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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 0:56:57 GMT -5
 PrologueI’m lying on my side. Have been for a while, I surmise, due to the fact the right side of my body is numb from putting my weight on it for too long. Someone hit me over the head. I can tell because my skull feels like it’s dancing free of its moorings. I see… nothing. Darkness. I can taste salt in the air. I assume the worst. A metallic tang hits my tongue, and I swallow. I listen hard, trying to discern anything about my surroundings. I need to get my bearings. Hands are tied behind my back. Wire, not rope, taut, digging into my costume and my skin. Ankles too. Eyes are covered, though not ears. Sea. I hear the sea. I tense my muscles, and then I hear movement. I freeze. “I know you’re awake, Nightwing.” Play dead. Play quiet. I don’t recognise the voice. It’s muffled though. Full face mask. Who do I know that wears a full face mask…? The kick in the gut catches me off guard. I can’t play off the gasp of pain as an unconscious one. I take a deep breath. “Oh, sorry, I was drifting off again. You rang?” “Nightwing. Formerly Robin, the Boy Wonder.” Lot of hate there. It’s audible. “Nygma used to call you the ‘Boy Hostage’. I can only assume you’re the same kid. I can only assume. I didn’t know you back in what Crane called the ‘good old days’.” Another kick. I roll with it, and it helps lessen the blow. I hear the creak of leather before it connects, and I guess that means he’s wearing body armour. Heavy duty stuff by the sound of it. A crack of light darts in my eye. Whatever was covering them has come loose. I see grey. Full face mask, grey armour… I make a list in my head. Knowledge of the ‘classics’. No bells ring. But I remember regardless. “Nygma, Crane, you’re spewing off the names like you know them, but I don’t think we’ve met… I mean, hey, you know me, but I don’t know you. Introduce yourself.” The blindfold comes off in a snap. “You ruined me, you and your daddy did.” He’s massive. Bigger than me. Bigger than two of me. His shoulders broad, the muscles tight. Who the hell is this guy? “All I wanted was to make Gotham safe for my wife and baby. Now she won’t even look at me, and you know what I got when I was in Blackgate? Divorce papers. And all I tried to do was clean up a city.” Another kick. I feel a wet thing come loose in my chest. I wince, but I need to figure out this guy’s game. “H-he’s not my— Oh, what do you care… So do I get a name?” “You can call me Lock-Up. That’s my make-believe name.” Lock-Up. Lock-Up. Think… Think… Two years back? The inside job at Arkham? The security chief who broke in and kept a dozen or so inmates in the secret levels below the Asylum… What was his name? Bolton! Lyle Bolton. “So what now, Lock-Up? Going to kill me?” He scoffs. His mask ripples and I can tell he’s smiling. “Kill you? No. I’m no idiot. But I want to see you live up to that old nickname.” He kicks me again and I don’t react in time. He takes advantage of this moment of-- let’s call it ‘distraction’-- grabs my foot and begins to drag me across the pier. I struggle to get free but I’ve got no leverage. He picks me up by my leg, and drops me inside something. My eyes freeze open when I realise what he’s doing. The metal casket lid slams shut, and I hear him working the power drill through it. Oh, no. This cannot end well. |
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 0:58:39 GMT -5
Nightwing
“Boy Hostage”
Written by House Of Mystery
Cover by Ramon Villalobos
Edited by Ellen Fleischer |
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:01:47 GMT -5
Pitch black. I should be getting used to this. I can breathe. That’s something. My utility pouches have been emptied. He’s a smart cookie. I slide my hands down my back, and find the hidden compartment in the back of my costume. Flat packed nightarangs. I get one loose, and then I hear someone dragging the casket. I don’t react. What’s the point? He’s got his agenda.
