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Tim paced. It was all he could do to keep himself awake—to keep the nightmares away. He walked back and forth, but only for the short distance the chain around his arm allowed.
He wasn’t sure what kind of metal the ship was made out of, but a strange green path was starting to wear into the floor from at least five weeks of constant pacing.
Tim wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the ship in total. He just knew it’d been roughly five weeks since he’d woken. Since his first fight. Since he found out his body had been tampered with—violated. Five weeks since he’d discovered-
Tim stopped dead in his tracks when the solid gate slid open, revealing a faceless guard. His heart raced, adrenaline pumping through his veins like it always did when one of them entered his cell. The first couple days, he tried fighting them, desperate to escape, but he learned quickly every guard had access to the shock collar around his neck.
Instead, he just glared at them—instincts trained into him by Batman boiling under his skin as he watched the guard grab the half-eaten tray of food sitting in the corner of the cell.
He couldn’t stop the growl that came from his throat when the masked guard slowed passing Tim on the way out.
He’d fought enough villains with faceless masks in his life to recognize the subtle tilt of the head that indicated what he was sure was a smirk.
Then the guard left. The gate shut behind them, leaving Tim to the dark room and his pacing once more.
The clock was ticking now. He had exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes before a troop of four guards came to escort him to the Hold. Then, he would have just over an hour to prepare for what came next.
It had only taken him four days after the first fight to figure out the schedule—it would have only taken three, but the first day was spent curled in a ball in the corner of the room, tears streaming down his face as he realized his own body had been turned against him.
Though there were fights everyday, Tim himself didn’t fight everyday, but his matches were becoming more frequent. He didn’t bother asking why. He had a few theories, and he was certain all of them were correct, and he absolutely hated that.
The time passed, Tim spent it going over everything he knew from the last five weeks. How the consistencies would predict how today would go. Relying on logic and patterns was his best chance at survival. He couldn’t let himself slip into possibilities, and because of that, Tim couldn’t let himself hope.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he still did. Realistically, someone had to come looking for him. By now the Bats would have noticed he was missing. His team would be frantic to find him. By now they’d be on his trail, but he couldn’t rely on getting found any time soon. That wasn’t realistic.
Still, there was a dream where Bruce bursted through the cell gate, his brothers and team in tow, taking him away from all the pain. Sometimes he dreamed of his brothers taking down all the faceless guards, breaking his chains, and lifting him in victory. Other times, it was his friends—Conner and Cassie and Bart—appearing in his cell, holding him close before ending up safe, in the Titans’ lounge room.
Most of the time, if he did dream, he just heard mixtures of his own screams with those of other prisoners. Or phantom pains he didn’t remember getting. Flames engulfing his body.
The first beat came. Tim stopped, facing the gate as it opened once again, and took a deep breath. Two guards came into the cell—guns crossed in front of their chests. He could see the shoulders of two more outside. A fifth one came in, unarmed.
Oh, right. He’d miscalculated.
There was an incident two days prior, and he’d been left in his cell alone yesterday. They’d assigned him another escort.
Tim held his breath as the guard unlatched the chain from the wall. He still didn’t breathe even as he automatically raised his arms in front of him for his wrists to be cuffed together. He only let it out when the guard pulled him towards the hallway.
This was the worst part. The first half of the walk wasn’t nearly as awful as the second half—his cell was in the isolated wing. The gates were solid, no windows or open slots, that muffled any sound that might be made on the inside and hiding whoever was making said noise. Single prisoner per cell.
The next section, however, had standard gates, two to four prisoners per cell, no collars just chains. Tim always kept his head down in that hallway. About a week and a half in, he decided he didn’t want to see the faces of prisoners screaming in pain or begging for help. He couldn’t do anything about it, and recognizing them later only made his situation worse.
If they weren’t wailing from being tortured, they were whispering as he was paraded by.
They didn’t whisper his name—he didn’t have one of those here—but he knew they were talking about him.
He got a minute of silence on the other side of the cells once the door sealed shut. He still didn’t lift his head. There was no point. These beings had already stripped away any ounce of pride Tim might have tried to cling onto when they’d defiled the very essence of his being and put something new—different and wrong—in him.
