Chapter Text
Peter figured it could be worse.
The situation could be worse—but, let’s be honest, pretending to be knocked out so you could be dragged like a used rag and dumped on the floor of some warehouse surrounded by at least a dozen other hostages… was a strange way of saying things were somehow going according to plan.
He groaned as he faked waking up. His hands were tied in a pathetic restraint for someone like him, and it took a conscious effort not to snap through as he steady himself. He blinked several times, adjusting to the light—or rather, the lack of it. There wasn’t a single source of illumination in the cramped room they’d locked him in. The air was hot and stale, an awful sign that probably more time had passed than Peter wanted to believe.
When he looked around, all he saw were confused faces, kids, a few teenagers. Too many of them. Metas. He could tell by their features, the way some bore animal traits: tails, ears, different skin. By the way some were tied with ropes, while others needed heavier restraints.
Technically, Peter wasn’t a kid. But he understood why he was here. He was a valuable asset, who could resist a young adult who seemed harmless, with the utterly useless ability to crawl up walls? Getting himself caught had been the easy part. It always was.
Now came the hard part, which had two phases: gather intel, then get everyone out. Ideally in the most efficient way one man could manage.
He fought against his own impulse to act, to comfort, to reassure. He needed to stay in character. And in his calculations, there was a high probability of everything going to hell if he let that protective instinct take over.
He’d heard plenty of stories about this city, but Gotham really lived up to its name. It was a shit.
“Tonight. Around dawn,” was all he caught through the muffled voices behind the door.
So he waited. Long enough to grow restless, long enough to be minutes away from breaking the door down and tearing through everything in his path because he couldn’t stand hearing another single sob from these kids.
There were sounds. Shuffling, erratic movement, footsteps, shouted orders, until the door finally opened. Light spilled in, cutting through the gloom as soldiers stepped inside.
Peter stayed perfectly still, watching three of them move in with their weapons raised, posture rigid, steps synchronized as they took position on either side of the door. The fourth one, judging by how the others slightly fell back, had to be someone of higher rank.
“On your feet. All of you.”
The man’s voice was dry and commanding in that particular way that came from being used to obedience. It made Peter’s blood boil just a little.
No one moved at first. Just a low murmur, the scrape of ropes as some tried to free themselves, the thick scent of fear in the air. The leader took a step forward.
“Deaf, are you? I said on your feet.”
The kids began to rise, one by one, but Peter stayed against the wall, wrestling with the urge to strike now.
When everyone else was standing except him, exactly what he wanted to happen did.
“Get up,” the man repeated, his voice carrying the kind of venom that came with authority and a warning.
Peter smiled. Very, very slowly. He lifted his gaze to meet the man’s eyes. Got him.
“Sorry. Hard to follow orders when you’ve been dragged unconscious down a hallway.”
The soldier behind him let out a dry laugh, a short one that died as fast as it started when the leader shot him a look. Peter didn’t miss a thing. Authority built on fear. Perfect. People like that always made mistakes once you pushed them far enough.
The man took another step forward, raising his gun, but not pointing it at him.
“Seems you don’t understand your position here, kid.”
Peter pretended to think.
“Oh, no, I get it. I'm in a poorly ventilated room, with terrible interior design.”
He saw the kick coming—a brutal, direct blow to his stomach that, thankfully, wouldn’t leave anything worse than the suffocating ache that followed. He curled on the ground, pretending to be in more pain than he was. Then a hand gripped his hair roughly, yanking him upward until he was forced to stand.
The man was taller, and he leaned in until they were face to face. Peter kept up the act, though the smile never left his lips.
“You think you’re clever, huh?” the man said, breathing the words almost into his face. His hand slid from Peter’s hair down to his jaw, squeezing hard. “You’re lucky you’ve got a pretty face, otherwise—”
God, Peter couldn’t do this. It was disgusting.
He spat in the man’s face.
The man froze, just for a moment, the flicker of shock crossing his features before it hardened into pure rage. Slowly, he wiped his face with his free hand, staring at Peter like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Asshole,” Peter shot back.
