I kind of like the idea of there being marks left on the Scarecrow that is from the torture Fiyero went through. I don't know if that was intentional of the makeup artists and the filmmakers, but it kind of seems like it in some cases? That - or the burlap just bunching up.
Like here:
It looks like the lines on his cheek close to his ear could very much be from cuts to his face.
Same as the lines on the other side of his cheek that kinda looks like whiskers sometimes in the movie lol. Like three or four cuts where now the burlap "skin" is rough.
And I don't have a photo of it here, but there's a massive cut on his thigh as well where hay sticks out which could have been an immensely painful and gory injury. And then there's other lines that *could* be other lacerations:
Am I overthinking it? Probably for sure. But it's an interesting way to PG'fying something that would have been genuine torture for him :(
Then you got his ankle that keeps giving out and I saw someone suggest maybe they broke his foot at some point too.
As a musician and children’s writer, nothing seemed to predestine Noor Inayat Khan (1914–1944) to fight against Nazism. Yet when the time came, she didn’t hesitate to risk her life for freedom.
A cosmopolitan childhood
Noor was born in Moscow in 1914. Her father, Inayat Khan, was a musician and Sufi preacher, descended from Tipu Sultan, the 18th-century ruler of Mysore. Her mother, Ora Ray Baker, was American. Her full name, Noor-un-nisa, meant “light of womanhood.”
During her early years, the family moved to London and then Paris. Noor had three younger siblings and developed a particularly close bond with her brother Vilayat.
Music was a central part of her childhood—her father often sang to his children at bedtime. In 1927, he fell ill and died. Deeply affected, her mother fell into grief, and it fell to 13-year-old Noor to care for her siblings and manage the household.
Artist and musician
Dreamy, introverted, and profoundly creative, Noor wrote poetry and composed music. In 1931, she began studying harp and piano. She would later study child psychology and Hindi as well.
Noor launched a prolific and successful artistic career. By 1938, she was a regular contributor to the children’s page of Le Figaro. Her endearing stories, filled with magical creatures, were widely appreciated. She also participated in children’s programs on Radio Paris.
She worked on an adaptation of the Jataka Tales—stories about the Buddha’s incarnations—which became a publishing success. She also wrote articles on subjects ranging from Indian and Greek mythology to history and folklore.
But the outbreak of World War II would lead her down a very different path.
Flight to England
The rise of Nazism horrified Noor. She was particularly appalled by the atrocities committed against Jews. She had even once been engaged to a Jewish man, though the engagement was later broken. The devastation caused by the bombings further convinced her to act.
She and her family fled Paris and sought refuge in England. There, Noor resolved to take action—despite the internal conflict it caused with her Sufi philosophy of nonviolence.
She joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) and trained as a radio operator. Her rapid progress and fluency in several languages caught the attention of the Special Operations Executive (SOE).
Training with the SOE
Noor was soon recruited by the SOE for espionage work in occupied France. Informed of the risks, she accepted immediately.
She began training as a wireless operator, learning codes as well as more physical, hands-on skills. Noor struggled with sabotage techniques and was initially frightened by weapons. Still, she showed great determination to improve.
Her training also included unarmed combat and survival techniques. Agents were subjected to mock interrogations designed to simulate capture and test their ability to maintain their cover. During her own interrogation, Noor broke down, nearly losing the ability to speak. This raised doubts about her readiness—but despite reservations, she was sent to France in June 1943.
Codename Madeleine
Noor became the first female radio operator sent to France. Previous female agents had served as couriers. Arriving in Paris under the codename Madeleine, she joined the large and well-organized Prosper resistance network. But a wave of arrests soon left Noor isolated and in danger.
Fully aware of the risks, Noor refused exfiltration and chose to stay—one of the last wireless operators remaining in Paris. She continued transmitting messages to London while evading Nazi detection.
She grew exceptionally skilled at her work, constantly changing locations and carrying her wireless set through the streets of Paris. On one occasion, when arrested briefly, she told the Germans it was a cinematographic apparatus. Unfamiliar with the device, they let her go.
She frequently changed identities and took calculated risks. Her ability to evade capture made her a major concern for the Gestapo. But in October, she was betrayed. A French officer working for the Gestapo was sent to arrest her. Noor resisted—he seized her hands, but she bit his wrist so hard that he bled and was forced to let her go.
When he tried to handcuff her, she fought back so fiercely that he had to draw his gun. As she was taken away, Noor’s eyes blazed with rage and she hurled insults at her captors.
Freedom or death
At first, Noor was interrogated but not tortured. She revealed nothing. She made two escape attempts during her imprisonment, including one through a bathroom window. Her second attempt nearly succeeded.
Labeled a dangerous prisoner, she was sent to Pforzheim prison, where she was kept in solitary confinement and subjected to torture. Still, she gave away no information. Eventually, she was transferred to Dachau concentration camp.
On September 13, 1944, Noor was executed. Her last word was reportedly “Liberté”—“freedom” in French.
In recognition of her bravery, Noor Inayat Khan was posthumously awarded the George Cross (UK) and the Croix de Guerre (France).
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“Mate, do you really want to test me right now? Do you really want to see if I have balls or not? Because I'm all out of patience here. I'm all out of fucks, like my wife would say. So...” he tightens his grip on McMann's hair, yanking his head to the side and then pressing the tip of the box cutter blade into the skin below his ear. Enough to break the surface; a trickle of blood appearing. “...I'm going to ask you on more time. What were you going to do to my kids?”
McMann refuses to answer.
Tyler presses down harder; feeling the blade dig into the man's neck, his free hand still gripping McMann's hair. Using enough force to draw even more blood, feeling it drip down the box cutter and onto his own fingers; hot, smooth, the smell tangy and pungent. And it only encourages him even more. Kicking his adrenaline up another notch. And he slowly drags the blade along McMann's next, prolonging the pain, until the other man is screaming in agony and attempting to get away. Kicking his bound feet, trying to break the ties around his wrist, struggling to get away.
“Now that wasn't too bad, was it?” Tyler asks, and cleans both his fingers and the box cutter off on the front of McMann's shirt. “You live to see another day. For now. So, tell me...” he uses his forearm to clear sweat off his brow, then walks over to the cooler and grabs a bottle of water; tearing off the cap and downing half of it before returning to his chair. “...what did you tell them to do?”
“They were going to grab them. After they killed the big one and his girlfriend. They were going to hold them somewhere. Like I did with my kids. Everything was going to be the same. The duct tape, the zip ties, everything. They were going to rough them up a bit...”
“You told your people...grown men...to beat on my kids?” The fury is instant. All consuming. “Is that what you're telling me? That you told adults to put hands on them? The oldest is five. The youngest is ten months. And you told people to beat on them?”
McMann nods, tears sparkling in his eyes.
“Don't cry now, mate. Tears won't work on me. They aren't going to save you. And I know those tears aren't for my kids. You told adults...men...to beat on my kids?”
“I just told you....”
“Now we have a real problem,” Tyler leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “If you'd just said you told them to grab them and hold them somewhere, I wouldn't be as mad as I am right now. I could have probably kept it together when you mentioned the duct tape and zip ties. But you actually told people to put their hands on my kids. That...well that I can't forgive....so....” he jumps to his feet, then heads back to the weapons table. “...I don't think a box cutter is going to quite cut it this time....this calls for something a little...I don't know...worse.”
He selects the crow bar, then decides against it and puts it back. Opting for the pliers instead.
“My daughter,” he says, as he walks back towards McMann. “Well I think you know what I'm going to ask you next. Did you tell them to do anything else to my daughter? Like what happened to that Erin girl? Did you tell any of them to do something like that to my little girl?”
“No. I'd never suggest something like that. I'm a lot of things, but I'd never, ever, allow that.”
“You're lucky I believe you, Michael. You know how Erin was a message? To me? Well I'm going to send a message to your people. To your wife.”
“What kind of message? What the hell are you doing with those? What...?”
“I want them to know that I have you. And that I'm going to keep sending little pieces of you until I get what I want. So...” Tyler once more stands behind the metal chair. “...we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Which one do you want?”
“What's the easy way?”
“Easy way is you just sit there and open your mouth for me and I take out a few of your teeth. With these,” he waves the pliers in McMann's face, and the man immediately reacts; panic and terror surging through him, screams and profanities flying out of his mouth as he struggles against his bonds. “Hard way, huh?”
Tyler shrugs, then wraps an arm around McMann's throat; squeezing as hard as he can; muscles bulging, veins prominent. Stronger and bigger than the other man, easily able to hold his head still with such a powerful grip, and he shoves the pliers past the other man's teeth, until he's hitting the back molars and clamping down on one, yanking it clear out of the gum. Tightening his hold when McMann fights even harder; choking and gagging on his own blood and saliva and the gradual collapsing on his windpipe. Sweat forming on his own brow and trickling down his temples; dripping into his eyes as he removes two more teeth before gradually releasing the pressure on McMann's throat.