Tim realized he was holding his breath again. He felt his hands and chest heating up. His eyes watered. Letting out a very slow breath, he tried to stop himself from thinking for the rest of the walk to where he would spend the next hour or so.
They finally stopped just outside another door, which led to a very small entryway into the Hold—a gym-like room the prisoners waited and trained in before the day’s matches.
Four of the guards stood in the corners of the entryway while the fifth unlocked the cuffs and the door slid open.
As if on cue, the guard shoved Tim over the threshold and the door sealed behind him. Other prisoners paused what they were doing and looked at him, but he barely spared them a glance before leaning against the wall and sliding down it, head tilted back and taking deep breaths.
Activity resumed after a bit. He tried to tell himself the other prisoners looked up any time someone was brought in, even though twelve others had entered after him and no one had even flinched.
The next hour went by. Tim decided to take his once a day scan of the Hold. It wasn’t nearly as big as the training rooms in the Tower or the Bat Cave, but that didn’t seem to bother the aliens holding him captive.
There were sixty prisoners in the room total. There were at least one hundred on the ship from the cells and faces he’d counted. There used to be more. Several more. He didn’t linger on that thought or the adjacent ones that made his body heat up.
There were only three of them from the isolated wing—indicated by their collars. Tim didn’t like what that implied, but before he could think too much on it, the clock was up.
The wall on the opposite side opened up, revealing the fighting arena. Even though Tim knew at this point he wouldn't go out until near the end, every time he saw the too dark dirt and broken pieces of makeshift weapons, his body shivered.
Two guards came in from the ring, grabbing two of the prisoners nearby and dragging them out. Tim didn’t look at them, knowing he couldn’t do anything about the outcome of other prisoners’ fights. The collar around his throat, a heavy reminder of the times he’d tried.
A holographic screen appeared over the closed wall, showing the frightened faces of the two prisoners. A countdown showed the alien equivalent of a minute until the match started.
Tim could hear the commotion of the arena audience just above the Hold. It wasn’t the kind of rowdiness he had experienced at baseball games with Dick or concerts with Bart. The alien spectators here were more like guests at a Wayne gala. It was disconcerting, but he tried to focus on them more than what was happening in the ring when he wasn’t fighting.
The first couple weeks, he’d hoped maybe he’d recognize a face—or maybe even just a species —but that hope quickly faded along with the dreams of a speedy rescue.
Now, he just watched unknown faces drinking too colorful cocktails and placing their bets for the night.
He hadn’t quite figured out how his captors decided who fought each night, but he assumed it had something to do with who got the highest bets. Not all of them who were brought to the Hold would fight, and they never knew who they were facing until they got put into the ring.
On one hand, Tim was disgusted by the whole thing—everything that had happened to him since being captured left the worst kind of sour taste in his mouth. On the other hand, he was thankful he didn’t have the time to look his opponents in the eyes, knowing what was about to happen, and try to act like they were friends.
This place had torn Tim’s very notion of self apart. These were the kind of people he’d sworn to protect and save. It was the kind of organization he would have helped destroy, the kind of victims he’d work his ass off to get someplace safe. If he weren’t one of them.
Tim didn’t watch the fights, but as the amount of prisoners dwindled, his hands started to feel warmer and warmer.
The other two collared prisoners were still in the Hold, as well as a handful others. Some of the non-collared prisoners were bigger, muscled beings. There were a couple different sets of matches they could put together, none of them Tim liked the odds of.
The chances of staying alive in the arena were slim, and Tim’s odds were disproportionate.
When the wall opened again, two more regular prisoners were taken out. Tim finally shared a glance with the other collared fighters.
Their time in captivity had hardened them. The few conversations Tim had managed with other fighters were about how it was easier to fight if you didn’t care. Tim tried that—it’s what kept him from looking at their faces—but his heart was still too big to not feel bad, especially knowing he was one of the few who had been trained before being captured. Somedays he wished he’d never thrown a punch before.
