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arsenalsroy · 3 days ago

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snow falling like stars (snippet)

Bruce has been presumed dead for a few months when Dick learns that "Alvin Draper" has been accused of murder and thrown into a secret prison in Siberia. Dick goes to rescue him.

But in order to get in, he has to pose as an interrogator.

Not the way he wanted to meet his little brother again.

@upswings, this is your fault, I took your Red Robin art-theft prompt and made it angstier. @mr-sarcastic, many thanks for fixing my terrible Russian. xD

* * *

[Dick]

The prison is barely guarded. But it doesn't have to be. For twenty miles around, it's surrounded by snow and ice. Stay in the prison and live. Leave it and die.

Dick shivers. The cold is biting into his fingers. His gloves are goat leather lined with wool, the best money can buy, but the Siberian winter is no joke. And when he tries to flex his wrists, curl his fingers, the gloves are stiff. Flexibility: not great.

Good for the image, though. There’s dried blood on the palms of the gloves.

“And Petr sent you?” the guard asks, again.

Dick grunts in acknowledgment. “I have tools.”

His Russian’s passable, but it’s better for the guards not to know that. So for the purposes of this disguise, he’s the strong silent type. Struggling with the language. Squinting when anyone uses a complicated word. He overlays a German accent on his vowels.

According to his documents, he’s Raoul Tischendorf, German citizen.

Officially: a doctor.

Unofficially: an interrogator.

The real Raoul Tischendorf is currently unconscious in a hotel room in Moscow. He had an unpleasant confrontation with Batman last night, and contributed his winter coat and his briefcase of tools to this project. It wasn’t practical to get him arrested yet, not when Dick needed to use his identity, so Tischendorf’s currently sleeping off a cocktail of drugs in a hotel room. That’s where he’ll stay for the next twenty-two hours, which is when the Batplane will automatically send a tip to Interpol.

Once the police arrest him, rumors will spread. Which means Dick’s disguise will hold for about twenty-four hours.

He means to be out of here in two, but it’s always good to leave extra time.

* * *

Two weeks ago, Shurka Vasilieva was murdered in the midst of a secure compound outside Moscow. The case was hushed up quickly, but not before whispers got out. She’d run one of the most advanced international smuggling networks. They called her The Untouchable. Now she’s dead. No sign of forced entry. Her security guards caught the assassin—the alleged assassin—before he could escape over the electrified fence.

No one knows how the thief got in. No one knows who sent him. But someone sent him. At least, that’s what Vasilieva’s son thinks. Vasilieva’s son is sure it’s a message from his mother’s enemies.

Dick doesn’t think so. Though he’s trying, hard, not to jump to conclusions.

Here’s what Dick knows: money wasn’t the motive. Shurka Vasilieva was poisoned in a room with golden goblets and ivory sculptures. At least fifty million rubles�� worth of priceless art, and most of it portable.

But according to reports, the only thing the thief took was a broken Greek ostrakon with a bat scratched into it.

Here’s the other thing Dick knows.

When Vasilieva’s private guards grabbed the thief, they found a passport identifying him as Alvin Draper.

Tim.

* * *

(And it almost certainly is Tim. Dick would like to believe otherwise, but “Alvin Draper” was stealing bat-themed paraphernalia in Berlin two months ago, and “Alvin Draper” is the guy that they caught with the pottery. And the description that Babs hacked from the Vasiliev network matches, more or less. Black hair, blue eyes, around fifteen. Tim’s seventeen, actually, but he’s always been baby-faced.)

* * *

Seven days ago, Babs picked up the chatter from the Russian underground, and alerted Dick.

Six days ago, she managed to hack into Vasilieva’s son’s email and his phone. She thinks Petr Vasiliev’s panic and grief is genuine. (I know you don’t want to accept this, Dick, but I really think we have to consider the possibility that—)

Four days ago, Dick lied to Donna when she asked if he’d heard any news about Tim.

Three days ago, Babs found out that Tim had been captured, even though the official word was that he’d escaped. She managed to locate the secret prison by hacking into satellites. (They won’t kill him--they think he’s got information, Petr wants to know who sent him. My guess is he’ll be able to escape within the week, but it won’t be pleasant in the meantime. And depending on how stable he is—well. It’s your call, Dick. Do you want me to send Helena?)

Two days ago, Dick lied to Wally about having business in Gotham this week.

Also two days ago, Dick gave Alfred a very abbreviated version of the truth: Tim might be in Russia, I’m gonna go check on him, watch Damian for me until I get back.

And now he’s here.

Alone.

* * *

(Dick knows he shouldn’t have lied. Not to Donna, at the very least. This is the sort of thing that Bruce does—did. Keeping secrets. Sneaking around. But the problem is, when you involve other people, you give them a say. You open up your choices to other people’s judgments. And Wally and Donna and Clark—sure, they’ve all met Tim, but they don’t really know him.

