Chapter Text
Hal wakes with a jolt. That in itself is not unusual; he often wakes abruptly, snapping to attention in seconds, especially after a mission. What is unusual is that he isn't in his crappy apartment tangled up in cheap sweaty sheets. His hands slide over smooth white tiles as he pushes himself upright. The space around him is empty. There's a mattress, and a hole in one corner, and three walls of the same smooth white tiles. He turns to find the fourth wall is glass.
Not good.
"Fuck."
The long drawn out sound comes from further beyond his glass wall. Hal shoves himself to his feet and forces himself to ignore how his legs tremble as he touches a hand against the solid, transparent door set into his cell. His eyes take a second to focus.
There are three other cells. One on each side of the room. Identical to his, complete with ominous glass wall - and occupant.
The groan had come from his left. Inside, a man in the same simple grey sweats and t-shirt that Hal has woken up in. The man is pushing himself upright, and Hal allows himself a moment of satisfaction that he is even shakier than Hal had been. Then the man turns, and the pride is replaced by a cold, sharp understanding.
"Mr Queen."
Oliver blinks at him blearily. His lips twitch into the slightest smile. "No mask, huh?"
"Nope." Hal holds a hand up and wiggles his fingers. "No ring either. Don't suppose there's a quiver in there with you?"
Oliver snorts on a laugh, shaking his head. "Bats would probably say we should be pretending not to know each other," he says. "But-"
"Whoever took us must know who we are? Yeah, I thought the same."
Hal turns to look at the other two cells. In the one to his right, their third companion is curled in on himself, back to the room. In the one opposite, the fourth is on his mattress, eyes closed, face turned away.
"You remember anything?" Oliver asks.
Hal shakes his head. "Was on my way home. And then..." He shrugs, gestures around him. "How bad do you think it is that we've been taken as civilians?"
"On a scale of Condiment Man to Darkseid? I'd say a Count Vertigo."
Hal blinks. "Man, we have gotta get you a new scale."
There's a muffled moan from Hal's right. He turns his attention back to the third captive. Whoever it is, they're stretching out, but every time they do they seem to stop and groan. In pain. Hal frowns - he isn't hurt, and Oliver doesn't seem to be either. Whoever took them did so silently and efficiently.
Oliver's voice is soft when he calls out, "Barry? You good?"
Hal narrows his eyes. Shock of blond hair, broad shoulders. He can't see his face from this angle but Oliver must have a better view because Barry raises a hand and waves half heartedly.
"All good."
His voice is tight. Hal's frown deepens. "Think you can look at us, Bare?"
The speedster sighs. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself into a sitting position and turns to face them, using the mattress to support his arms. Just like them, he is unmasked. His face is sallow, sweat dripping down his forehead.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"You look like shit," Oliver adds helpfully.
Barry smiles half-heartedly. He leans forward to lift up his grey sweats and they catch a glimpse of white casts around his ankles.
Hal grimaces. "They broke your ankles?"
"But then treated them," Oliver says, sounding confused. "That's... nice."
"Cast isn't helping. It's setting the bones wrong." Barry pulls a face, leaning further back. "Can't heal properly."
Oliver lets out a low whistle. Hal's stomach drops. It's bad enough that someone clearly knows their identities, but this was well-planned. Finding a way to neutralise the speedster means thought was put into this.
"Anyone know the kid?" Barry asks, a clear attempt to change the subject, and if he needs to distract himself from the pain then Hal is all for it.
"Nope," he says. He can just about make out sharp cheekbones and a shock of dark hair in the fourth cell. "Not anyone I know outside the masks."
Oliver is frowning. He moves closer to the left of his cell, trying to get a better look; his eyes widen. "Shit. Might be my fault he's here."
"You know him?"
"I was leaving Bruce Wayne's gala. He was there too, he must have seen them taking me or something. That's Bruce's oldest son, Dick."
"Ward."
