Everything felt like ice in an instant. Something was going to go horribly wrong, and he just knew it. Something he didn’t calculate for, something he didn’t plan for, something that came entirely out of left field. The torture he could expect, but not quite like this. It was the little surprises, the ones that slipped just under his radar, that kept his heart-rate skipping. Damn him.
If Ra’s could quit throwing him around like a ragdoll, maybe he’d make some kind of better decision on what to do. He could feel every point of contact, like lemon in a million tiny papercuts but it was still there. Eventually he’d have full range of motion, albeit lagging from muscle fatigue and sitting without training for a while… He wouldn’t be so up to par quite yet, not for a fighter.
Apparently, that’s not what he was here for.
He could feel the color drain from his face, felt his stomach twist and drop to the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, eyes wide as he stared ahead of him and the words, barely registering after the blood rush to his head, echoing in some distant, damning voice. If he didn’t have shock freezing his every muscle, he might’ve shivered.
“No…” The word slipped out on its own accord, shy and timid, breathless and quiet. “No, no, I c-can’t… I can’t do this…” Of course. Of course, it was the one big thing he negated to take into any sort of plan his adversary had. It would be one of the two ultimate sacrifices he could make, something to truly turn him to the dark side. To kill would mean breaking code. To kill would mean he could never be Robin again. It meant never showing his face at the manor again even if he did manage to escape on his own. With blood on his hands, he couldn’t face Bruce anymore, and even the Batman wouldn’t allow him to roost in the Cave. His family would see him as a monster… Steph… He’s just another criminal, someone to be despised, feared, taken down.
The thoughts throbbed his head again, silent tears daring to fall as he tried to catch his breath. Panic, fear, paranoia, RUN. “… What’s the endgame?” Tim finally asked. “Beat me then… Expect me to do you a favor, when you know I don’t have any lethal combat training…” Half-Lie. He knew every vital spot to make any wound mortal, fatal, only if to help in the med-bay patching himself up.
“What… What even is his crime, Mr. Judge-and-Jury?”
The boy went stock-still in his arms, and Ra’s felt a grin grow across his lips.
Tim nearly whimpered as the word made its home in his mind and the implications settled, weak protests falling from his lips that they both knew would not stop Ra’s. Words had never been an adequate defense against the ancient assassin, despite how very good Timothy could be with them sometimes. No, Ra’s fell only to better strategy or to higher force. Timothy had never had the latter, despite his fighting abilities, and the boy was too many steps behind to make up for the loss, this time.
And he knew it, too, if the unshed tears glimmering in the boy’s eyes were any determinant.
Ra’s turned his head and chuckled against the boy’s temple. “Oh, hush, Timothy. I’ve not had you beaten that badly--you’re on your feet, after all. As for lethal combat training, there are a great many people who kill without it. The man is in chains, my boy.” The hand that wasn’t hooked around Tim to support him on unsteady feet slid up to curl around the boy’s throat and squeeze, not enough to cut off his hair but enough to threaten the flow. “Bare hands and the right leverage are all you really need.”
Ra’s could choke the boy to death with one hand, if he wanted to--the additional strength the Pit had leant him over the years in addition to his own training was more than ample for that. But Ra’s let go, after a moment of making his point.
“At any rate, you’re not doing me a favor, you’re holding up your end of the bargain we struck. Nothing I ask of you is a favor when you promised me anything. His crime is absolutely irrelevant. Of course, if you’re getting cold feet,” he murmured, starting to pull away from Timothy entirely. “I still have my men on standby in New York and Gotham. Miss Brown was so very easy to get a hold of, last time, and she’s just dying to see you again, I’m sure--perhaps I ought to do her a favor, bring her here to come see you one last time.”
A hard shove in the direction of the prisoner sent Tim stumbling. “Time to decide if you’re a man of your word, Timothy. I certainly am.”