The Vasiliev secret prison isn't exactly the same as an international authority. Dick's on firm ground breaking Tim out of here. But once he's out, then it's more unclear.

The actual authorities are investigating this murder, too. The Russian police. Not to mention Interpol, which is still after Alvin Draper for art theft back in the E.U.

If “Alvin Draper” had actually committed this crime, then sprinting him off to the U.S. to evade justice would be—morally questionable. Possibly unethical. Definitely not something that Clark would approve of. Not something the JLA could stand for.

There would have to be—Dick doesn’t even know what.

Confessions.

Consequences.

* * *

That's not gonna happen, though. It must be a misunderstanding. A weird, morbid coincidence. Or a setup. Maybe Vasilieva died of a heart attack, but her son thinks that’d make his mom sound weak, so he’s pretending the thief killed her. Or maybe Petr killed his mother, and he took advantage of the opportunity to blame the thief. Or maybe somebody else killed Shurka Vasilieva, and Tim just happened to be there. Or--something.

The point is, Tim’s not a murderer.

Tim’s gotten mixed up in something stupid, and Dick will definitely wring his neck for it, once he gets the chance.

But he’s not a murderer.

Not a chance in hell.

Still. Just in case. Dick would rather not involve other people until he’s sure he’s got all the facts.

* * *

The guard's slow-moving, but steady. He doesn't turn his back to Dick. When he unlocks the door that leads to the prison cells, he keeps a casual hand on his gun. He's not suspicious of Dick specifically--that'd be more obvious. It's just habit. A competent man, with firearm training. That's problem number one.

Problem number two: the prison's barely guarded, but it is guarded. Two men at each entrance. A few chatting in the hallways. And they all know each other by name.

Which means escape is gonna mean get out fast.

* * *

The guard pauses before a rusted iron door. "Here," he says. "You want to see him now?"

Yes. No. Yes, right away.

"I do my job," Dick says, in bad Russian.

The man eyes the briefcase of tools with an interest that Dick doesn't like. "You gonna use the screws on him? I'll tell you, he's stubborn. Nothing we've done has worked. He won't talk. And I'd lay odds he speaks Russian, for all he's pretending he don't."

“What kind of man?” Dick asks, keeping his voice neutral. “The prisoner.”

The guard shrugs. “Bruises easy. Won't talk, 'cept in German, sometimes. But he’s a Brit, I think.”

Wrong nationality. But still unnerving. “Why you think so?”

“He talks in his sleep. Not my fault he slept that long, okay? That was Tolya’s fault. Tolya’s an idiot. But he was on watch before me, and he forgot we were s’posed to keep the kid awake, so the kid was sleeping. And I heard him babbling. Couldn’t make much sense of it, but it sounded like English to me. I got English in school, you know?”

Dick grunts.

(Nightmares. It must be.)

* * *

Dick should feel pity. He will later, probably.

But right now, the only emotion he’s got is anger. Bright and hot.

You stupid, stupid, stupid little idiot.

* * *

(Please be okay.)

* * *

[Tim]

Everything hurts. They’ve been keeping him awake—he’s only caught snatches of sleep, two hours here, two hours there, and that’s only because of the laziness of the guards. They’ve got him on his feet. Chained to the wall—his wrists have the dull ache that means there are sores developing there. They keep the gag in except when they want to ask him questions, or hear him scream.

None of it matters. None of it’s real. His body is a tool.

The ostrakon is the key. And they haven’t even taken it out of the room. They’ve left it in his cell, like a taunt. Steal me. They want to know if there’s some hidden message, if he’s sending some signal. But Tim isn’t the one sending signals. Bruce is.

Radiocarbon dating once he gets out. Pinpoint the date and analyze the compounds. Tim’s got a map in his mind, bright pinpricks all over a world map. Years and locations. The last clue now is in Budapest. He just has to get there.

(Ra’s is sure taking his sweet time about an extraction.)

(Assuming he even knows Tim needs one. Blood and a crimson smile and—don’tthinkaboutit—)

It’s fine. Tim can get himself out. Stupid to rely on the League of Assassins, just because he’s gotten mixed up in their war. Careless. Dumb.

He’s already mentally mapped out when the shift changes happen, and he’s been pretending to speak only German, which means the guards have gotten sloppy about what they say in front of him. There’s a town twenty miles from here. Doable in good weather. Deadly in the cold. So it’s not enough to get out of the chains. He’d need to knock out a guard. Steal a coat. Drag himself to the town. Break into a hotel room once he’s there—Tim’s a good liar, even in Russian, but most of disguise is how you look, not how you sound.