“You're fucking crazy,” McMann pants; his face near purple, a mixture of sweat, saliva, and blood trickling down his chin and onto his shirt. “Insane. You're fucking insane.”
“Maybe,” Tyler says, as he pockets the teeth and cleans the pliers off on the thigh of his jeans “But you fucked with the wrong man's family. And I'm going to make you pay. A little bit at a time. So get comfy. Because you're not going anywhere for a while.”
The floral scent hanging in the humid air had become particularly nauseating, the mixed flower petals that complemented the oils poured into the bathwater had all sank before you while the water itself had turned lukewarm.
Looking down at your fingers, you noticed that your fingertips had pruned horrendously. Normally you wouldn’t take much of your time disengaging with reality but recently, there was something in your mind you couldn’t quite comprehend. Just a few hours ago you were subjected to your mother-in-law’s favourite pastime which was holding a tea ceremony by the garden. Except it had a special twist, for every crucial detail that you missed, a melting hot iron would be pressed against the palm of your hands.
You didn’t miss the slight turn on the corner of her lips, her hidden smile behind the paper fan every time the torched metal would melt onto your skin, reminding you that will never be worthy enough to be accepted by her. And for every time your skin healed, your scars disappeared, your blood stopped seeping from your skin, she will be the one to make sure to replace them. Asserting her position and making sure you knew who the true matriarch of the family is.
Living with in-laws was a truly dreadful ordeal.
However when a butler with hard lines etched onto his face interrupted the unfortunate event, his sunken eyes that held the deepest sympathies only gazed at yours. He came forward with an ill-bearing news of your mother’s recent passing.
You knew this day would come, but you hadn’t anticipated it to come so soon. Though you had the resources to finance her health with the best doctor money can buy, you knew there was nothing you could offer death for an ailment so monstrous. The more times that you visited her in the hospital, the more and more different she looked.
You almost didn’t recognise her. She looked like a corpse, barely breathing through her tube encasing her mouth, her hair you used to comb religiously every night was mostly gone. You knew that she was barely alive.
The only times that you were allowed to visit her was once every full moon as the rest of your days were filled with torturous training all for the sake of building your strength. You were barely considered family to them and so your own Mother visiting you at the Zoldyck estate was unimaginable. Sometimes in the darkest hour of the night you could almost hear her hoarse whispers, blindly pleading repeatedly to the nurses for you, why her daughter was nowhere to be found.
She fought for your next visit, begging at death’s door to see you one last time but alas, death was cruelly fair and her time was rightfully due. And so the feeling when you completely missed her burial, when you were refused a visit to her grave to pay your respects, when you were forbidden to grieve for it was a sign of weakness. The feeling of such accumulated events…
What was it you were supposed to feel?
You knew your heart nor mind could never be so numb, you weren’t anything like the Zoldycks at all, so detached to even a sliver of morality and compassion. So then why didn’t the news of her death send you to your knees? Why couldn’t you feel anything? Could it be a temporary shock- perhaps that’s why your cheeks were dry.
Just when you were lost in your thoughts with a tight frown pursed upon your lips, your personal handmaiden politely intruded herself inside the bathroom, announcing the arrival of master Illumi from his recent mission abroad. You lifted your head from your trance as her soft voice ricocheted off the black marbled walls, a gentle reminder to you of exactly where you were before your mind took you someplace else.
Upon seeing her, she was diligently prepped with her arms open wide, holding your robe before you.
The strange family had rightfully encroached all rights that you previously held, your freedom, your dignity, pride, and even your last name; privacy was the least of your concern. Rising from the cold waters, you allowed her to tie the warm fabric around you. She was always so meticulous and gentle, as if the slightest movement of her gestures or the flicker of her gaze could potentially be taken as an affront.
There were ample times that you searched for at least some kind of warmth in this forlorn and dreary estate, some kind of companion to show a little humanity and compassion with. You should’ve known that pursuing friendship on this mountain was pointless. The myriad of maids and butlers that they have at their disposable offered no comfort to your despair as they were always sickeningly polite but never friendly, leaving a gaping hole in your chest to fend this loneliness for yourself.
At the threshold of the gargantuan door, Illumi stood impassively while one of the butlers of the estate came to lighten his load. He had come back rather early from his departure, the extensive tasks assigned to him was nothing he hadn’t done before and yet with so many undertakings he was obligated to finish he had forgone rest when it was deemed necessary, opting to continue on to the next job effective immediately. Perhaps it was his habit of having a tireless and dedicated focus during a mission or maybe it was just his overzealousness to see you again.
“Welcome back, master Illumi. I trust that you found our services to be adequate on your journey back.” Gotoh pleasantly bade a congenial welcome as he gracefully placed his right hand across his chest and bowed his head slightly before the eldest of Zoldyck’s son.
He simply hummed in reply not sparing another glance at the man for Illumi’s vacant stare was occupied, searching the premises based on his peripheral vision for any sign of you awaiting him without fail like you do every time he arrived back from his assignments. “And my wife?” he curtly inquired after seeing no sign of you.
Descending from the stairs, you face your personal demon with a pathetic palpitating heart. The robe that you adorned did little to cover the coldness of his gaze for the room froze every time he was near. Nevertheless a stretch of a satisfying smile formed across his lips as you made your way towards his arms.
Embracing him always felt like the first time, your shoulders tensed every time his elongated thin fingers squeezed your sides as he enveloped you in a mockingly sweet embrace. If it bothered him, Illumi never spoke of it. The locks of his midnight hair brushed against your face as you placed a quivering kiss upon his cheek, uttering a small greeting for him.
Just like clockwork he began to led you away from the foyer and into your shared quarters with his lithe hand burrowing itself into your waist.
Though it felt like years had passed once your fate was intertwined with his, you could never get used to his presence. This saccharine coated reality could never delude you to construe this as something more meaningful than a means of escape from your financial poverty and his obligation on fulfilling his filial piety. The carefully rehearsed charade always played out the same where in the end of the night you would find yourself in a familiar predicament.
Inside the cimmerian chamber dim flickering candle lights illuminated the tenebrous darkness around you. The satin beneath your naked skin easily shifted as Illumi handled you attentively from above. As he moved to discard of his clothes your eyes absentmindedly wandered to the same spot on the ceiling that you’ve gazed upon countless of times. However once you heard the gentle rustle of his garments join yours into the floor, your attempt to seperate your mind from your body ended in vain.
Illumi hovered above you leaving a scant space between your lips. You wished you knew why he searched for your eyes every time he began to kiss you, taking a pensive moment for you to finally look at him, to be the centre of your attention. You didn’t know why he bothered taking his time with you for every night you spent with him you had only demonstrated compliance and obedience. Prolonging such affair was only counterproductive.
You felt him dragging his nails softly into your skin as he brought his hands up slowly from your thighs to your neck, grasping the rhythmically beating point and finally placing a soft kiss.
Closing your eyes you unconsciously balled the sheets beneath you with your fists. The kiss was timid and placid on your lips as his hair fell and entangle with the pool of your own. Illumi finally released after a few languishing moments and began to trace wistful kisses along your neck.
You knew better as to why an apathetic assassin that left a trail of crimson behind him for equity would give you the time of day to leave obsequious pecks.
Illumi was a man of pure objectivity, each action he took had an ulterior motive behind it for no lift of his finger went by without it having some kind of incentive for him in the end. And so his adoring kisses and unctuous attention did little to move your amoral perception of him.
He only indulged in such idle debauchary for he believed it was what you enjoyed, hence allowing the intercourse to go smoothly and successfully with the benefit of your arousal. Illumi was especially persistent in his countless endeavours in carrying out his bloodline with you. The details surrounding the child were kept quite vague and undisclosed, the only emphasis now was centred around the health and condition of your mental and physical state.
Perhaps that’s why Illumi always handled you selflessly, as if he missed you terribly every time he went away for his delegated tasks. His efforts to please you easily began to grow more apparent, especially under an auspicious moon.
Suddenly his hand encapsulated your small shivering ones, making your breath hitch just slightly as he rose up to meet you once more. “You’re still shaking, what’s the matter?”
Were you? You hadn’t noticed the state of your body for your mind was running wild with endless thoughts. Sensing the tension in the air you quickly placated his growing trepidation with a weak smile. “Forgive me, tonight is just particularly cold today, perhaps I’ve left the window open again.” Avoiding his ruminating gaze Illumi released a ghost of a sigh before nodding, indicating that he took your word for it despite you knowing deep down that he did not.
“Shall we go by the fireplace?” He suggested innocuously.
You, however, couldn’t prevent the heat from rising up to your face as you couldn’t even begin to fathom engaging in such activity beside a roaring fire. Not only that but you would be rid of the protective barrier of your sheets and most of all, the wavering waves of red would cast a glow onto his face, forcing you to glance up upon him and seeing more of what you’re already comfortable with.
A prude is the word most women back in your town would describe you as, however you would staunchly argue to such claims when the eyes of death has its attention solely on you.
