There was a distant pounding. Rhythmic and steady. Someone playing their bass too loud, maybe. Or--

A heartbeat. No, his heartbeat.

Tim took a deep breath. He stopped, bile rising up the back of his throat. The pain in his head ripped into focus suddenly, leaving him trying not to scream. He breathed shallowly and didn't move.

The pain receded. Slowly, step by step, Tim was able to feel the rest of his body.

Nothing else hurt. His stomach was queasy, but that was bearable.

He lay still and listened, remembering. He'd been doing homework. At the park. By the pond. A young woman had asked him to help find her dog and then--nothing.

It was cold, wherever he was now. And rank. On a bed, but not his. He could feel lace under his body. Above, there were footsteps.

Slowly, fearing the return of pain but knowing it had to be done, Tim opened his eyes. His head pounded, but not as badly as he'd expected.

Dim light. A creamy ceiling, with pipes running along the corners.

He turned his head. A basement, obviously. There was a thick area rug in the middle, with a television, VCR and DVD player standing on the other edge. A door on each wall, except his. A baby monitor sat on the other side of the room, blinking red. He was lying on a bed, and a twist of his head, carefully, revealed a nightstand above with a lamp, and a dresser by his feet.

Someone had taken off his shoes. He was still wearing his jeans and T-shirt, though. So, he hadn't been Robin when he'd been taken.

Tim started to move. He stopped when pain flared in his wrist, and arched to look up.

Handcuffed to the light frame of the headboard. (Smith and Wesson Model 1 Universal Chain Handcuffs. Double locked. Hard to pick, but not impossible. They locked down smaller than most cuffs, and could open wider. Someone was expecting either smaller-than-average or larger-than-average arms.) Only one wrist was cuffed. That was good.

Tim turned quietly onto his stomach, pulling himself up to eye the restraint. Tight below the knobby bones of his wrist. There would be no slipping out of it.

He dragged himself to his knees, muscles weak (drugged, his mind whispered), and examined the headboard. It could be unscrewed, but the bolt was smooth, decorative. He would need some sort of pliers, jury-rigged or real.

Footsteps. Louder, now. Coming downstairs.

Tim flipped onto his back. He closed his eyes and made his breathing as shallow as possible.

The door opened.

"Nice try. I know you're awake."

The voice belonged to the woman from the park.

"I brought you food. You're probably a bit queasy, still. Frankly, I didn't expect you to be so small, so the dose was a bit high… sorry about that. The food will help soak up the last of the drugs, though." There was a clatter. Silence. "Oh, come on. I know you're awake. Open your eyes or I'll--I don't know. Throw ice cubes at you."

Well, that was a different threat. Tim opened his eyes and watched her.

She smiled at him. "There you go."

He eyed her suspiciously, slowly sitting up. She couldn't have kidnapped him alone. (Kidnappers going after acquaintances or strangers usually work in groups, his mind recited.) She had to be working with someone. Why kidnap him? Had they found out he was Robin? Was this someone with a grudge against him or Batman? He couldn't think of any other reason...

(When kidnapped, his mind offered, one should find out as much information as possible. Keep track of the kidnappers and any phone calls.)

"Where am I?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"My basement."

That was useless. "Who are you?"

"Cassie." She smiled encouragingly and looked like she wanted to come closer, but didn't.

Well, that was vaguely creepy. She wasn't nearly as cute as Wonder Girl-Cassie. "Why am I here?"

The smile turned sheepish. "I didn't really want to keep you upstairs. I mean, right now you'll be trying to escape. Eventually, you'll come to like it here, and then you can stay--"

"Wait," Tim interrupted. "You're planning on keeping me?" He couldn't quite stifle the incredulousness. (74% of minors killed during a kidnapping are killed within the first three hours.)

"Well, yeah." She smiled excitedly. "We're going to be great friends, you and I."

Tim could only stare. Not an evil plot? She hadn't figured out the Bat secret? Just a random kidnapping? (2% of kidnappings were done by strangers. 35% of the victims were male.)

It was vaguely embarrassing. (Only 28% of attempted kidnappings succeeded. One of those was him. He told his brain to shut up.)

"You can't keep me," he said.

She ignored him. "I brought you food." She nudged the tray, sitting on the floor, with her foot. "Just stay still for a minute. And don't try anything--I don't have keys to the handcuffs with me right now, anyway."