The younger man doesn't open his eyes, doesn't even move, but he corrects Oliver with far too much calm for someone who's just woken up in a cell. Hal glances at Barry, who shrugs.
"Sure," Oliver says. "Ward. You okay, Dick? We must have got grabbed just outside the gala."
There's a syrupy tone to Oliver's voice, a fakeness that doesn't suit him. Hal doesn't know why he's bothering: their captors clearly know who they are, it's not going to be long until the kid does too.
Dick sits up, stretching his arms out in an exaggerated manner. "I'm good, thanks Mr Queen."
"Under the circumstances, I think you can call me Oliver."
Sharp blue eyes flit from one cell to the next. Hal raises an eyebrow when they rest on him for a second. The younger man doesn't seem scared; he seems more curious. His eyes finally land, and rest, on Barry. "I don't suppose you can phase out of the casts?"
Barry shakes his head, seeming to answer without thinking. "Tried. Bones shattered before I could -" He stops. Stares at the kid. Who stares back with a question in his eyes. "You weren't taken because of Oliver, were you? We know you?"
Dick shrugs. "In passing. I don't really move in the same lofty circles as you three. No idea why I'm here; you'd think they would have gone for Batman." He smiles. It's a friendly, open expression that doesn't reach his eyes. Something about it is familiar, but Hal can't quite figure out where he's seen it before. "I suppose since whoever took us knows who I am, the identity's kind of out the window. You know me as Nightwing."
"The Titans leader?" Hal says.
Oliver laughs. "Holy shit, kid. Your dad know you've been running around in skin-tight spandex fighting crime?" Dick stares at him. The laughter fades, and Oliver shrugs. "Just saying. I can't see the Prince of Gotham being a fan of the whole self-sacrificing hero gig."
"Says the billionaire vigilante."
"Hey now - I keep giving my money away. It's not my fault it keeps coming back."
"Sounds like a nice problem to have," Hal says, unable to keep the slight wistfulness out of his tone.
Barry groans. It's a low sound; he attempts to muffle it. But it's like a cold wave over the cells, a reminder of the situation they're in.
"If someone knows our identities," Hal says slowly, "you think the rest of the League are in danger?"
"Not that I don't care about the rest of the League, but we've got more pressing concerns." Oliver taps on the glass of his cell. "Like the fact that this was planned. Four cells. Four targets. So who took us, and why?"
The room dissolves into uneasy silence. Hal looks up into the corner of his cell, where a blinking red light makes him suspect someone is watching.
"I don't know," he says eventually. "But I don't think we'll be waiting long to find out."
* * * *
The Watchtower is unusually tense. Even before world ending fights, there's usually some levity. Hal making an inappropriate joke to get a reaction from Barry. Oliver giving them all a reason to laugh before focusing in with an intensity other members can't keep up with. Today, the levity is gone. In one of the meeting rooms, Superman and Batman stand side-by-side, watching and rewatching three grainy videos.
The three League members were taken with unerring symmetry. In civilian clothing. A dart to the neck. A simple black sedan picking them up.
"It shouldn't have been this easy," Batman grunts.
Clark glances at him. "They weren't expecting to be attacked as civilians."
"They should be. In our jobs you need to always be alert."
Clark sighs. They've already had this argument, and he knows it never goes his way. Not against Batman. They fall back into uneasy silence, looking at the security footage they've managed to obtain of the three abductions.
"There was some sort of distraction," Batman says on their next rewatch. "Both Flash and Arrow look in the opposite direction of the dart a second before it hits them."
"Hal doesn't."
"Lantern has just got back from a two month mission. His reaction time is always slowed in the week following his return from a long absence." Batman pauses the video of Hal, pointing to the slightest turn in his head. "He started to look towards the distraction, but he was a second behind the others. That's why his dart hit him in the side rather than the back of the neck."
Clark watches, narrowing his eyes. He can see what Batman means. What he can't see is how it's going to help them.