“No,” you gripped onto his hands. “Here is just fine.”
Illumi gathered you into his arms, pulling you upwards along with him as he pressed more kisses against your lips and slowly trailed them down to your chest. You hesitantly wrapped your hands around his shoulders, careful not to tip the centre of balance he had on you as you nearly straddled his lap.
“Very well,” he murmured before flipping you back on the bed and making you land onto your front swiftly. “Then I shall hold you instead.”
Encapsulating you wholly with your back pressed against his chest, he held onto your chest tightly against him with one arm as the other gripped your hips firmly, raising it up to meet his. His head burrowed itself into the crook of your neck to leave more discoloured marks, and just in time as you felt the stretch commence.
You were nowa Zoldyck, as you often reminded yourself, nothing could contain you not even pain, not even death, not even love.
Roughly a year had passed and the same moonlight shined through the darkness upon the mountain peak once again. The Zoldyck estate was in turmoil. Nurses ran frantically from across the halls carrying fresh pristine white towels only to have them drenched in blood in the next second.
You knew what you signed up for the moment you stood before theTesting Gate, it was just simply your time to fulfil your end of the bargain.
The journey of your pregnancy was a stark contrast to the treatment you had been subjected to in your time here. Instead of poison laced meals to the verge of hospitalisation and endless hours of enhancing your strength endurance, you were finally given some form of a break.
Those little mercies such as extra hours of sleep, the vitamins and protein back in your system and the permission to acquire rest when you needed it were like heaven to you.
Your health along with your baby’s progress was greatly monitored, not a day goes by that your daily intensive checkup went by carelessly.
Everyday you gazed down in front of the mirror and saw yourself grow progressively. The size of your belly began to expand with each passing time that came closer to the due date. Though despite the baby being attached to your very self you couldn’t feel a sense of attachment to it, the very kind your mother had for you.
And so when you first heard him cry from your extraneous labour, you were stricken by a sudden powerful force. Months of him stirring inside you and it took you this long to realise the being inside you was alive.
The obstetrician and the nurses all cheered and cooed at the successful delivery of your newborn baby, making excessive notes of how handsome he was. Their faces damped with their efforts to ensure the health of the mother and the baby was maintained paid off for the delivery was a success.
The burden finally left their shoulders as one should feel when it was a Zoldyck’s turn to employ and entrust an imperative job such as this.
Once the umbilical cord was cut, you were able look upon his face. Blood stained your hands and cheek as you held him close to your chest, his tiny hand already reaching out for your face, finally tempering his cries into charming babbling nonsense when he sensed that you were near. Everything about him reminded you of Illumi, his midnight hair that was twisted in tiny wisps, his complexion, his small but sharp features upon his face.
But those eyes, they were yours.
The warmth of such gaze possessed you to crumble down before your son for it wasn’t until his arrival that your humanity was finally restored. Emotions flooded your senses to the point that you thought you couldn’t feel anything else but harrowing pain and guilt. Your separation from your only family, society, your own mother’s death, the excruciating pain that was inflicted upon you- you’ve felt it all.
The mental fortitudes that you’ve built up over the accumulating years all came crashing down when you looked upon a face so innocent and pure. Something that was truly incapable of harnessing any bloodshed as per the family designed of his future.
And after all this time you were carrying him like a pig to slaughter. Partaking in this corrupt pseudo-experiment to create the cold and hard perfect monster, subservient to the wills and orders of the family.
Just like his father.
Suddenly, one of the nurses took him away from your embrace consequently making you panic at the thought of your son being alone without you. The feeling that compelled you to care for another was one that felt so familiar and yet so foreign, plucking an untouched chord in your heartstring that you’ve forgotten a long time ago.
All your life you were living for someone else; when you lost your mother you were at a loss for your purpose was amiss, living as an empty hollow shell of a human being. Now that the birth of your child had come, an epiphany struck you like a blinding flash of lightening.
He was your new profound purpose.
“Where are you taking him?” You gasped out, already reaching out towards the nurse who held him around a blanket. She briefly replied that she would be taking his measurements but her words of comfort fell on deaf ears for it did nothing to placate the fact that you were separated from your baby.
“No, no- please! Give him back to me!” Now you were crawling across the maroon soaked sheets, wincing at the fact that you were still bleeding but still keeping a staunch arm out in front of you.
Your frantic actions forced the nurses nearby to restrain you, holding you back onto the bed while urging advices to calm down. However their grip upon you nearly fell for you could see nothing but red in your eyes, there was no amount of force in this world that could withhold you from being without him. Your beseeches and tenacious struggle quickly came to a halt when you felt a sudden jolt of pain from your side.
Looking down with your tear stricken face you saw that you were haphazardly injected with a strange transparent liquid to sedate you. Usually you could easily persevere over simple liquid anaesthetics that could even wipe out an entire five adult men but this dose was a new thing entirely, you’ve never been exposed to such a heavy medication that edged on it being lethal before.
However you knew that the fate of your son would be compromised if you stayed, if you didn’t fought for him.
Consequently, the only necessary action you needed to take was to escape. Gathering your bearings from the Jenny that you’ve rightfully championed two summers ago, you’ve decided that the amount would guarantee him and you a stable future.
That is why after two moons have passed when you’ve conjured enough strength to gather yourself from your deep sleep, right before Illumi was scheduled to come back to witness the scion of the house of Zoldyck, that you would take off when the moon was at its peak.
There was no leaving it up to chance for there was no telling when you would see you son again. There was much conviction in your assumption that Illumi would haste his training program to become an elite assassin, just as the family intended from the start.
The Zoldycks were unrivalled in their system of securing their property. A fortress that the brave or the foolish dared to try to penetrate, though their attempts would always end up in vain; along with bruises and a few broken bones if they were smart enough to retreat soon. However, they weren’t quite as adept at keeping someone in than they were at keeping everyone out.
Glancing back the faint sight of the distant mountain on the horizon, you slowed your pace as you decided you’ve made satisfactory progress in distance. Looking around perilously and tuning your ears to the sound of even the faintest landing of the leaves in the autumn breeze, you relievedly deduced that you weren’t followed- well at least not yet.
Releasing small huffs from your over exertion of energy, you gazed down fondly at the sight of your son bundled up in a large cloth in which you tied tightly onto your back. You relievedly let out a soft smile when you found out he was still sleeping soundly, gripping onto some of your loose hairs unconsciously. Setting him down inside a hollow tree you figured you could take a few minutes to decipher where True North lied.
However, a sudden change in the atmosphere made your blood freeze. Staring out into the darkness, you fixed your sights in the direction of the energy with your fists clenched in anticipation.
You felt him before you even saw him. Your heart dropped when you sensed whose aura emitted belonged to.
Illumi came out of darkness with an air of calmness surrounding him. This sense of composure completely shifted yours, you knew he could easily overpower you for his nen abilities reigned supreme over yours, nonetheless you couldn’t allow a fight for freedom to go unchallenged, not when you were so close to the finish line.
His ambiguity costed you valuable time to quickly devise a plan. Should you fight or should you flee? There was no telling he would kill you and steal your son away if you opposed him and yet given his nature, Illumi was quite capable of putting up a façade to front his murderous intent.
When he came too close for comfort, you realised you could never outrun him with this distance, thus you had to strike before he could. Unsheathing a small dagger that you carried just in case you ran into some trouble, you cursed at yourself for carrying a short range weapon.
Nevertheless you missed his shoulder by just the width of a hair. Illumi’s speed, though something to be marvelled at, was the only aspect that you worried most about.
As if in slow motion you fell forwards and from the corner of your eyes, you saw him shift easily from your reach. Illumi began to extend his arm out to impede your efforts, however you caught sight of his advances and immediate retreated back.
He blinked in mild surprise before exhaling a jaded sigh. “Fighting me is futile, you know very well that you cannot defy me in battle.” He stated matter-of-factly. “This victory brings me no satisfaction.”
“Bring the child forth and end this foolishness now.”
“You monster,” you spat out the words like venom. “You’ll kill him.”
Lashing out in anger you attempted another strike but narrowly missed again. Gritting your teeth in frustration you were so blinded by hatred that you failed to notice his hand reaching from your blind spot to restrain your dagger.
Wrapping his long lithe fingers around your wrist Illumi gave a warning squeeze, enough to make a grown man fall to his knees. When you refused to yield, he gripped it into a blood cutting bind until you heard your bones shift and crack. You gasped out once your hold slackened as the dagger fell into the soft green grass below.
“No, I’ll make him stronger.” Illumi confidently promised. He just broke your wrist but oddly still, you couldn’t sense any intention of harm from him as you presumed.
Your body went rigid when he uttered your name softly, pulling your weight into him almost comfortingly. “We’re still a family,” he spoke so lowly you thought you heard a sense of betrayal and hurt from his words. “I know it’s hard, but we only have each other.”