She stooped, picked up the tray, walked slowly closer, and put it back on the ground. Tim's mind twisted, deciding on a course of action. If she came close enough--

But she didn't. She stopped outside his range and pushed the tray toward him with her foot. "Eat something. I'll come back down, but not for a while." She smiled again. Like a child, Tim thought. Eager to please.

"You can't honestly just keep me here," Tim repeated. He couldn't wrap his brain around the idea that she'd just kidnapped him at random and made him a pet.

"Eat something. You'll get used to it." She left.

Tim sat there. He eyed the food. It was possible it was drugged, too. What had she said? She'd apologized for the after-effects, said…he was smaller than she'd expected. So, obviously, she'd been after him in particular. Or someone like him, maybe? It made no sense.

A fly landed on the tray. Tim turned away and went back to inspecting the headboard, feeling through his pockets. His backpack was gone, but he had to have something stashed away…

**

Hours later, Tim lay on his belly, glaring at his raw wrist. His stomach was growling. He couldn't get the handcuffs off. He couldn't take the headboard apart. The only thing he had left on his person that might remotely help him was a pack of Tic Tacs. He hadn't figured out how that might help, but surely it would save the day.

Tim broke down and ate the toast. He waited. Nothing happened. So he gave into his hunger and drank the chicken broth, too.

Then he sat. There was a vent in the corner of the ceiling, but it was too small for him to fit through, even if he could reach it. There was a lamp. It might make a decent weapon, but he needed to get loose first.

If this woman really was just an ordinary kidnapper, she had to have a weakness. Everyone had a weakness. He just had to figure it out. Bide his time a little. Be patient.

And not die of boredom.

The door opened. Tim sat up. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said. If she freed him, then--

Well, he wasn't sure exactly. But he could do something. He was good at improvising. (When kidnapped, you should take every opportunity to escape.)

"Sure," she said, and reached around the wall just outside the basement door. Head height, he noted, and right by the frame. Keys. "Catch." She tossed them, a sparkle in the dimness, and Tim snatched them out of the air with his free hand.

He twisted the key in the lock and looked up.

She had a rifle trained on him. No--not a rifle. A tranquilizer gun. He could see the red fluff of a dart already racked. "Toss them back," she said.

He did so. "The bathroom?" There really wouldn't be any escape attempts until he used it. He wondered if Batman ever had bladder issues.

She nodded toward the door on his right. Tim walked in.

He used the bathroom, then looked around. A small room. No windows. One vent, above the bathtub, too small for him to climb into. No mirror. Nothing sharp. No cupboards or shelves or anything of that sort. He eyed the sink, but the drain cover had been removed. He couldn't even use that as a weapon.

"Hey! You in there?"

He ignored her.

She had a dart gun. He had--Tic Tacs.

"Rob?"

Rob? He knew he hadn't had any Robin paraphernalia in his backpack or on his person. Some oddities, like a couple of zipstrips tucked in a front pocket and an emergency communicator in his cell phone, but nothing with the emblem. "My name is Tim," he called back, through the closed door. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe by ‘Rob’ she meant ‘Robert.’ Until he figured out how she'd discovered he was Robin, or at least until she actually called him Robin and obviously didn’t mean Robert, he wouldn't admit to the identity. Honestly, he probably wouldn't admit to it afterward, either.

"Sure. Tim Drake. I saw your school ID. Silly alter ego."

He bristled. He liked his name.

"You've been in there long enough. Come out."

If he could get her within striking range, knock the tranquilizer gun--. He tucked himself behind the bathroom door and waited.

The handle turned. "Robin?"

How the hell had she figured that out?

"Rob?" The door started to swing open. Tim braced himself, arms drawn back, waiting for it to open further. "Robin?"

It nearly touched him. He heard a footstep. Tim hit the door as hard as he could, smashing it closed. It struck something and bounced back. He darted around, twisting out of the way, around--

She wasn't there. The door had hit the lamp. He turned. She shot, ten feet away.

Tim dropped, trying to avoid the dart--

The--

shit.

**

He gasped painfully, ice tightening his lungs. Breathe--he had to breathe, but it hurt--

Tim coughed, spat water, realized there was more dripping in his face and through his hair and cold it was cold too cold and it hurt--

His muscles tightened, shivering convulsively, so tense he thought he might vomit. He couldn't feel his hands or feet. His shoulders burned. His body was doing its best to curl, but he couldn't. Upright. He was upright.

