Author's Note

This is a 31-chapter fic written for Whumptober 2022, incorporating each day's prompts into one continuous story. Each chapter will include a content warning if relevant, along with the original author's notes documenting my slow spiral into madness. Blanket warnings for torture and temporary character death apply.

Chapters are anywhere from 200 to 2,000 words. This story is based heavily on the 2014 Forever Evil arc, but I'm working with a blend of post-crisis and new 52 canon for my timeline.

Inspired by All I Hear Is Whump by River9Noble on Archive of Our Own.

Prompts

adverse effects | unconventional restraints | “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Chapter 1: a little out of the ordinary

Dick’s eyelids twitch.

Everything feels far away. He should be awake. He wants to be awake. His brain tells him that he is, but everything feels blurry and weightless. The voices are distant and muffled. The restraints on his arms feel—

Voices? Restraints?

Something kindles in his brain, something like panic, and he fights to open his eyes. Where—when—how— He skips back through his memories on automatic, trying to remember where he was, when he lost consciousness, how he got here.

Arkham. He remembers visiting Arkham. He was outside the gates.

Night. It was dark. He remembers going out on patrol.

Fighting. The attack. He was attacked. Or—Arkham was attacked, and he got caught in the crossfire.

And he blacked out. He must have. He can’t remember any more.

With all the effort he can muster, he opens his eyes halfway.

“I say again—this world is now ours.”

Blurred colors float past him, hemmed in by shadow. Everything feels far away. Dick is dimly aware of pain—his arms hurt, his legs hurt, the back of his head throbs. But the pain is just as blurry as the colors. All his senses are dulled.

“If you pledge your allegiance to us, it can be your world too.”

He’s restrained. It feels warm. Comfortable. His muscles lie slack. Little points of pressure dig against his suit.

“Those who question us or fight against us will face the consequences.”

That doesn’t sound right. He remembers fighting—at Arkham—but it all feels so far away. He can’t imagine fighting now. He’s restrained, immobile, and it feels—right. This is where he’s supposed to be.

Then the restraints tighten and he’s airborne. Flying. He gets a moment of weightlessness before his back slams to the ground. That hurts. He groans, a low noise that barely escapes his throat. His back hurts. His arms hurt. His head hurts.

“On your feet, cutie pie.”

A commanding voice. As soon as he hears it he knows it. He’s always known it. He wants to obey. He moves to roll onto his feet—

A hand grabs his hair and drags him up and blood spills from his mouth and he heaves. Everything hurts. Sharp points dig into his body—he’s restrained—he can barely open his eyes because his face is swollen, and it hurts, everything hurts, and someone lifts him off the ground by the hair and he can’t move.

“Yes, Nightwing,” the voice says. A hand strokes his face. The bruises sting, but he doesn’t mind. It feels right. This is where he’s supposed to be.

The hand plucks the edge of his mask.

Wait.

He wants to move. He can’t move. He shouldn’t move—she wants him to be still, so he’ll stay still—

No, no, no, wait—

The mask peels away from his face. It stings, but he doesn’t mind. It feels right.

No! This isn’t supposed to happen!

The mask lifts.

“But his real name is Richard Grayson.”

He feels a single second of pure horror.

Then the beautiful, terrible voice is speaking—

“Grayson has many friends and many places he calls home.”

—and he sinks down into it. Into the hand fisted in his hair and the warm restraints piercing his body. The voices go on, spinning around him like the colors from before. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need to hear. He only needs to submit.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

He sinks into the fog. He surrenders to the warmth, the pain, the hand in his hair and the beautiful voice. He watches the world go dark. He waits for the next order to come from on high. He falls.

He sinks into the fog, and only a tiny sliver of his brain stays awake long enough to cry, This wasn’t supposed to happen.