This imitation of kindness pulled you back into reality before you could cry into his chest and take you back to the mountain. Jerking from his touch disgustedly you began to prepare to lunge at him despite your broken hand.
“You know very well that I will pursue you even to the ends of the earth.”
You lurch out in a punch at his direction but Illumi hastily blocked your attacks. Dodging your strikes he only ever defends, hardly even trying to challenge you. An approach that was more pacifist as opposed to practical.
“I’ll stop at nothing to bring you both home, there is nothing you can protect him from. The boy will watch many deaths before him. He will know the true meaning of threats and violence, they will fall under mine. He will never know peace.”
You almost cried when you heard him spoke of your son’s future in a manner that was so casually cruel. Forcing yourself to block his torturous lies and vitriolic taunts, you eyed for your weapon inconspicuously.
Catching a glint from the blade of the dagger in the tall grass, you reached out to briskly seize it. Before you could even get close, Illumi kicked it swiftly to the point where it was no longer visible to you. Looking up at him with a gaze gaunt with pain and humiliation as he said your name once more.
“Listen to reason.”
In a fit of rage you blindly fought him with your moves only consisting of attacks and albeit not very coordinated for you could barely even see your hands in front of you. You could sense that Illumi willingly took some of your punches as he winced a little when one of your attacks coincidentally targeted his weak points.
You hadn’t realised you were crying until he balanced you upright just as when you stumbled forwards due to your eyes stinging with blurry vision. Why had you expressed yourself at your weakest point in the midst of a fight? Were you really this weak? After such gruelling years of training did they amount to nothing when you couldn’t even compare to the man you willed yourself away to?
You already lost before you even began.
Locking a grip around his neck you managed to successfully pinned him to the ground floor. His eyes blankly looked up at your dishevelled state raw with pure emotions in contrast to his cool and composed self. It took you this long to register that he wasn’t fighting for your submission but for your sake.
Illumi easily reverted to being the dominant position when he was about to receive a lethal strike from you. Pining both of your hands to the ground as he restrained your legs with his knees.
Illumi studied your trembling form underneath him, appearing like a feral cat caught in a cage, ready to lash out from any sudden actions even one out of kindness.
“What can I do to get you to stay?” He persuaded exasperatedly, as if he was tired of you looking at him like he’s the enemy. Meanwhile, you glared at the ludicrous question.
“I want a normal life for him. I want him to see the world, I want him to go to school, to make friends.” Your throat tightened when you brought him up. Proposing your wishes in vain knowing truly he could never fulfil what you desired. “You’ll have to kill me first before you could ever get to him.”
“An unnecessary sacrifice.” He quickly corrected, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind.”How could I endanger the one I love most?”
Your face twisted in detest at his hypocrisy. “What do you know about love?”
Illumi merely blinked at your question, in which the answer was one that he thought was already apparent
“I love you.”
And yet a thousand needles could never the change the way you feel for him. You only saw darkness within Illumi, death was the only thing drilled into his mind for his purpose was designed only for murder.
But then why couldn’t you see any deception in his eyes? Why did he possess such sincerity when he declared his feelings for you. In the midst of constant exposure to inhumanity was it truly possible for hope and love to endure for Illumi?
At the cold realm on top of the mountain you have gazed at numerous celestial wonders of the universe, but none could compare to what you saw in his gaze. You recognised the fragments of humanity inside him and it was far more powerful than anything that you had ever witnessed before.
To have seen compassion for another being in a state of infinite chaos, Illumi was truly a wonder.
“We can have that, you know,” Illumi gently said. “A house for our own far away from here, school, friends, whatever you want.”
“But... not for him?” Your breath stopped when he nodded slowly, sympathising your disappointment at your speculation.
“His siblings may lead the normal life you intended for them, but it’s critical that the eldest Zoldyck carry on the family’s name and status.”
Like an echo through history, you really can’t stop the Zoldycks’ legacy. Nevertheless, the question still rang in your head alarmingly.
Could you do it?
Doom your firstborn to save the others?
After what you’ve been through was it the only logical choice?
“You can’t hurt him.”
Alas, the only natural rational course of action was to naturally comply. Illumi graced a genuine smile as he closed the distance between you and sealed the deal with a chaste kiss.
For the bingo card, I'd like to request the "tortured for information" square with Dick being the one who's tortured (sorry Dick alskjda). You can include any other batfam member(s) that you want, I'm not picky 😁.
Oooo, that’s a good one! I was super excited to see your request, I hope this does the prompt right~ @hood-ex
Tortured for Information
The room they’re being contained in is small, perhaps eight foot by eight, and the ceiling barely crests at seven. It’s cramped and hot, the stone bricks that surround them leaving no room for air ventilation or any sort of moisture except their own sweat. They know there’s a door somewhere off to the right, but the enclosing darkness leaves most of it to the imagination. Pitch black inks the area, not a single source of light filtering through its void. They only know there’s a door in the darkness because there used to be four of them where three now sit in anticipation. A few inches rest between each of the three remaining figures, all trying their best to breathe through the heat and not inhale the stench of their own gross fluids.
Time is hard to tell in the dark, minds so used to constant movement that stillness is unexpected and dangerous. What they do know is that, before there were just three, they awoke one by one, feeling out for one another in the darkness, checking supplies (they had none), and trying their best to figure out how to escape. The door was the obvious solution at first, the largest of them using his shoulder as a battering ram against the heavy wood. There’s no give, no weakness, and the eldest stops the biggest before there’s unnecessary hurt inflicted. There are no hinges or door knobs or anything obvious through the touch of careful fingers, so other than hopelessly banging against the door, there’s no way to open it.
All of them were still on the cusp of disoriented when they realized there’s no air flow and that, if they’re as trapped as they believe themselves to be, conserving oxygen was the next priority after a failed escape. Suggestions of being underground were thrown around, all failing to recall how they ended up in the small room in the first place or who took them. The underground theory is plausible, being that there’s no light, but the sweltering heat doesn’t match the coolness of deep earth. Being in a basement was also likely, but seeing as their prison isn’t much of a room for a house or other building also leaves the hypothesis flimsy. They compared notes from what they could remember.
“Patrol,” Tim started, a small voice in the black, “in the West portion of Gotham. I was alone though.”
“Spoiler accompanied me in the South,” Damian said.
“Last I remembered, I was in the Cave with B,” Dick chimed in. “We were going over logs. Hood?”
“Drunk,” was the muttered reply. “Still nursing a headache actually so if you guys could shut up and think, that’d be great.”
They’re still on rickety terms with the estranged brother. Things have gotten better over the years, but the progress only graduated from ‘shoot on sight’ to ‘stay the hell away’. Progress is progress though. They’re getting there, slowly, and one day Alfred will coax him into a Manor dinner.
Silence fell on them, more out of nothing else to say rather than to comply with the command, and the only sound was their breaths filtering through the stagnant air. The heat isn’t unbearable. No, far from it, they’ve all endured worse, but the closeness of their bodies provided little relief. There’s hardly enough room to stand and take a few steps before accidentally smashing someone’s hand and soon enough, agitation was brewing. Britsling words, huffs, tuts, an occasional snap; none of them did well in dark, small, and claustrophobic situations.
The hard part about residing in shadow is that one cannot tell when eyes are open or closed, seeing darkness or dreaming in black. When Jason awakes for the second time, a fierce pounding building behind his ears, he realizes that someone is missing. Someone is gone from their eight by eight confinement. A stutter of breath is absent among the shallow patterns. His fingers fumble loosely against the hard flooring, rough in texture and covered in cracks and pebbles, until he finds a body.
He shakes them. “Wake up. Wake up now.”
It’s Damian. He’s up and alert in an instant, grasping at Jason’s wrist in a move meant to harm the older man. It merely pinches him. “What’s going on?” the boy hisses, grip frightfully tight.
Jason ignores him. Feels around for another body. His hand barely moves a foot before he feels something loose and soft. He tugs at it and a startled yell answers. “What the hell?” Tim growls, low enough to be a whisper but quick enough to be panicked.
A snake of oil and water falls into his stomach as Jason confirms it. It twists around in his gut even as he crawls over to where he thinks the door is, slamming a fist into it over and over again as he feels his own panic settle coolly into his feet. They took him. Dick is gone.
That was, in their best estimate, an hour ago. Now they all sit within reaching distance, careful to watch for the signs of induced slumber, periodically calling out to reassure one another. Tim thinks it was gas. Damian thinks drugs. Jason doesn’t know what to think, just that it happened and now Nightwing is gone. He does not voice his more sinister thoughts aloud on what happened to the man in blue, what might be happening right now, but he does not console the younger vigilantes. Order would dictate that it was now his job to look after them, as the second eldest, but he’s been on his own for years and doesn’t know how to.
Dick is gone and they can only sit and wait.
~oOo~
The vapor takes him last. He’s wedged himself into a corner, straining his eyes to make out even an outline of his brothers, when he hears a body slump to the floor, followed by two after. The noise is alarming because, well, those were bodies hitting the stone floor, his brothers, and Dick prepares himself for something as he holds his breath, clasping a hand over his nose.