Even though the two others straightened their backs and snarled, Tim could see the sorrow in their eyes. He noticed the instinctual way one of them covered the large incision scar on their forearm, and the other one turned their head so he couldn’t see the metal implant that covered their face. Tim couldn’t hide. There was hardly anything to hide—even more so since his bangs now covered his face. His skin started to heat up again.
The swooping sound of the wall made him focus. Four guards entered, splitting up to grab the two and drag them out.
Tim’s heart sank. He could feel every single set of eyes from the non-collared fighters on him, a thick feeling of fear settling around the Hold. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to accidentally make eye contact with any of them. It would only break him more.
This fight took longer than the others. Tim silently wished it were him in that match, wished the alien with the tech attached to him were crushing his windpipe right now.
Instead, as he focused on his breathing and keeping his eyes shut, he could hear the footsteps of guards coming towards him. He barely opened his eyes before two cold, metal hands wrapped around his arms, hoisting him onto his feet.
Tim didn’t resist getting led into the ring. Keeping his eyes forward, he didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t want to see the faces of the aliens who were gambling on his ability to fight—his ability to win.
The guards left him standing there as he waited for the telltale thud of the other fighter being dropped behind him. When he turned around, he found one of the well built prisoners pushing themself off the ground.
This was the only part Tim felt like he had some control over. He knelt down and helped his opponent to their feet. The weight of his heart made it difficult to stand up straight, but he still stuck his hand out. A few times, he’d been snarled at or had his hand slapped away by the other fighters, and he expected it from this one. To his surprise, the alien took a deep breath, trying to hide the resigned look on their face, and shook his hand. There were sounds of disgust from the audience
“Tim,” he said so only his opponent could hear.
“Noitac,” the alien responded.
Before he could let go of Noitac’s hand, an electric shock tore through Tim’s body, making both fighters drop to their knees and scream out in pain.
“Enough of that!” A voice Tim had become familiar with as his handler yelled.
Getting back to their feet, the fighters shared another knowing glance with each other. Tim’s numbers didn’t lie.
“To the death!” The handler’s voice rang out. “Begin!!”
Despite their moment of solidarity, Noitac didn’t hesitate. Tim was grateful for it and even took a few good punches to the stomach and arm before instinctually analyzing his opponent’s fighting style.
He took a few more punches and could feel the tension in the arena rising. The crowd always got antsy when Tim took too many hits. He wished he could take more, but the fights were hardly fair if he clearly didn’t try.
For the most part, Tim was prepared when Noitac’s fist connected with his jaw, but it still knocked him off balance. Some dirt rose as he skidded back, trying to stay on his feet. He’d have a bruise later, but he kind of wanted the hit to knock him out. If it had, at least he wouldn’t have to be awake for the ending.
But he was still standing—only slightly disoriented by the punch. Jason had punched him harder when he ate the last of Alfred’s cookies last winter.
The noise from the crowd told Tim his time was running out. They wanted blood now , and his handler would get Tim’s later with the punishment he was certainly going to get for blowing the first half of the fight.
The dust settled, and the other fighter came charging towards him. Just as a fist was flying towards his ribs—a contact that would fracture his bones—Tim dropped into a crouch, dodging the hit and making Noitac stumble as their weight pulled them around. With barely a thought, Tim leapt into the air and brought down a clean right jab to their face. The fighter stumbled again, panting as they hit the wall of the ring.
When it was like this, trading punches, Tim could almost pretend he was sparring with one of his friends. Most of these aliens didn’t move like Bats—all of them adapting some form of Dick’s acrobatics in their style. It was more similar to fighting Conner or Slobo, though Tim tried not to make that association often.
It didn’t take long for the crowd to get restless. This wasn’t what they wanted to see. They didn’t place their bets to see Red Robin take down a bad guy or for Tim to trade punches with a teammate. They paid to see an enhanced fighter annihilate a severely outmatched prisoner.
The longer he kept them waiting, the worse the punishment would be. A look crossed over Noitac’s face that told Tim they knew that, too. If the fight didn’t end soon, he’d be paying for it tomorrow.
The alien shook themself and charged at him once again. Tim easily moved out of the way, but his opponent got in a cheap shot anyways. He fell to his knees as one of Noitac’s elbows made contact with the small of his back. Once he was down, the punches didn’t stop coming, which didn’t bother Tim. Noitac was fighting for their life. It was okay.