The man grabbed him by the back of the neck, hard enough to make him wince. Peter grunted as he was turned and shoved forward. He pretended to stumble, staying impossibly still when he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the base of his spine, right above his bound hands.
Was all theater, his instincts weren’t sounding any alarms yet.
Inside, his mind worked like clockwork: four in the room, probably two more outside, all armed. The kids were behind him, huddled and holding their breath.
“Walk,” the man ordered. “Troublemakers get special treatment.” He shoved the gun harder into Peter’s back, forcing him to move.
Yes, he thought. Exactly what I needed. Distract them from the kids for a while, get a better sense of the layout, gather information for the extraction. But after they pushed him through the soldiers toward the open door, he didn’t get a single look at the place before someone threw a mesh hood over his head, plunging him into complete darkness for what felt like minutes.
He was shoved against a table—or maybe a desk. The edge pressed into his thighs, and with one hand still gripping the back of his neck, they pulled off the hood and pushed him down until his cheek hit the surface. He resisted a little, but not enough to break free from the ropes. He growled against the wood.
“This one’s got guts, boss,” said what he figured was one of the soldiers who had escorted him there, his hand still pressing down on Peter’s neck. “What do we do with him?”
Boss.
Peter tried not to smile.
“Let him go. I want to see him.”
A cold, deep, firm voice spoke from somewhere ahead. Peter tried to take in every detail he could from that limited angle until the grip on his neck finally loosened and released him.
He didn’t move right away, waited a couple of seconds instead. It was an office, and judging by how they’d escorted here despite not being a real threat, told him one thing: whoever ran this place didn’t want anyone knowing what was happening. Not exactly unusual, but Peter was impressed by how far they’d gone to hide it. Bringing him to the boss was a curious decision, but one Peter wasn’t about to complain about.
He straightened slowly, and halfway up, the man in front of him grabbed his throat. Hard. He was huge, bearded, long-haired. Peter could smell the tobacco on his breath. He gasped as the man pulled him closer, forcing him into an awkward bend so the edge of the desk dug harder into his thighs.
Fear was hard to fake for Peter. He knew the feeling too well, but pretending it—pretending to be terrified while his body was pushed and handled—was different. Resistance and submission tangled so tight it was impossible to focus on fear. All he could feel was anger and disgust.
He held his breath, even though the grip still allowed air, and turned his face away so he wouldn’t have to look at the sick bastard holding him.
“Is he a meta?” the boss asked, his hot breath brushing Peter’s cheek.
It’s for the mission, he told himself. It’s for the kids.
He needed to remember why he was here in the first place: and then, he processed it. Still nighttime. The air was thick, salty, close to the bay, probably. An old warehouse or factory, conveniently ignored by anyone who mattered. Not a modest office either. From the metallic echo of their steps on the way up and the narrow flight of stairs they’d taken, the theory held. But he needed more.
“Yes,” a soldier behind him answered. How many? A tingle crept up Peter’s neck, never a good sign. “Useless ability to climb walls.”
Laughter followed. Two, three… six people, plus the boss who hadn’t joined in. Seven total. Manageable, if he wanted to.
“He’s a bit older,” the bastard said, and Peter had to bite his tongue. “But he’s got smooth skin. Cute. They’ll pay good money for him.”
Peter couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, silencing the room. “Makes sense,” he said, working his tone to make the tension in his throat sound real. “Sick old men like you have to pay to be wanted.”
Of course, the man’s grip tightened around his throat. Peter groaned.
“That’s it, boss,” one of the soldiers muttered. “Is a mouthy little shit.”
“He just needs a little discipline before we hand him off,” the boss said, forcing Peter to meet his eyes. The sight of that cold gray stare sent a stronger shiver down his spine—like ice.
“I usually let my men have a little fun first, so you’re in luck, kid.”
Now. Danger. Now.
Peter tore through the ropes and moved fast, breaking the grip around his neck. His instincts didn’t tell him to strike, they told him to duck. The shock of the moment froze the room just long enough for someone to kick the office door open and start shooting. Friend, enemy, or ally, it didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they were shooting at the six soldiers. Bullets—and an arrow. He counted two figures.