The door suddenly opens and white light pours into the small room like an ocean hell bent on taking everything with it. It washes over everything, and for a moment, Dick is completely blinded and overwhelmed with the sudden contrast. Just as quickly as the light burst in, there are hands scraping and clawing against his shoulders and Dick is tempted to shout, but the vapors have finally reached his lungs and he feels the lull of sleep drag at his insides until his eyes weigh a thousand pounds and he is forced to close them.
When he blinks them open, he has to bite back a scream because there’s a masked face in front of him, a ghastly brown mask with gaping holes that peer into the depths. Dick is more than a little startled but finds it within himself to evaluate. His mask is still firmly in place, he can feel the spirit gum sucking at his skin, and he is still fully garbed in his Nightwing suit. A quick glance is easy enough to prove he is no longer in that dark prison he and his brothers had been held in, and another glance confirms that he is the only one out.
His brothers are still trapped.
He, too, is trapped, secured against what feels like a metal cot with leather and metal chains and straps tying his feet and arms to the corners of the cot. The masked face moves away from him, decidedly once it's confirmed he is in fact awake, and retreats back. Dick strains to see where they go but they disappear out his peripherals and is instead replaced with the sight of an old woman, gray, almost silver, hair falling in front of her eyes. There’s bright pink lipstick on her mouth, a dull blue shimmer shade smearing her eyelids, and a coral pink blush struggling to lift up the saggy flesh in what might be an attempt at youth. She smiles down at him. Her teeth are plastic.
“Good evening, Nightwing,” she simpers, reaching out a gnarled hand to stroke at his face. “Did you sleep well?”
Dick says nothing, trying to piece together the woman’s motives. He doesn’t recognize her. She’s new. But old. Perhaps an underground leader then. The masked person from earlier would indicate some sort of dramatic cult. Dick doesn’t know if the concealment of their identity means they intend to release him later, or if the showing of the old woman’s face is a move of power, as if to say that they have the means to keep him stationary and have little fear in doing so. The woman could be anyone from a simple grandmother to an “immortal” mortal, striving for some elixir of youth like the League of Assassins. Really, this could be anything. They, whoever it was that took Dick and his brothers, were clearly very capable.
Just as Dick begins to consider the idea of magic being involved, the old woman snaps her fingers and the wooden face from earlier reappears. The blow is quick, a metal stick coming down to strike at his abdomen, and Dick has little time to brace as metal meets his thin flesh and pain lights a fire inside his stomach. He bites back a scream.
“Now, you listen here young man,” the woman berates, a shaking finger pointing accusingly at him. “When you are asked a question, you answer. Where are your manners?”
Dick is too busy catching his breath to form a coherent response, and the woman snaps her fingers again, another blow striking at his stomach again. Dick relaxes as fully as he can despite the panic that’s quickly taking hold of his limbs, and the metal collides with his side this time with bruising force against one of his kidneys. A huff of hurt escapes his mouth and Dick instinctually begins to curl up into himself, only stopped by the straps that hold him down.
“Do you understand?” the old woman asks, raising her hand threateningly as if to snap again.
“Yes,” Dick wheezes out, breathing through the pain. “Yes, I get it.”
She drops her hand, a pleased and rather pleasant smile marring her face once more. “Good. Lovely. I’m sure you have many questions, Nightwing, but I am not obliged to answer any. However, I want you to answer some questions for me. How does that sound?”
Dick isn’t sure if a head nod is enough to placate her inquiry, so he manages another verbal affirmation.
“Excellent,” the old woman crows. “I’ll begin then. Oh drat, I almost forgot. You arrived with your brothers, yes?”
Dick feels the blood in his face drain. She notices.
“Oh, not to worry!” she reassures, a wrinkled hand coming up to pat his cheek. “No harm will come to them. I would never hurt a child, Nightwing, no sir. Family is very important after all. That’s why you’re here! So, to make sure that you answer truthfully, I would like to propose a bargain.”
“Bargain?” Dick questions. His side winces, still struggling to adapt to the injuries. He’ll have to deal with it later. Later.
“Quite so,” the woman agrees. “If you answer my questions with complete honesty, and I mean that young man, I will grant a few privileges to your brothers. I don’t like shutting them away in their room, but I know otherwise they wouldn’t behave. You can help them though. Here, I’ll show you.”
A screen flickers to life above his head, a monitor illuminating the ceiling.
“If you answer my question, I will turn on one light for them,” the woman says, shakily motioning to the pitch black screen. “That is how this will work. I will tell you what privileges can be earned for your brothers, and then ask you a question. Answering truthfully is the only way to give them those rewards though. Do you understand?”
“And if I don’t?” Dick questions back, the situation finally settling into his head. Rule number something that Bruce had always instilled in him was to never bargain with your captor, especially when others were involved. Innocents.
“Then I snap my fingers,” the woman responds coldly, “and Burtrum will do his best to force the truth out of you.”
Burtrum. The hulking figure in the wooden mask. Burtrum. Okay. Okay. Not the weirdest but- okay, fine. Burtrum.
“We’ll start easy, just so you understand that I am truthful in my promises. Are you ready, Nightwing?”
He can say no. He can say no and get beaten for it, but if he says no, then there’s the chance that his brothers will suffer for it. The old woman promised not to hurt them, she said she wouldn’t hurt children, but he can’t take anything she says as absolute fact. If he says yes, that he’s willing to answer her, there’s no telling what kind of questions she might want to pry an answer for out of him. She could ask about anything: identities, the Justice League, the Titans, Batman, codes, locations, anything. And if he doesn’t answer the way she wants, he’ll get beaten for it. Tortured, more like it, and he really doesn’t want to put himself through that if he doesn’t have to.
“I don’t know how you were raised, but I don’t accept silence as an answer. You will use your words.”
Tell that to Bruce, Dick thinks ruefully, mulling over his options once again. “Fine,” he settles on, “I’m ready.”
“Splendid. Burtrum, do please fetch me a chair. My knees are brittle and it’s cold in here.”
The massive figure of Burtrum, dear lord that sounds like a name Alfred would know somehow, lumbers away and Dick, admittedly, feels a little tension ease out of him now that the immediate threat is gone. Well, the immediate physical threat.
“Now, I promised you that I would turn a light on for your brothers. I understand that children can be afraid of the dark, and it is not my intention to frighten them like this. So, tell me, Nightwing, what is your favorite color?”
“My favorite color?” he repeats back dumbly.
“Yes, indeed. Answer that and I will lighten the room. It’s not a trick question. Everyone’s got a favorite color.”
Dick can’t think of how his favorite color might be used against someone, and he certainly doesn’t use it as his own password or anything, so he says, “I like blue.”
The old woman laughs, a vibrant blue fingernail tapping against the emblem spread across his chest. “I do as well,” she titters excitedly. “Lapis is such a beautiful color, wouldn’t you agree? Such a darling, delicate shade.”
Dick doesn’t know if it’s a question he actually has to answer, it seems rhetorical, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. The fewer bruises, the better as always. “Yeah, it’s-”
“As promised,” the old woman interrupts, talking over him, “I will turn on the light. I am an honest person, Nightwing, so I hope this show of good faith will inspire you.”
Immediately, Dick’s eyes snap to the screen above him, holding his breath in anticipation as he stares into the darkness. A few seconds later and a calm yellow washes over the dark screen, the slumped figures of his brothers finally in view. It appears to be a live feed, something Dick had originally been worried about, but as he sees Jason stand up at the new lightness and Tim’s head whipping around in astonishment, Dick feels his heart sigh.
Burtrum re-enters the room, rumbling with a newer heaviness in his arms as he carries a padded wooden chair. He gently places it onto the ground and the old woman sinks into it with a gratefulness that reminds Dick that this is literally an old woman he’s dealing with. Not some crime lord, not some super villain, not some drugged out meta human. She is, quite literally, just an eighty something year old lady with a singular, large butler like henchman at her service. It all feels quite ridiculous now that he thinks about it, and for a moment, Dick wonders if he’s hallucinating or dreaming.
The smarting ache in his stomach reminds him that, no, neither of those things are true and this is truly a dangerous situation with so many unknown variables. He needs to be careful. Needs to be smart about things.
“Now that we have established my honesty, it is time to establish yours. Let’s begin, shall we?”
~oOo~
The darkness retreats suddenly and unexpectedly. Damian does not jolt, any Robin to a respectable Batman never jolts, but he will admit the sudden brightness leaves him feeling antsy. The lights meant a few things. One, someone was watching them. Two, the room was far more complex than a few bricks and an immovable door. Three, something was going to happen soon with this new development or something already did.
Todd is swearing left and right, making for the door again. Drake is peering around the room skeptically, angling his head this way and that in an attempt to understand the new light sources. And he? Damian is staring a hole into the rough ground, thinking hard. About what, he can’t quite put to words, but somehow, the light does not comfort him. It only reassures him that there was something, rather someone, crucial missing from this entire situation, the darkness having hidden that blatant fact beforehand.