The roar he hadn't been aware of shut off. Breath came in shuddering gasps. It was still cold, but it wasn't getting constantly colder anymore. He coughed again, locking his jaw closed to keep his teeth from chattering. Slowly, Tim opened his eyes.

In the bathtub. He twisted. Wrists tied to the showerhead. It dripped on his cheek. He looked down. Still dressed. Soaked.

"You tried to escape," a voice said. Cassie. Not his friend Cassie, but a different, creepy Cassie. "All actions have consequences. If you'll just relax and enjoy yourself, there won't be any bad consequences."

He eyed her. Still shivering. His fingers moved, trying to undo the knots around his hands. No good. He could hardly feel anything, and his fingers were too cold to obey his orders. (Motor control is one of the first things people lose when dropped into icy water. He told his brain to shut up.) His teeth were chattering. Tim locked his jaw closed again. Tried to ignore the way the rest of his muscles were convulsing.

"I should leave you here. But by the time you warm up enough to untie yourself--and I'm sure you'll figure out a way--you'll be warm enough to fight me. We can't have that." She reached up with a knife and sawed through the ropes.

Tim's legs gave out, the muscles sore and exhausted. He would have crashed hard into the tub if she hadn't grabbed his shirt, slowing his fall.

His body was too busy thinking 'cold' to be able to struggle. She hauled him out of the tub, stronger than she looked, and dragged him across the floor. He did his best to stumble alongside, but his limbs weren't reacting as they should. Too cold. (His brain started to recite facts on hypothermia, but it was only a noise in the back of his mind.)

Dimly, he was aware of her putting him on the bed and handcuffing him once more. Then heavy blankets, soaking up water from his clothing. Even wet, they were warm. Or warmer than he was. Tim curled into a ball, one arm chained over his head, and shivered.

He wasn't sure how long he laid there. At some point, she turned the light out. By the time it came back on, he knew he had a fever.

"Poor baby," he heard faintly. The covers were peeled off, and he shivered convulsively. He knew someone was undressing him, and when she unhandcuffed him to pull his shirt off, a tiny corner of his brain screamed at him to get up and fight. He didn't move. He blinked and tried to tell himself that he wasn't at home, and wasn't in his bedroom, and wasn't seeing his mother.

Feverish, he told himself. Feverish enough to lose track of time. Sometimes, he was aware of food. Water. Mostly just heat, or cold. A bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the outside temperature, and everything to do with his own.

Eventually, he came back to himself. Then he wanted to die. But he knew that if he was well enough to want to die, it was unlikely he would.

"How long?" His voice was a croak. He lay on the bed, under piles of blankets, his eyes sore and his tongue thick. Cassie was walking toward him.

"Two days. You've been pretty sick." She set down a bowl of soup and looked up at him. "The keys are by the door, so don't bother wishing you could try something." She grinned. "I've gotten good at this."

That was a disturbing thought. Shaking, Tim reached out for the soup. He hated it when she helped him, but couldn't deny that he needed it. Still weak.

"There you go. Eat up."

Her voice was soft, sympathetic. He did his very best to hate her. He really just wanted to go back to sleep, though.

"When my mom was alive, she used to make me tomato soup and let me stay home from school when I was really stressed. She'd pretend like I was sick. Let me sit on the couch and watch television."

Tim sipped from a spoon and didn't listen.

"I miss her."

He didn't ask what had happened to her. Instead, he put the spoon down--still hungry, but not able to keep lifting it--and closed his eyes.

"Here," Cassie said quietly.

Tim opened his eyes. She was sitting on the bed, holding the soup. "You need to eat more than that."

He glared at her. But only for a second, as he really was too tired to keep it up.

(Make your kidnappers see you as a real person, with real problems. Injury or death is less likely if they see you as a human rather than an object.) Mom. She'd been talking about her mom. "My mother is dead," Tim said between spoonfuls. "My father re-married. I'd like to go home and see him and my step-mom."

"That's normal, at first. It'll fade."

His stomach clenched. He took a deep breath, and relaxed again. "It's not right to keep me here." His voice was hoarse. He ignored it.

"I know. I'm sorry. But you'll get used to it. We'll be great friends, you and I."

"I don't want to be your friend," Tim murmured. He was weakening. He could feel it. He sank down on the bed again.

"You will, though."

His eyes closed. He felt cold. No--hot. Sweating and cold. He didn't have the energy to move the blankets.

"Sleep, kiddo. Another few days, and you'll be as good as new."

**

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