A fake name’s not gonna cut it. Not with bruises on his face and blood matting his hair. So: break out of the prison. Break into the town. And then—

And then—

His thoughts are lagging.

It was so clear a minute ago.

* * *

Everything hurts.

Maybe he’ll die here. It’s almost an appealing thought. He’s so tired.

Cassie would be sad. But she’d get over it. She’s got her mom. When you’ve got family, it's different. And anyway, Cassie’s got the team. She’s got people. She’ll be okay. She doesn’t need Tim.

Tim’s not necessary to other people the way they are to him. It used to hurt, but right now it feels more like a relief. No obligations. No strings.

And maybe—you never know. Might see Conner. See Bart. Mom and Dad. Bruce.

No, wait.

Not Bruce. Because Bruce is alive.

That’s right. That’s important, it’s really important. Tim almost forgot. Bruce, alive, the data. Have to do that first.

Chains. Guard. Focus.

* * *

Guard right now is Gray-Eyes. The careful one. He’s stepped out for a bit, but he’ll be back. He’s sharp. No good trying to escape when he's on duty. But Anatoly has the next shift. Anatoly’s the slow one. Knock him out. Take his stuff. Take the ostrakon. At the shift change. Ten hours from now, assuming Tim hasn’t lost any time. But he doesn’t think he has. Tim’s good at keeping time in his head. Bruce used to say that—

No. Not used to. Bruce says it’s a talent. Impressive.

Okay. A plan. Good. It’s good to have a plan. He just has to hold on for another ten hours.

For now, he lets himself sag.

It’s not like it matters, really. There’s no one here to see.

* * *

The door squeaks. Gray-Eyes is back - Tim's gotten to recognize his shuffle. And someone else, someone light-footed.

He doesn't open his eyes.

The interrogator must have arrived.

* * *

Right, then. It's gonna be a fun ten hours.

* * *

"He's difficult," Gray-Eyes is saying. "Like a wildcat."

Gray-Eyes and Tim have not gotten along since the scratching incident. Admittedly, not Tim's best work. He hadn't intended to react. It turns out that whips are very unpleasant. Gray-Eyes shouldn't hold Tim's reflexes against him.

The interrogator grunts. There's something faintly familiar about the sound. Tim tries to trace it back - somebody from the compound? or best-case scenario, one of Ra's' people? - before he realizes it just reminds him of Bruce.

So Tim's homesick and delirious. This week keeps on getting better. Maybe by the end of the day they'll go for a three-pointer and break his leg, or something. Homesick, delirious, and lame. That would suck. Especially vis-a-vis the escape plan.

Gray-Eyes is coming closer. He's got a heavy tread: easy to hear. It's everything Tim can do to keep his eyes closed and his breathing even. See, I'm sleeping. Talk amongst yourselves.

"I don't let him sleep long," Gray-Eyes is explaining.

Gray-Eyes likes to wake Tim up dramatically. Real flair for showmanship, Gray-Eyes. He missed his calling. He should've been a stage magician. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, observe the wild Robin. I will now saw him in half.

The interrogator grunts again. Apparently a man of few words.

Gray-Eyes grabs his face, digs his fingers into the bruises.

Oh, that hurts. That really, really -

"Mnh," Tim says.

No point pretending to be asleep now. He blinks his eyes open, but he can't make out much.

Gray-Eyes has switched on the overhead spotlight. Shining a light into Tim's eyes again.

(Showing off for the visitor? Gray-Eyes: Torturer's Apprentice. Hah.)

There are black spots behind Tim's vision, and everything hurts, but there's just barely a chance this new guy might be from Ra's. There's just something about him that feels familiar. And if he is from Ra's, then showing weakness now would be a bad move.

Tim's under no illusions about the League. He's interesting as long as he's defiant. As long as he's potentially useful.

"I'd offer you a drink," Tim croaks, in German, "but I'm a little tied up."

"What's he saying?" Gray-Eyes asks. "Etwas zu trinken - something about a drink?"

So Gray-Eyes knows some German. Good to know.

"He make jokes," the interrogator says, in stilted Russian. Then, cold: "I talk to him. Then, no jokes."

Tim tries to guess the new guy's nationality from his voice. Actually German, or somebody from the League faking it? Impossible to tell. Seeing him would help, but the glare's too bright.

Think. Low tenor voice. Younger than Gray-Eyes. He sounds like - well, like Dick, actually, which will be an extra fun thought once the interrogation gets going.

Like Dick when he's in a temper, or lowering his voice into a growl. So: twenties, maybe, and trying to sound older. Young for this job.

Gray-Eyes is in his fifties. He's vicious, but he's losing strength.

The new guy won't have that problem.

* * *

#tim drake #dick grayson

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