Boy Hostage. Goddamn it. Always hated that moniker. Every three weeks or so, tied up in a death-trap. ‘Bat bait’. Bruce always saved me. Of course he did. But still… Didn’t make being captured any sweeter. The wire is still taut against my wrists. I try not to move them too much; the fabric of my costume is tearing with every motion. I get a nightarang between my fingers, and flip it forward, nearly cutting my thumb on the edge. We used these with metas. Took the fight right out of them. Bruce used to use this type back in the early years, when he was a little more brutal, a little less refined. They got the job done then… And they would now. The ground beneath me shakes, but I know it’s this damn death trap I’m inside of.
I hear a muffled voice outside. “Sleep well, chum.” Then with one final heaving effort--
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:02:04 GMT -5
“Are you alright, Richard?” Koriand’r smiled that million-dollar smile of hers, and he couldn’t help but return it.
“I’m fine, Kory. Just thinking.” He played with his straw, globules of coke dripping on the table beneath the glass.
“Penny!”
Dick was pulled out of his daydreams by this sudden bark from Kory. She smiled, emerald eyes piercing his own. “Pardon?”
“Penny. For your thoughts.”
“I’m just… thinking. About stuff. Ha, stuff, can I be more vague? Umm. No. Probably not. I’m thinking about Gotham. About when I was a kid. When I was Robin.”
“Robin,” mused Kory, as she sucked her straw and drank her lemonade. “I loved your green short shorts. Not to mention the pixie boots.”
“Thanks,” replied Dick, taking her hand, kissing it gently, then laughing with her.
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:03:17 GMT -5
What was that? The casket wobbles. That was water! I hear the splash, the sucking of water as I descend… Ok. Think. When he pulled off the blind fold I got a good eye of where I was. The pier. Pier A in Battery Park? Probably. And in the distance… Old Lady Liberty. About a mile away? Ok. Think. Think… Oh, this is fantastic. The wire comes loose with one final snap of the nightarang, and my hands are free. I go on autopilot, pure survival, and my hands search frantically. There’s no water coming in, but… My fingers find the top of the casket, and there’s a weird tube just above my torso. My glove slides off with ease, and I put my hand just under it. Air. Ok. So that’s how it’s going to be.
I roll over on my back again, and pull out the survival pack. I don’t even need to chew on the energy bar. A beach-side dinner with Kory was filling enough, and… Yeah. I realise now I probably shouldn’t have told her to head back to the Tower. I probably shouldn’t have gone off vigilante-ing without some back up. But why would I need back up? It’s been bugging me for a while, this thought. Has being with the Titans blunted my abilities? I mean, with Bruce, it’s different. We’re partners. We rely on each other. We take on double the odds, and we win. But with the Titans… it’s like… babysitting, sometimes. Giving orders. Making suggestions on the proper way to knock a guy out from twenty yards away without using ones hands… I needed to clear my head. So I hopped on my motorbike, and then hit the rooftops. Then the rooftops hit me. Lock-Up—Lyle Bolton—must have been lying in wait. Hit me before I knew what… hit me. And here I am now. I crack open a glow stick. The light is comforting. For a moment, at least. Then it dawns on me. In the dark, there was no dimension to the casket. But with light pervading every corner of it… it’s tiny. I’m in a coffin. Floating under the…
…Wait. I heard… Or felt… A bump. I think I’ve hit the harbour floor. I don’t dare move. I could be caught on something, and precariously balanced. Damn. Damn. Ok, I don’t like this. But I’m not twelve anymore. I’m not the ‘boy hostage’. More like man hostage. That would seem more appropriate, right now. No. Get that thought of your head, Grayson. Need to think.
I check my rebreather. It’s functional. That’s good. If a leak pops open , that’s a start. It’s also just one more thing that would prolong my death. Whoa. I’m getting all morbid all of a sudden. That’s not a good way to be thinking. Admiting defeat is just that: admitting defeat. That’s the kind of attitude that--
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:04:03 GMT -5
“Again.” Bruce motioned for Dick to pick himself up off the mat.
The boy didn’t move. “If you keep knocking me down, I don’t see the point of standing up. It’s not fair.”