The illumination does not heat the room any further than it already feels, but Damian supposes time will change that. By itself, even before the brightness, the small prison was near sweltering and Damian could feel the back of his suit becoming soaked in his own sweat. Perhaps three hours, maybe a bit more, has passed since the first time they awoke to be trapped in this confinement. Dehydration was inevitable. Escape, by all means, was still a quandary that would not be answered for the foreseeable future. There was no telling if anyone was looking for them currently, no way to communicate a location with all of their materials stripped from their persons, and being trapped inside such a tiny space with two of his least favorite people in the world only worsened that fact.
To top it all off, Richard was still gone. Still missing. Captured. Elsewhere.
The heat must be making him light headed because suddenly his neck feels too weak to support his thoughts. He rests his face in between his knees and continues to think. There is little else to do.
~oOo~
“I have a list of necessities here. Every question you answer is one of them given to your brothers. When I have run through the entire list, of which there are only three elements, I will have Burtrum deliver the items you answered to. Is that clear, Nightwing?”
It’s insane is what it is, is all Dick can think, but his voice says otherwise. “Crystal.”
“We’ll start with hygiene. How often do you patrol in Bludhaven?”
“Whenever I have time to.”
The old woman frowns and taps two fingers against the metal cot. Burtrum and his dark brown mask loom forward and Dick can feel hands rest against his ankles. Dick has the sudden realization that his boots are gone. He has nothing but thick socks and a few band-aids on his feet.
“Do not be coy, young man,” the woman carps. “Answer properly. A schedule will do.”
Will giving away specific days be too much? Yes, likely so. Though it’s true he patrols whenever he has time to, those are for extra patrols when he has the opportunity to do so with a friend or fellow vigilante. Every second month on the third Tuesday, he patrols in Gotham with Batman and Robin. On a ‘regular’ schedule, he takes every chance he can get to go out on the streets of Bludhaven. Even then, if someone watches closely enough, he does have a pattern in the how/when/where he patrols. It’s a bit too far reaching to truly connect dots, but he can’t be sure. He also had to consider that there was hygiene on the line, whatever that meant. It could be a bathroom, a shower, medical supplies, medication. It could be many things, so was he willing to pass over that for his brothers? No, not truly, but he doesn’t really know how far he can push vagueness in order to appease the lady.
He’s taking too long. The grip around his ankles is tightening and though he’s almost sure Burtrum isn’t a meta-human, he certainly looks strong enough to do some serious damage.
“I don’t have a schedule but-”
The twists are sudden, efficient and ruthless, and the sickening snap that echoes in Dick’s ears takes a moment to register. Adrenaline keeps his brain from processing the sight of both of his feet and the tops of his toes pointing straight at him, but the bulge that shines through his socks is enough to jerk his thoughts to a screeching halt. Then the pain comes. It’s blinding. Bones grinding against each other, snapped unnaturally and grating against his muscles, creating a euphoria of fire and cold, cold ice that spreads to the very tips of his toenails. On instinct, he flails and immediately, immensely, regrets it as tears spring into his eyes and his lips contort in a half snarl, half gag of anguish.
“Your brothers have lost toilet privileges,” the old woman mutters unkindly, dull eyes unfeeling for his pain, “and Burtrum has done exactly as I warned. You are a selfish man, Nightwing. Selfish and unwise. I pray this has been a lesson for you on the consequences of being dishonest.”
Dick can hardly hear her over the roar of blood in his ears, heart beating faster and faster as the pain only continues to torment him. It’s crazy, he knows he can’t actually feel the bones touching one another, it’s not something he’s aware of on a daily basis, but right now it feels like his bones are singing and his nerves are their opera house. A raging cacophony of violence and crackling misery. He sucks in a breath. Slowly pushes it out. Repeats. In. Out. In. Out.
“Let’s try again. Water, three twelve ounce bottles. Do you work with the BPD often?”
Even in his agony induced haze, Dick understands that this is something he must answer. Water is important, essential, and he doesn’t know how much longer they’ll be captured here. The offer of water is much too tempting to pass up and he knows that the room the others are cornered in is already hot. Dehydration would take hold of them soon and he only has the flimsy word of his captor that his brothers will not be harmed. He has to have some trust that the bottles of water will remain un-tampered with.
“No,” he manages, words thick like sludge on his tongue, “not officially. Sometimes, I’ll help them with drug factions or serial killers.” Dick closes his eyes and breathes deeply again. Speaking is difficult when he wants to bite through his lip to distract himself from his broken bones. “I don’t have a working relationship like Batman does with the GCPD.”
The old woman hums, clapping her hands together. “I am happy you’ve come to your senses. Your honesty has earned your brothers some water.”
She reaches out to brush some of the sweat slicked strands of hair from his face, cooing in an odd motherly way. He hates the tenderness in her touch, as if she hadn’t just ordered someone to break his ankles. This woman wasn’t just dangerous, she was psychotic. Unpredictable. To further worsen a bad situation, he still can’t figure out what the purpose in all of this was. What the ultimate goal is. She seems interested in him, Nightwing, rather than his secret identity. She’s neglected to pry about Batman, of which all villains do when they’ve got a bird in their grasps, and the soothing motions of her hands juxtapose her violence.
Dick’s head is spinning from it all, the fire licking at his feet worsening the vertigo. He doesn’t understand anything at all and the circulation in his legs is thrumming in the worst way. His feet will turn blue soon, but before that, the flesh will balloon into something almost unrecognizable with the swelling that is sure to come. How long does it take for ankles to heal? Two months? Three? That’s ignoring physical therapy and if all goes according to plan. The breaks look bad, not exactly clean, and Dick is scaring himself with the possibility of never walking properly again.
“Let’s proceed with the final item on the necessities list. Three granola bars, all high in calorie. A real treat with chocolate chips, ho ho. I know children just love sweet things.”
He’s tempted to drown her out, just focus solely on the monitor still hanging over his head and watch his brothers, but once again he evaluates that food is indeed essential too and that he still doesn’t know when rescue or escape will be. His best estimate on timing is that they’ve been captured for the better part of four, maybe five hours. Possibly more. They’re nearing the timing in which someone will notice all four of them gone. Help will come soon, but he’s got to compensate for that large if in all of this. If help arrives. If they escape. Those snacks could end up being a saving grace depending on all of those ifs.
“What do you know about the Anaconda Killer?”
The moniker is familiar. An early 2000s serial killer in Bludhaven that strangled his victims after kidnapping and holding them for a week. Most of his victims were young girls, high-schoolers and undergraduates in college, and all were blonde with blue eyes. The killer was never caught and it haunts the BPD as their first major cold case, a total of seven known victims staining the profiles.
He tells her as much, paraphrasing, and she frowns. For a moment, Dick fears that he wasn’t specific enough despite his little knowledge on the subject. His eyes dart to Burtrum, still stationary at his feet and mask staring at nothing and everything, and Dick waits for confirmation as the old woman closes her eyes.
“You worked on the case?” she asks slowly, hands crawling up to rest lightly against the metal cot. “You know of the victims?”
“Yes,” he answers, careful to keep his tone steady. A jolt of doubt strikes through him though as the old woman’s eyes snap open, a feverish excitement taking hold of her.
“Oh that’s good,” she whispers. “Very, very good.”
~oOo~
They pass out for the third time.
Knocked out is probably the more correct term, but Tim can’t find it within himself to actually care because that was the third fucking time. He can’t figure out how they do it. He’s almost completely sure it’s some sort of gas agent that leaks in through the bricks, but he can’t find any gaps or seams where the gas would invade from. He’s looked, double checked, and he can’t find any discrepancies between the bricks and stones. It’s driving him crazy because if it’s that easy to take them out, why hasn’t anything been done to them yet?
And furthermore, why leave water and food in its place?
He’s holding one of the bottled waters in his hands, inspecting the seal to make absolutely certain it hasn’t been opened. Tim knows there are other ways to tamper with water other than actually unscrewing the cap, but honestly he feels a little desperate for a bit of relief for his thirst. He’s sweat through his uniform, having unclasped his cape about an hour into their confinement. He’s sure his face is a little clammy looking and breathing through his nose feels like he’s sucking in sand, so the water was like some sort of hallucination when he first saw it. The others weren’t sure what to make of it at first either, Damian suspicious that it was poisoned and Jason not really giving a fuck.
Tim’s thirst is winning over his skepticism though, the more he turns the bottle around in his hands, the more appealing the slosh of water looks. “They wouldn’t give this to us just to poison us,” he suggests, trying to reason his way into feeling less guilty about drinking. “It just wouldn’t make sense. Why give us drugged food and water when they’ve already shown they can do that with the air? It would be-”
“Holy shit, just shut up and drink it,” Jason mutters, uncapping his own bottle and taking a large swig. Both of the younger boys turn to him with large eyes, clearly watching to see if there are any immediate, negative side effects. Jason will admit he’s a little nervous to find out as well but his defiance on the subject merely just makes him take another sip.