Before being captured, Tim might have felt like this was the end. He’d been beaten to a pulp several times before, but somehow someone was always there to intervene before the final death blow. Whether it was Cass dropkicking one of Penguin’s men or Cissie pinning down an android. There was no one there to stop Noitac’s fists, though. Just Tim and a curse he hadn’t asked for.
As if understanding how close to death he was, Tim’s brain clicked into something dark and wild, and his chest began to heat up. Then, everything around him grew hot. His body ached, blood spilled and bruises would form. The yells from the crowd and grunts from the fighter surrounded him. Tim felt like he was going to throw up.
Instead, black fire hissed around his arms as he screamed out in defiance. His survival mode fully kicked in.
Tim knew this part of himself—he’d fought tooth and nail before to save himself and others. He’d fought Ra’s al Ghul. He’d punched Superboy in the face. He’d stood point blank at the end of Red Hood’s gun. Fighting to stay alive wasn’t the problem. It was the white hot rage that poured out of him in the form of black flames licking his skin that scared him.
Fight or die , kept repeating in his brain. And though Tim didn’t want to fight, there was a part of him that didn’t want to die either, so he threw a ball of fire at the fighter. He didn’t hesitate to run forward when the flames made contact with them. Another right hook, this time with ethereal flames setting fire to cloth and skin.
Noitac screamed in pain as their flesh melted. They crumbled to the ground in front of him. Tim knew his entire upper body was aflame, could feel the heat radiating off every inch of him. There was some sort of chant coming from the audience. It filled him with more rage. He just wanted it to be over.
The dangerous part of Tim finally slipped free, the pain blinding him. He had to fight. It was what he was trained to do—what he had to do if he wanted to live.
Noitac back rolled through the dirt, extinguishing the flames, and jumped back to their feet. In a quick move, they pulled a rusted, broken sword out of the ground and threw it at Tim. He instantly spotted a spear-like weapon lying nearby and slid to it, bending far enough back to miss the blade as it flew over his head.
In one fluid move, Tim grabbed the spear and ran forward, black flames already spreading from his hands and down the wooden shaft. He spun the staff around his back, twisting down into a squat as the fighter jumped over him.
His opponent was losing steam, Tim knew that, so he used the extra time it took the fighter to regain their footing to leap forward, spear ablaze, and aim it at their shoulder. The alien screamed out in pain, the flames starting to burn their flesh again, the spear preventing them from putting it out.
Tim was going to win. Winning meant living. Living meant hoping. Hoping to see his loved ones again. What would they do if they saw him like this?
Dropping down to their hands and knees, Noitac looked up at him with pleading eyes. Tim hated all of it, but most of all he hated himself. Reality came crashing back around him, the heat of the fight fading right along with the heat of his own power.
Stifling a sob and letting out a small huff, Tim’s fire went out. He stumbled back a few paces, the adrenaline from the fight and flames easing and making his pain more prominent.
The crowd booed, but Tim ignored them, glaring directly at his handler and refusing to end the match.
Nothing changed for a moment. The crowd continued yelling at him and Tim stood defiant, but he knew what was coming next. It always did.
The handler simply smirked as the collar sent bigger electric shocks through his body. He’d been accidentally tasered by Nightwing’s escrima, but that dwarfed in comparison to the pain that wrecked his already abused body.
He fell to the ground, curling into himself as if that would help. Tim couldn’t feel anything but pain and couldn’t hear anything but his own screams. His vision started to white out, then the electricity stopped pouring into him.
Rolling onto his stomach and lifting his head to stare at another faceless guard, Tim could barely breathe. Expressionless, the guard lifted his arm towards Noitac, a single blade shooting out and impaling itself into their neck.
Tim flinched but didn’t look away from the mask. His body hurt. His heart hurt. He was disappointed in himself. He missed his family and friends. He was pissed off.
As the blade retracted and the alien fell forward, their blood pooling at the guards feet and inching closer to him, another electric shock ripped through his neck, rattling down his spine and tearing his body apart from the inside. When the pain got to be too much, Tim collapsed and passed out.