A red helmet, and another with orange hair.
Peter ducked behind the desk as the whirlwind of kicks, shots, and blood filled the space around him. No more chills now, just helpless waiting, as he wondered whether stepping in and blowing his cover would be worth it.
Rivals? Another gang? Gotham’s idea of heroes?
No. But there was something in the way they moved. He’d heard of Gotham’s vigilantes, Batman, and someone with a red helmet… Red Hood, he remembered. He didn’t miss the detail that, when all the soldiers were down, they were still breathing.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the boss screamed hysterically.
Peter slowly raised his head from behind the desk to get a look. The ringing in his ears was the closest thing to silence left. Red Hood was aiming at the last conscious man: the boss, who was crawling toward a corner. Red Hood followed with heavy steps, the metallic sound of the gun loading echoing like a verdict.
No.
“Being human trash wasn’t enough for you?” The modulated voice came through the helmet, deep and harsh.
Peter moved before he could think twice, revealing himself, though it was unlikely they hadn’t already noticed him.
“Wait,” he said, raising his hands just in case. Both men turned toward Peter, the redhead with the bow aimed at him, but Red Hood shifted his gun.
Act, his instincts screamed when another chill crawled down his spine. He wasn’t sure why they were here, but they clearly hated what was going on as much as he did. He swallowed, searching for the right words. Don’t trust too much. Don’t say too much. Gotham wasn’t New York—heroes here didn’t smile or crack jokes.
“Look,” he started slowly, “I don’t care who you are. But if you’re really here to stop these guys, you should know there are more kids somewhere else in the building. Metahumans. Young.”
That was enough to make Red Hood lower his gun a few inches. Not much, but enough to show he was listening.
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” Peter admitted. “But he does.”
God. There was no middle ground here. He’d either made the dumbest move of his life or actually gotten some help. He wasn’t sure which would be harder to deal with. Although, if they saw him as an enemy, that might actually be easier. There were only two of them. Peter regrets right now not to read too much about this guy. But, maybe it was enough for the situation.
“It’s a kid,” said the one with the bow to his partner. “Looks like it, anyway.”
Kid. That stings, a little.
The chill ran down and back up his spine as they seemed to silently decide whether to believe him. Then, the man on the floor decided to confirm Peter’s story the stupidest way possible:
“Yeah. Listen to the little whore.”
Red had turned and shot him in the leg. The boss screamed—high-pitched, nothing masculine about it.
Wow. Peter couldn’t help but grin as he lowered his hands.
“Well, thanks for that. He deserved it, that bastard.”
“Don’t get it twisted. I don’t trust you,” Red turned to him, holstering his gun. The redhead did the same. They clearly didn’t see the bleeding man on the floor as a threat anymore. “First, what are you doing in his office? As far I know, you could be exactly what he says you are.”
Peter swallowed, trying to look nervous, which wasn’t hard. “They brought me here.”
“For what? or why?” He started walking toward him, and Peter realized the office wasn’t nearly big enough. What the hell is this? Why does he feel so damn intimidating? Peter lifted his chin to look steady.
“I tend to have a bad attitude when I get kidnapped. They were gonna… discipline me.”
Red stopped. Peter heard his partner curse behind him. “Jesus. Sick bastards.”
Even through the helmet, Peter could feel the weight of Red’s stare, that mix of distrust and fury you could almost touch. But there was something else too. Doubt. He didn’t know where it came from, but for a moment, Red Hood just looked at him in silence, scanning him head to toe.
“Discipline you?” he repeated. “Christ.”
“You want me to drag him outside and blow off the other leg? Doesn’t look like he’s gonna cooperate much,” said the redhead.
Red didn’t answer right away. And despite the voice modulator, Peter swore he heard genuine concern in his tone.
“Did they touch you? Did they do anything?”
The helmet, the gun, the whole battle-ready posture—everything about the guy screamed danger—yet the question sounded… off.
“No,” Peter stammered, a little too fast. “They didn’t get the chance.”
