“Why are you here?” Batman growled, and then spun to stare at a patch of shadows near the door.
The shadows squeaked. Dick stepped smoothly to block his gaze. “You’ve been hiding something from me,” he said levelly.
“For a reason,” Batman said, “It will be difficult for you to be impartial. Hood knows enough information to get under your skin.”
“Hood?” Dick tilted his head to one side, “Red Hood? You’ve captured him?”
“Yes,” Batman said, still watching him with that predatory gaze, “Someone crafted him into a carefully designed enemy. He knows who I am. Who you are. Bits and pieces of our life.”
“Lots of people know who we are,” Dick raised an eyebrow.
Batman’s glower deepened. “And,” he said slowly. Cautiously. Gauging Dick’s reaction. “He looks a lot like Jason.”
Dick didn’t try to hide his raised eyebrows. “Jason’s dead,” he said flatly.
Some of Batman’s tension relaxed. “I know,” he said gruffly, “This imposter seems to have bargained on our sentimentality.”
“Well, they clearly haven’t met you,” Dick cracked a smile, and moved closer, “Why don’t you show me what you have? A fresh pair of eyes can help.”
Batman was still watching him, guarded, but he allowed Dick closer to the files. The physical, first—blood test, DNA, no strange anomalies there. The memory tests were a patchwork—some things were correct, but a lot were missing or confused.
The final section were the trigger tests—aimed at instinctive reactions, those that couldn’t easily be faked. Dick read through each one as Batman loomed over his shoulder, clicking past muscle memory tests and taste triggers and sound triggers and visual triggers.
“Hmm,” he said, stepping back, “Can I see them? Sometimes cloning technology leaves things looking a little…uncanny, and pinpointing an imperfection might lead us to the source.”
Batman stared at him, his face guarded, for a long moment. Finally, he nodded, leading Dick to the back, the long row of containment cells.
Only one was occupied, the second from the last. A newer model, installed after Tim became Robin—Batman clearly wasn’t taking any chances. The cell was bright white, the front completely transparent, and Dick could see inside. There was a figure curled up in the furthest corner from the door, and they visibly tensed as they heard the footsteps.
“Hood,” Batman growled, low and flat.
The figure slowly raised their head—their gaze darted first to Batman, visibly shaken, before catching on Dick and freezing.
They straightened to their feet in a sudden movement, and Dick stilled. “Dick?” the figure asked hoarsely, “Nightwing?”
The figure stepped closer, eyes wide, something painful and raw in their face. “Dick, please,” the figure rasped, “Help me. He’s lost his goddamn mind, Dick, please.”
Dick catalogued the features, trying hard to be dispassionate—dark hair with a streak of white, eyes more green than blue, a hulking frame that showed years of training. Tear tracks glimmering in the light. Desperate, frantic hope.
“You’re right,” Dick hummed, stepping back, “The resemblance is definitely creepy.”
“Jason’s grave was vandalized,” Batman grunted, “They most likely got their genetic material there.”
“Dick,” the figure begged, “Dick, please, Dick, I’m sorry, just make him stop—”
“They clearly sacrificed resemblance for functionality in a couple of places,” Dick said, stepping to the side to get a better view, “Jason wasn’t this tall, and the kid was a bruiser, but he was never going to look like you.”
Jason’s face crumpled with a low moan, his gaze sliding into despair as he stumbled back, pressing himself against the wall again.
“I think comparing the physical differences would be a good place to start,” Dick said to Batman, turning away from the cell and the low, wrenching sobs within.
Batman followed him back to the Batcomputer, and Dick took the chair, waiting patiently as Batman leaned over him to access the right files, his gaze moving from Dick to the computer screen—
Dick twisted the needle in his hands, and lashed out.
Batman shot him a look of betrayal edging into fury as he wavered and collapsed—Dick pulled the needle out, and jumped out of the chair.
“I don’t know what happened to you,” Dick said quietly, “And I’m not staying long enough to find out.”
He strode away from Batman, heading back to the cells, and Tim stepped out of the shadows, shivering and darting frequent glances back at the Batcomputer. Dick felt his suppressed emotions straining against his control, desperate to lash out, fury and horror churning in his stomach.
Dick punched in the code for the containment cell, and wrenched the door open—Jason snapped his gaze up, wide-eyed and terrified, pressing further into the corner as he curled up.
Dick forced himself to gentle his movements, dropping into a crouch a few feet away. “It’s okay, Little Wing,” he said softly, “I’m going to get you out.”
Jason clearly didn’t look like he believed him, but between one blink and the next, Dick had his arms full with his sobbing little brother.
“Don’t,” Jason begged, “Don’t, please, if this is a trick—please, I can’t take it, don’t—”
“Not a trick, Little Wing,” Dick soothed, “I swear, it’s not a trick, I’m getting you out, I’m so, so sorry.”