Ten minutes go by and Tim’s tongue is feeling tacky and borderline dry. He gives in and drinks half of the bottle, swishing the lukewarm water around in his mouth. It’s a huge relief.
“Imbeciles,” Damian says, watching with ill-concealed fascination and disgust. “You are both foolish to accept that from the enemy.”
“Maybe,” Jason tosses back, lying down. His feet almost touch the other side. “Or maybe not. It could be from Nightwing.”
Damian's head snaps up. “What do you mean by that?”
Jason hums. “Well he was taken, what, a few hours ago?”
“Four.”
“Yeah? Huh, no shit. Either way, that leaves time for negotiations. A deal. Goldie just loves making deals.”
“You’re implying that Nightwing is speaking with the enemy about our treatment?” Damian says slowly.
“Speaking, screaming, dying, who knows. But sure. He’s talking to them about our treatment.”
Tim throws a small glare to Jason’s slouched form, irritated that he’s being so casual in such a potentially dangerous situation. A small part is also starting to get more worried though because the older man does make a point. Dick is probably speaking with their captors but it’s a far reach to say it’s voluntary. There’s about a seventy-three percent chance Dick is being tortured at the moment, tortured for information or otherwise. In terms of stubbornness and resistance to torture, Dick was only second to Bruce when it came to that sort of thing, be it threat of pain or mental anguish. His eldest brother has a hard head and an even tougher mindset, but his weak spot is his heart.
If Tim and the others were being used as bargaining chips, well, there wasn’t much Dick wouldn’t agree to. Suddenly, the bottle of water doesn’t feel so much like relief as it does guilt.
~oOo~
“We’re moving on from necessities,” the old woman proclaims, anticipation now tainting her voice. “I have no intention of keeping you and your brothers here forever; children should be allowed to frolic and such. So, Nightwing, this is your chance to earn them their freedom.”
He’s never been offered something like this before. Typically, the go-to style of his torturers always involved a threat of ‘You tell me what I wanna know and I won’t kill you and your loved ones,’ or ‘You’ll eventually talk if I keep you here long enough,’. Dick can’t remember a time where he’s been offered his freedom in exchange for information. It’s just not how these things work.
“I am willing to give your brothers their supplies back as a first exchange, excluding their weapons of course. Such a prize, however, can only be earned through truth and if you lie, I will know and your punishment for lying will be severe. I do not like hurting you, you know,” the woman simpers, “but I will order Burtrum to do so. This is very important to me. Do you understand?”
The stakes are climbing higher and higher with each minute that ticks by. Dick can’t really feel his feet much, only if he chooses to think about it or if he attempts to move anything below the knee, and the pulsating in his stomach isn’t a fantastic sign. He hadn’t originally thought the blows were enough to cause actual harm, maybe a few dark, dark bruises to show for them, but the sharp pin pricks in his side where he had been struck in the kidney doesn’t feel right. Internal bleeding is something that crosses his mind, the symptoms of numbness and a faint migraine building, but Dick forces himself to categorize and shelve the pain. Now isn’t the time. It’s really not the time.
“Yes,” he says stiffly, feeling his tongue scrape against the roof of his mouth. “I understand.”
“Splendid. Who is the Anaconda Killer?”
And wow, that’s a loaded question to start off the promise of liberty with. “The BPD never caught-”
“I don’t care,” the woman snaps, leaning forward. Her breath smells like old soup. “Tell me who the killer is.”
Dick swallows. Takes a breath and releases it. Eyes Burtrum, who is still hovering by his feet. Trails his eyes back to bright lipstick and shimmer eye shadow.
“Kennedy Giavich,” Dick says, unsure if he really should be giving out the name of a civilian that has never been charged. “My investigations pointed to him being the killer but there wasn’t any conclusive evidence.”
The old woman taps a fingernail against the cot and Burtrum moves forward, placing a single meaty hand on top of Dick’s mangled feet. Slowly, languidly, the man pushes against the soles of his feet and Dick sucks in a quick breath, screwing his eyes shut. The pain, like the first time, is laced with fire and ice and Dick is starting to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have nerve damage if this keeps up. Never mind having to stay off his feet for a couple months, he’s never going to have proper feeling in his toes again.
“Who is Kennedy Giavich?” the old woman presses, leering further into Dick’s face.
In. Out. In. Out.
The woman taps her finger again and the pressure releases, the small scream Dick had been holding back dissipating as well. “Who is Kennedy?” she repeats.
“H-He’s a security guard,” Dick manages to wheeze out, still trying to catch his breath. “Works at a communal library. It’s where he sought out his victims. He, mgh, quit last year though. Brown hair, brown eyes, large build.”
“What else?”
“I tailed him for a couple months but he didn’t have any new victims. He lives near the library he worked at and hasn’t gotten another job since. That’s all I know.”
The old woman eyes him, pressing her lips together in what might be a scowl. She regards Dick with an air of suspicion, as if she could somehow read his mind to discern if he was telling the truth or not. He is, seeing as he really hasn’t done much follow up on Giavich in the past few months. A mistake, possibly, on his part but a cold case is cold, and Dick leaves it at that. Especially when there are more active and pressing things to attend to with the little time he has.
Reaching a decision, she raises a wrinkled hand and waves it behind her, signaling Burtrum to leave the room. Dick’s eyes travel upwards to the screen again, watching with a sick feeling in his stomach as one by one his brothers succumb to whatever invisible agent leaks into their small room. A minute later, the thick wooden door creaks open slightly, Burtrum out of sight of the ceiling camera, and a few utility belts are thrown in. The door shuts quickly, presumably some sort of locking mechanism closing it completely, and Dick abruptly doesn’t feel as bad giving away a supposedly innocent civilian’s name. Hopefully, with their tech back, his brothers will find away to escape and get out of whatever hole they’ve been trapped in.
“You said that he hasn’t taken any victims in recent times,” the old woman says quietly, hands folded into her lap. “That he’s been inactive?”
Dick nods. The sick in his stomach is starting to roll around a bit more violently, nausea taking hold. Burtrum re-enters the room holding something in his left hand, but Dick can’t tell what it is, the large figure just out of his peripheral vision. He swallows at the silence that follows his entrance, the air thick with tension. Dick holds his breath.
The old woman snaps her fingers and Burtrum descends upon him.
The blows are rapid and without prejudice, slamming into every available surface that isn’t obstructed by the straps that hold him down. It’s so fast, so savage, that Dick can’t follow the movements and prepare accordingly, the flash of a weapon and it’s strike zone too much for his pain muddled mind to physically follow. One barely glances against his feet but even that is enough to send his brain into a shock, white fire lacing up his legs and to the tip of his nose. It’s bruising, crushing force, each impact enough to completely paralyze him for a few precious milliseconds. His arms are jerking in their restraints, knees bumping against each other on reflex, and there might be a sound escaping his jaw each time a blow connects, but he can’t be sure because everything is happening much too fast and his lungs are gasping for air that escapes him.
All the while, as Burtrum continues to pummel him and break his bones and bleed him dry, the old woman is muttering, gazing at the beat-down with angered, uninterested eyes and a frown cold enough to freeze the sun.
It’s all Dick can do but try and relax, there’s no point in defending himself like this, but his instincts are going hay-wire. He wants to clench and retaliate, snatch the weapon out of those ruthless hands, but Dick’s own hands are secured tightly. He can feel the marks pulling at the skin of his wrists, indenting and leaving bright red and raw flesh behind in his frenzy. Desperately, his eyes once again travel to the screen above him, his brothers’ forms still and un-moving. The sight brings little comfort, a small and irrational portion of his head screaming that they’re dead, that the old woman killed them, that Dick killed them, that he’s going to die to-
The beating stops. The old woman has a frail hand resting against Burtrum’s huge arm. She’s staring right at him.
“That was unfair of me,” she says. “I should have warned you again.”
Blood dribbles past his lips, saliva and bile sliding out as well and leaking onto the cool metal.
“I told you at the start that I wouldn’t tolerate lies.”
Something shifts inside Dick’s chest. He thinks a rib might’ve been broken. Or maybe that’s his clavicle. Sternum. Something. It hurts. It hurts.
“That Burtrum would extract the truth if necessary. Really this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Nightwing.”
Breathing is difficult. His stomach spasms with each inhale and exhale. It’s slow and pained. Thoughts are difficult too. His eyes remain fixed on the dull monitor. Jason is moving. Reaching for his empty holsters. Tim is shifting. Damian remains still.
A gentle hand guides his chin away from the screen.
“Don’t lie to me,” the old woman whispers. There are tears in her eyes. “I told you that this was very important to me. Would you like to know why? Why I do this?”
Dick doesn’t have the strength to say yes or no. Doesn’t have the will to nod his head or turn it away. He can only stare through the lens of his mask.