Red took another step, closing the distance to barely a meter. Peter could see the bullet marks on the helmet now, the worn leather of his jacket. “And the ropes? You break them yourself?”
Shit. He’d completely forgotten.
The chill ran sharper down his spine.
“They… took them off when they brought me here,” he lied.
“Bullshit.”
Peter knew he didn’t have time to waste on this. His brain was pressing in one direction, and if the guy in front of him didn’t cooperate, he’d have to knock them both out. Red Hood and the redhead. He’d actually prefer not to, since they clearly knew the city better than he did, but if things went south, he wouldn’t hesitate. He could always send them a thank-you later for clearing the way.
So he gathered every bit of willpower to try one more time.
“Look, you can doubt me all you want. Chain me up again if that makes you feel better. But there’s a dozen scared meta kids locked somewhere in this building, and that bleeding pig on the floor is the fastest way to find them. Are we gonna do something about it, or keep standing here psychoanalyzing the minds of these creeps?”
Red Hood didn’t move. His helmet stayed fixed on Peter, studying him. The guy with the bow exhaled loudly.
“Red,” he murmured carefully, “look at him. He’s a kid. What, seventeen?”
“Nineteen,” Peter corrected automatically… And immediately regretted it. He was terrible at keeping things to himself.
Luckily, it didn’t seem to matter much.
“Whatever. The kid’s got a point. We can figure out the who’s-who after we get the others out,” he argued, and Peter almost nodded along.
Then silence.
Red seemed to make a decision, and after a moment, he pointed, “For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth.”
Red didn’t say another word as he turned back to the boss, still whining and clutching his bleeding leg. Peter realized then that the chill had completely vanished. Which left him with the simple, disturbing conclusion that the creepy feeling that wasn’t quite a danger alarm... was it coming from him?
He’d have to note that down as something to figure out later. For now, they seemed to be on the same page.
Maybe.
They didn’t take long to get information out of the old man, considering he didn’t seem very tolerant of pain. Skipping explicit details—Peter didn’t have the stomach to stare at what they were doing—he confirmed that Red and the other guy were in no way okay with what the boss did. Well, he did learn the boss’s name was Francis, but “boss” sounded more dehumanizing in his head.
“East corridor, second door on the right. It’s got an electronic lock, the code is—”
“Seven, four, two, one,” Peter finished for him as Red repeated the number, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief he had no idea where he’d pulled from. He let dropped it on the floor.
Red ignored him and spoke to his partner.
“Arsenal, watch him. If he moves, put an arrow through the other foot. Or the crotch. Whatever makes you happy.”
Arsenal. Something in Peter’s memory told him he’d heard that codename before.
“With pleasure,” Arsenal answered, almost pleased.
Then he turned to Peter.
“You. Come with me.”
Not an invitation. An order. Peter hesitated for a second, glanced at the redhead and then at Red, and nodded, keeping an eye on the lookout as he left the office. He followed, senses alert, scanning the dim, metallic corridor. Red Hood moved with terrifying efficiency, checking corners, his weapon always ready.
Peter was behind him and could still feel that tingling along his spine, only without the shout of danger that would normally accompany it. And it was so odd, so uncomfortable, that Peter forced himself to think properly. It was like a cable had been cut in his head, like there was information he simply couldn’t reach.
Why, if Red Hood in front of him doubted his trustworthiness, would he let him follow behind? Why would they leave his partner behind?
All of this would be easier in New York. At least there he could claim to know most of the population. At least he knew the heroes and villains. At least he could wear his suit. At least he’d have his identity to fall back on, instead of a dirty blue sweater and ripped jeans. At least he could hide behind the lenses.
But who was he here?
Who did he have?
As he confirmed his theory about the warehouse, smelling the damp air and walking on autopilot, he felt so stupid for having accepted this mission as a ridiculous test of courage for his own ego.
When Red Hood spoke again, pulling him out of his head, he told himself he had to stop thinking about those things.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Peter frowned. Refusing would make him more suspicious, but deflecting might be better. “And you’d tell me yours?”