Bruce didn’t look away from him. The boy had been receptive to his training so far, but he was struggling with this one move, and it was beginning to frustrate him. “You need to learn this move. You need to learn the proper technique. Fair doesn’t come in to it. You agreed to be my partner, Dick. So you need to learn…”
“Fine, fine.” The young Grayson climbed back up to his feet.
“You never give up, Dick. You never, ever, give up. That’s showing weakness. If you give up, you admit defeat, and that’s just one step away from defeat itself.”
“Cool, I get you,” Dick moved toward Bruce. Bruce dove for him, and Dick side stepped, grabbed his shoulders, and leapt up, landing on Bruce’s back, his arms wrapped tight around the Dark Knight’s exposed neck. Bruce nearly fell over, but recovered. He patted Dick on his back.
“Ok, that was pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Dick leapt off his guardian’s back, and landed softly on the mat. “I had you, Bruce! I had you fair and square.”
Bruce smiled. “Again.”
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:05:22 GMT -5
“Again,” I find myself saying, even though I have no reason to. I shouldn’t talk. I don’t know if the air is in a tank, or if the pipe leads up to the surface. What can I do? I look at the equipment I’ve placed on my chest. Flashbangs. Nightarangs. C4 explosive. Ha. Yeah. Genius. If I set off the explosive, I’ll not only free myself from the casket, I’ll also turn myself to pudding. Fun. I feel the tube again. It’s thick. Twice the circumference of my thumb, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to look, at the angle I’m lying. My legs are still bound tight. That could be a problem. I can’t pull them up toward my hands, or move my hands down toward my legs. If I get out of here, that’ll be my first obstacle, freeing my feet before I drown. Or I could mermaid it to the surface. But if Lock-Up is waiting… I holster the nightarangs in the pouches behind my back, for easy access.
What could Lock-Up want? To draw Bruce out? I haven’t spoken to Bruce for months. Batman. It’s Batman when the mask is on. Get that right. I begin to shiver. The metal is conducting the cold. I fumble to get my glove back on, and even then, it doesn’t do much.
I didn’t think to wear my thermals underneath today. I didn’t figure on getting buried at sea. Or fighting Mr Freeze. Mr Freeze! That’s an idea. I move the C4 back in to its waterproof pouch, and I fiddle with my wrist to trigger the costume’s automatic defrosting mode. There’s a sudden rush of warmth. In the light of the glow stick, my breath becomes visible in front of me. Weird. The cold subsides, but I know that the jolt of warmth will fade soon. A stopgap to prevent my internal organs from slowing. At least in the short term.
I need to get out of here. Need to stop Lock-Up. I’m no one’s hostage. Not anymore.
Then an idea dawns on me. A downright stupid idea that’ll end up killing me if I’m not careful. But I don’t live a life with safety nets. I’ll use them if they’re available, but I don’t need them. That’s what my parents did, that’s what I did, that’s what… I do. Damn.
I’m too young to want to recapture my youth.
The C4 comes out of the packet with ease. My fingers find the air tube even more easily. C4 is malleable; I can wrap it around things. I can’t put it around the inside of the casket because the blast would, in all honesty, really, really, hurt. And when I say hurt, I mean kill me. But if I move it up the tube…
I push it up as far as I can reach with my fingers. It’s a painful process, the angle where I’m at and where I have to get the plastique causing my fingers, wrists and arms to burn with the strain. Then, when I get it as far as I can push, I grab another glow stick, and ram the explosive up a bit higher. I’m not going to joke, this could kill me. If I haven’t got it as far away as I need it to be, it could just blow me up, but if I get it just above the casket lid, I can probably blow the lid off. Probably. This is all guess work and hoping and praying. At least, I think, if it explodes, it could buckle the lid, and I could probably pry it up. Though I would have to fight off the ocean, and whatever headache I’ve got from nearly exploding myself…
I work fast. I wrap a length of fuse around the glowstick, and jam it in the C4. God. This is going to be an uncomfortable way to die. Really. Honestly. Painful. The fuse leads down to my glove. It’s a simple job now. Flick the switch. Trigger the explosive. Pray to whatever God would listen.