“He has my grand-daughter,” she admits, voice trembling. Her fingers tap a frantic rhythm against his chin and blood flicks in their dance across his face. “I just know it. And I know you must know it too. You live in Bludhaven, don’t you? You work with the police there. Surely you must know? You’ve told me as much, so surely… Surely you know where she is?”
No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
The tapping stops and fingernails dig into the sides of his jaw, shaking him. It jars something in his mouth and he coughs, spittle flying out and something hard dislodging. He’s lost a tooth then it would seem.
“Her name is Maria Dunken,” the old woman tells him, looking, searching, for anything like recognition in Dick’s bloody face. “She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s only sixteen. Please, you must know what he did to her. Where she is. Answer me! Tell me!”
Dick feels himself drifting, mind floating somewhere between coherence and dizziness. He can’t feel his feet anymore, his heart is beating beating beating, and there’s a dark fuzz building at the edges of his vision.
The old woman releases his face, pulling instead at the heavy arm of Burtrum. “This,” she says almost breathless, the panic building in her voice, “This is her uncle. Don’t you see? You must, you must know where she is. We are her family. Family is important, I know you understand this. See, look at your brothers! You do this for them, don’t you?”
Yes, Dick thinks, a mist falling over his sight. Always.
“I, we both, would do anything for our families. This was my last hope, Nightwing. My last resort. I tried so hard to get the police involved but no one would answer. Do you know how long I searched for you though? How long would you have ignored my grand-daughter if I had not brought you here? How long?”
Dick doesn’t know. The room is getting darker. He can feel his shoulders sagging against the cold table, muscles trembling and collapsing.
“Sorry,” he rasps, because that sounds like the right thing to say. He is sorry about Maria Dunken and her poor grandma. He is sorry he didn’t stick with Kennedy Giavich longer. He is sorry he ever got into this situation. He’s paying the price for it now.
The old woman laughs wetly, Burtrum jerking in her grasp. “All will be forgiven if you tell me where Maria is. Everything will be okay. Just tell me. Please.”
Dick’s eyes are drifting back to the monitor, it’s dull glow all he can focus on. Its bright edges are just enough to chase away the luring darkness that’s clouding his eyesight. Jason is up, pacing, pounding against the door. Tim is picking through his belt, nimble fingers taking stock. Damian is staring right at him. Straight at the camera. Dick feels a smile tugging at his sore features. He doesn’t remember the last time Damian ever looked so small. He’s grown up, hasn’t he?
“Nightwing?” a voice calls to him, distracting him. “Where is she?”
Slowly, Dick glances back over to the petite and frail woman and her hulking figure of a son. They make a funny picture, contrasting spectacularly against each other, but their faces, even if one is covered, are filled with a dangerous kind of hope. Thrill. Expectance.
Suddenly, a headline crosses to the forefront of Dick’s mind. Two weeks ago, a body was found in an alleyway, stuffed underneath piles of garbage. It was a young girl, a Jane Doe, and she had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was strangled to death. Even now, the details are barely there, the news a similar story to all the other tragedies that happen and continue to happen. But still. Grandmother and son look at him, his bruised and broken body, and think he has the answers they seek.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“She’s dead.”
Dick blinks and finds he doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes again.
~oOo~
Jason is about to punch the door for the fifth time when he hears something click on the other side.
Tim is trying to figure out how to get his communicator to work with little reception when he sees Jason take a step back from the door.
Damian is still staring at the weird indent in the ceiling when he realizes neither of the other occupants are moving.
They all stare at the heavy door as Jason carefully edges towards it, pressing a hand against the far side. There is little resistance and the obstruction that had trapped them for so long swings open. White light pours in and they have to squint against its brilliance. An empty hall reveals itself past the frame, and through the hall is another open door, the sounds of the city filtering beyond it.
Jason is the first to move, taking a step out of the small room that smelled of sweat and old heat. Tim follows, gathering his emptied belt and peering into the white expanse. Damian trails after, suspicion the only thing keeping him from fleeing out into the streets. No one stops them as they walk down the long, clean hallway. There are no doors, no windows, no other exits other than straight ahead and when they step out into the damp and smog filled air of Gotham, life dances before them.
They are free.
They are free and are forced to wonder: At what cost?
“You have met a most terrible fate, my poor soul…”
That is what they told them… a soul long awaited to be harvested for the last few centuries. A flickering of light having to quiver in absolute darkness. It was the only light around and it was being sucked into the deep void. A pit of hell had more hope than this void of despair. This pocket between spaces where no elder god, no deity or any influence of the divine could perceive. Nothing but this soul, and death themselves.
“I’ve read your history… it’s rather colourful, you know…”
No electronic device was present, just the classically old tome with the history of this individual written. It started with aged parchments and old leather bindings…finally at the last page, it was filled. ‘And he met a terrible end.’
The mote of light changed into a pale imitation of a humanoid, no features… no tails or wings, claws or fangs… not in this form anyway. Limbs lashed out towards death themselves, clawing faux flesh from makeshift bone, false blood splashing on the nonexistent ground. Milo did not move, react, or even seem to know they had been wounded across their exposed chest. Their mantle remained perfectly intact, despite the other hand gripping at it firmly, trying to rip it off.
In a motion swifter than a blink, one hand of Milo’s gripped and twisted the spiritual limb beyond physical capability. Twisting it over and over, the sound of agonized bones snapping with each ungodly twist, bringing the entity to its knees. Milo did not stop twisting, bright red eyes fading to a pale, then a stark white, blending sclera and iris together.
“Do you truly think that you can stop me?”
They pushed forward. Leaned towards the ground as the lights cracked and snapped, shattering into a thousand screaming shards, Milo grabbed the other flailing excuse for an arm. Nails turned sharp, piercing the skin of light. Cracks formed from the pressure, shrinking and expanding, pushing back on the hostile force. It rumbled with the defiance of a demon horde, but it was being crushed by an unrelenting silence of foul hatred.
“I’ve had many waiting for some eons for this very moment… the animosity… the sorrow, rage, sheer desire for demise…”
It overwhelmed them… the need to commit to revenge for the crying souls in the back of their mind. The sensation of rage from the soul to be reaped twitching and quivering… assimilating into the very fear Milo was brimming with. Reflecting every single negative essence that clung to them. Souls become quiet in the revelry of pain and torment.
Another free hand extended, plunging deep within this soul’s metaphorical chest. Nails turned to claws, suffocating where a heart used to be. The pulse rapidly rose, shaking and maddening; it wanted to be free, it didn’t want to be trapped within the fingers of death. Silence growing heavy, dampening the grunts and groans of a fleeing ego.
Milo’s eyes remained white. A stare to pierce the hearts of the bravest souls was stalwart on their face. They leaned in uncomfortably close, breath hot on the other’s assumed cheeks. Intimacy like this was reserved for one of two things but both shared a common factor: passion.
“Do you remember them? The souls you tormented… abandoned to rot… left to fester in their own toxicity that you cultivated?”
The soul paled, ceased moving and struggling for a split second. Then the thrashing came. The desperation of reminders coming to provide the consequences of their own actions. Every pull from Milo was a shuddering jolt, pieces of what remained dissolving into the ether. Now it was their turn to tear themselves apart. To give up anything to escape this prologue of eternal torment, taking off the dead limbs. Removing the privilege of having an identity and a form it knew as it’s own.
Empathy was a powerful ability. White was the reflection of all colour, and thus, was Milo reflecting all emotion. Reflecting that unto their quarry. Forcing the realization of what they did… forcing those emotions of their victims ten fold onto this soul. It was their own destruction caught up to them.
“Hell is not where you’re going…”
Dark vines began to tie the soul down, breaking apart what bit of a form they had until there was nothing to hide within. No part to use to defend themselves and leave them entirely exposed. Thorns wrapped and twisted like a narrow, inverse iron maiden, crushing everything in a slow, almost delightful finesse. Nothing but the mote of broken light remained once the floor was a grave of blasphemous flora, carnivorous plants chewing and gnawing away at what was left.
“We have a special place for the likes of you… you know why I’m here specifically for you?”
For the first time, still silence.
An undying silence.
“I take care of the souls of monsters… and you’ve gone well and truly into that light. Welcome to your new darkness.”
An eternal torment.
“To understand their anger. Their hate. Their pain.”
“I am too good for you.”
Fear spiked for one last time. Milo chuckled with the darkness of an elder god.
Fiyero felt everything. His heart thumping in his ears quicker and quicker until it finally seemed to slow down. Skip a beat. Giving in. In all the confusion and in all the pain he couldn't decide whether to fight it or give in. Fighting it meant suffering longer. Giving in meant death.
Life slipped through his fingers and his body slumped on the pole all while his skin finally started to change. Too late to save him from suffering, but just in time to save his life. Skin turned to woven burlap skin, loose at first before tightening. Fitting around his fingers, limbs and body. His body cracking as it changed inside and out and luckily he remained unaware through it all.