"I should be out there looking for them," he says.
"You've already told me you can't hear their heartbeats."
"I can fly around! I can look!" Batman levels him with a look. Clark sighs. "I don't like feeling helpless."
"We're not helpless," Batman says gruffly. "We're investigating."
"Then why aren't we investigating the other disappearance?"
Batman tenses. "We've already discussed this. Mr Grayson is Gotham business. I doubt he has anything to do with this."
"He was taken in the exact same way, B. Dart to the neck, same black sedan."
"I have associates investigating his disappearance in Gotham."
"I'm just saying -"
"We should concentrate on our missing teammates."
There is an air of finality to Batman's tone. Over the years, Clark has gotten better at understanding Batman: this tone is a clear sign he's losing his patience. Clearly, Dick Grayson is not on the agenda. Similarities in his kidnapping aside, Batman just seems unable to consider that perhaps Dick Grayson is a member of their community whose identity he doesn't know.
Clark looks back at the screen. Watches Barry fall for what feels like the hundredth time.
"We will find them." Batman's voice is unusually gentle, and though he isn't looking at Clark his expression is soft. "I promise."
"You once told me you don't make promises you can't keep."
Batman looks at him now, the cowl hiding his eyes but not the determination when he says, "I don't."
* * * *
By the time the door to their combined enclosure finally opens, Dick is drifting off.
He's had a long night. He wouldn't be surprised if his long night has bled into the next day. And whilst he enjoys listening to the good-natured bickering of Hal and Oliver as they try to find a weak spot in their cells, he would much rather be back at the Manor watching his younger siblings pretend to be functioning at breakfast after a night at the gala and then on patrol.
He has already catalogued the things working for him and against him in his current situation. He has gone through strengths and weaknesses of each of his companions. And despite what Bruce may have to say about them, there are many strengths. Dick just isn't sure how helpful they're going to be when they're all stuck in these glass exhibits.
The door opening forces him to open his eyes. He's had them closed for a while, enjoying the quiet respite of his own mind. Time to focus.
The man who enters is taller and broader than Bruce, and he's carrying a cart of what looks like food. Carrying, rather than pushing. It's a casual and unnecessary display of strength, evidence that the muscles are not just for show.
"Finally," Hal says loudly. "The service here is terrible."
The man doesn't speak. He opens a hatch in Hal's glass door and slides a covered tray through, before moving to Oliver's door and doing the same.
"Huh." Dick shrugs, looking to Oliver. "Must be the strong and silent type."
"Well that's just not fair," Hal says.
"He's right," Oliver says immediately, like they rehearsed this. "You can't be a villain without a-"
"Monologue," Hal and Oliver agree at the same time.
The man ignores them, and moves on to Dick's cell. The tray slides through. Dick watches it detachedly, then shoots their captor a bright smile. "Are you taking orders for dinner?"
"I've figured it out." Oliver sounds immensely pleased with himself.
"What?" Hal asks.
"How they're targeting the League. They're going for it's sense of humour."
"Wait, wait, no hang on." Hal pulls a speculative expression. "Why would Barry be here?"
"Smartass."
Barry sounds half-conscious. Dick's glad to hear his voice. He's been quiet for too long. Whilst the speedster is quieter than Wally, he's normally happy to join in with Hal and Oliver's ribbing; Bruce has said before that the greatest weakness of the three men is that in each other's company they seem to lose brain cells.
He also notices that Barry doesn't get a tray pushed through his hatch. Just a single bottle of water.
From the expression on Oliver's face, he's noticed too. Neither of them mention it. Not yet. The man screams henchman from every carefully tensed muscle; Dick's not sure about Oliver, but he's waiting for the brains of the operation to make their appearance.
He doesn't have to wait long. He's just pulled the lid off his tray - and made a face at the grey-looking porridge and water underneath - when the door opens again. A much smaller, older man walks in. Unlike his companion, he makes eye contact with each of them in turn, smiling politely.