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:06:21 GMT -5
“How’d you get that one?” Alfred Pennyworth was busy stitching up a nasty Killer-Croc induced flesh wound that streaked down Bruce Wayne’s back. Dick pointed to a bullet shaped scar just above the Dark Knight’s shoulder blade. “How about that one?”
“I took a bullet for Harvey Bullock.” Bruce winced as Alfred dug the needle into his back. “He was slow. The Joker’s booby trap wasn’t. Ow.”
“Quiet sir. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you weren’t enjoying this.”
“Hnn.”
“You took a bullet for him? But he’s a police officer, wouldn’t he be… Probably… Umm… Better qualified to take a bullet?”
“Dick-- OW ALFRED!”
“Sorry sir.”
“Hhn. Dick, in this line of work, we do what we have to do. If I have to take a bullet for someone, I’ll take a bullet for someone.”
“And I, Master Grayson, will indulge Master Bruce’s sadomasochistic campaign of violence, and remove it for him. Usually without anaesthetic, at his insistence.”
“Sadomaso…what?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” smiled Alfred Pennyworth, as he tied a small knot in the stitch he had just finished.
“And even then,” added Bruce, “maybe not.”
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:07:32 GMT -5
“When I’m older,” I repeat it. Like a mantra. “Screw it.” I place the rebreather in my mouth, and trigger the explosives. No going back n--
Everything goes white for a moment. The casket rocks, the lid of the coffin buckles, and water begins to pour in at the edges. I grit my teeth and suck on the rebreather to make sure I don’t scream. I can’t let the ringing in my ears deter me. With one almighty effort, an effort that I didn’t believe I had in me, I heave my legs, and push, push as hard as I can. The lid comes off, and I knock it away with my free hand. I place my other hand on the base of the coffin, squat down, and then push up again, and begin to swim to the surface. Everything is numb. Glass and debris in my head, every thought on survival. Every thought a painful hurdle. Where’s the air? I’m forgetting to breath. I need to breathe. I suck on the rebreather, and then when I reach the surface I nearly scream! The cold night air is like a smack in the face. The pier is just overhead, and I yank myself up. Breathe. Breathe. I look up, and there he is.
“What in God’s name…”
“Lock-Up,” I growl. It’s a Batman growl. I don’t mean for it to come out like that. But I’m angry. I don’t know what else to do. “Get on the floor. Right now.”
“…Ten minutes. You were down there for ten minutes. What the Hell?”
“I warned you.” The nightarangs fly. One hits him in the knee. He staggers, one leg still holding him up. I ignore his howl of pain and pull myself toward him. A roundhouse kick to the head and he goes down hard. I look at him. “Wait. Did you say… ten minutes?” The cuffs barely fit around his wrists. He’s all muscle.
I pat him down, collect my Titans-communicator, and call the NYPD. I give them the information needed to collect him, and I look up to the sky as the world continues to turn.
It’s a beautiful night.
I look at Lock-Up, and check the handcuffs, then slump against a wall. Things dawn on me. I realise that nothing’s changed. I haven’t lost anything since joining the Titans. Actually, I think I’ve gained something. Friendship, maybe? I haven’t blunted my skills from ‘babysitting’, I just haven’t exerted myself because I’ve had people watching my back. But if I need to… If I have a reason… There‘s no question. No hesitation. I was trained by the World’s Greatest Detective. The Dark Knight. There’s no point in doubting myself. Best thing to do now? First, get my rib checked out and second, keep moving forward. Keep moving forward because that’s all we can ever do.
I smile, sirens wailing in the distance.
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Post by dragonbat on May 21, 2008 1:08:07 GMT -5
End If you wish to comment on this issue, please CLICK HERE to visit the letters page. |
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