will be forced to do the convincing myself. If it is necessary to use you as leverage, you will be tortured until your son complies. The process will repeat until I am fully satisfied that I have a suitable heir. I can keep you and your son alive indefinitely, in constant torment, until I have what I want. And when I am through, I will return you to your grave, to the worms and the rot, without the courtesy of first ending your life.”
"Jesus," Jack whispers, his body pressed flat against the back of his chair. What was the man even talking about? Torture, okay, terrifying yet comprehensible. What was that about graves supposed to mean? A madman's ranting, or... or... Jack finds his skin crawling, his hands shaking. He hugs himself. "I'll think about it."
"Indeed," al Ghul says, and it sounds like a threat, a curse, "you will think of nothing else." He stands and leaves the table, and the servant hurries to unlock the door for him. When al Ghul wrenches the iron door open, it creaks loudly under his hand.
The servant hurries after him, locking the door and leaving Jack alone with his breakfast.
There's no way he can eat another bite.
Continued here.