"Hello, hello. Good morning all. I'm glad to see you're all awake and none the worse for wear."
"Not all of us," Oliver says darkly.
The man waves a dismissive hand. "Mr Allen will be fine. Once the casts are removed he simply has to break his ankles again and they'll heal correctly."
"That simple, huh?" Hal sounds pissed. Dick doesn't blame him. There are three assholes in these cells, and one Barry Allen. The man is a socially awkward intellectual without an unpleasant bone in his body.
The stranger gestures to his large friend. Without a word, the first man leaves, shouldering his cart as he goes. "Don't worry about him," the stranger says. "He doesn't speak much. Your identities are safe. I don't think he's even realised who you are."
"But you have," Hal says. "That's why we're here."
The stranger shrugs. "I am being paid an obscene amount of money to keep the Justice League distracted. I figured what better way to distract them than to make them think their precious identities are at stake? And if it enables me some time to do some primary research, then, well, that's just an additional positive."
Primary research. Dick doesn't like the sound of that. "You know all our identities," he says. "Seems only fair you tell us yours."
"Not that it matters."
"Oh?" The stranger turns to Oliver, who smiles, the expression all teeth.
"Your name won't mean much when you're dead."
"Is that a threat, Mr Queen? And there I thought you heroes had a no-killing rule."
Oliver's smile grows, if possible, even colder. "I think of it more as a guideline."
The stranger stares at him for a moment. Then his smile is back and he chuckles softly. "Interesting. Thank you, Mr Queen, this is all good data."
Oliver's smile falters. He glances at Hal, and Dick sees the Lantern shrug.
"As for your question, Mr Grayson, you can simply call me the Doctor."
"Like Doctor Who?"
"Like the Doctor who will not be sharing his last name with you." The Doctor smiles at him absently. "I have no intention of helping you get in my head like you are trained to do, Mr Grayson."
"Oh I'm not trained to do that. I'm trained to be annoying until the point that villains just give up on me. I think I'm going to call you Scarecrow 2.0. Does that work for you?"
The smile doesn't even falter. "You can call me whatever you want, Mr Grayson."
"Why us four?"
Barry's question is strained. He's pulled himself to the door of his cell and has been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes.
"The four of you represent the best opportunity to generalise my findings."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"Now now Mr Jordan, you are an intelligent man, you don't need to use that language. If I can understand the four of you, I can extrapolate those findings to four major groups of hero's, and people will pay me for those findings. In essence, I will be getting paid twice for a job that I will take great pleasure in." The Doctor gestures to each cell in turn, twirling around as he does so to face each of his prisoners. "Speedsters, Lanterns, human vigilantes and -" He stops where he started, facing Dick with a glint in his eyes. "Sidekicks."
Dick makes a face. "Haven't been one of those in a hell of a long time."
"But you were the first. The greatest. If I can understand what drives you, what breaks you..." The Doctor trails off. Dick suppresses a shiver at his stare; he holds the gaze until the Doctor breaks it off with a gentle laugh. "Enough of that. Eat for now, rest. We'll begin in earnest tomorrow."
"Can't help noticing you've forgotten to give Flash any food." Oliver taps his knuckles against the glass when the Doctor ignores him, choosing to walk towards the door. "Hey! Why has-?"
The door slams shut. Oliver punches the glass with a curse; Dick sighs, lowering himself into a cross-legged position in front of his unappetising porridge. "I don't know about you, but I got distinctly uncool vibes from that guy."
Oliver slams his hands flat on the door, and lashes out at his food with his feet. Dick ignores him; Hal appears to do the same, instead watching Barry as his friend drags himself back to the mattress with the water bottle in hand.
"How long can a speedster go without food?"
Oliver freezes at Hal's soft question. Dick watches carefully as Barry's face goes through a few expressions before settling on a quiet stoicism.
"I don't know," he says, trying for a smile. "But I guess we're about to find out."