Red stopped so abruptly Peter nearly ran into his back. He turned, and even through the helmet Peter felt the scrutinizing stare.
“You’re in a shitty position to be asking questions,” the modulated voice replied, flat and dangerous. “And I’m the guy who decides whether you leave it walking or being dragged. Name?”
Peter suppressed a sigh. The smartass, reckless façade was cracking under his own resistance to the role, and he understood he needed to give a little to gain trust, or at least not turn Red into an active enemy here and now.
“Peter,” he said, opting for the truth. It was a common name. It wouldn’t link him to anything. “Just Peter.”
“Peter,” Red Hood repeated. It didn’t sound impressed. “Alright, Just Peter. When we get to the room, you stay back. Don’t go near the kids until I tell you. Understood?”
“I can and want to help, you can trust that.”
“I trust that you’re an unknown variable who showed up in the middle of a child trafficking operation,” he answered. “Until you prove otherwise, you’re a potential threat. Period.” Peter clenched his jaw. It was logical. Annoying, but logical.
Peter rolled his eyes, but he said nothing as Red Hood kept walking. He thought it was fair, because if Peter weren’t who he was, the person in his place now would have no other reason to trust them either.
They kept walking; just before they reached the indicated east corridor, his instinct screamed.
He was able to move to dodge the bullet coming from behind; Peter managed to extend his arm to shove Red a little as it passed. The projectile ricocheted with a piercing sound off the metal wall, whistling dangerously to the right of them.
Peter dropped his jacket as Red spun and, as cleanly as Peter’s reflexes had been, fired two shots at the man who had managed to slip behind them—maybe one of the few left guarding this place.
The man fell, groaning on the floor.
Red turned to him. And Peter would pay to see his expression right now. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything especially impressive (he just hoped Red hadn’t noticed how easy it had been to move him, considering they were about eight inches different in height).
But what could he do? He wasn’t going to let him die.
Maybe Peter had rushed when he said, “Uh, thanks. I heard him coming a moment ago.”
“Good reflexes.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Peter had no idea why he was blushing.
“Thanks, is the way this way? We should hurry,” he blurted, diverting the conversation and pointing down the corridor.
“I think—” Peter felt the scrutiny that followed the heavy silence they sank into as they started walking, a little more hurried this time. Before moving totally forward, leaving Red back, he saw the man's fingers tighten around the weapon, though he didn't raise it. It was a waiting stance, the posture of someone evaluating their next move—
He hadn’t finished crossing when the pressure and the shout of instinct forced him to move and lift his left foot.
A bullet slammed dramatically into the metal where his foot had been.
He registered it in a second and spun, “Did you just shoot me?” he demanded, as if it weren’t obvious.
Red shrugged, as if it didn’t matter that he’d almost put a bullet through his calf.
“I wanted to check,” he said, lowering the weapon. “Just Peter. Why didn’t you tell me the small detail that you’re a meta?”
There it was—Peter realized. That's why he was being so sickeningly analytical with him. Overly cautious, overly…everything. All that distrust coming from him was so obvious, so visceral, that it seemed ridiculous Peter had missed it. A kid in a place that trafficked meta kids, of course he'd have powers. This whole stupid act was part of the test.
And he couldn't blame him for being cautious; he'd likely exercise the same level of care, but he had no idea why it bothered him, one way or another.
"It's useless. Why would it matter now?" he tried.
"It matters to me. What else can you do?"
"I'm not having this conversation right now." He turned to face him and Peter was so close to—
Red Hood pointed the gun at his chest, only inches away. “Yes, we are.”
—lost control.
Peter was done. Because all of this would've been so easy under any other circumstances, and the thought sent a wave of frustration through him.
He took two steps toward Red, the prickling at the nape of his neck intensifying from the proximity—or the danger—or both. The barrel of the pistol barely brushed his chest. Slow, but with an urgent sense of time, he raised both hands and took hold of Red's gloved hand on the gun. It was an inappropriately gentle movement for the situation, almost… tender. He felt the slight startle of surprise of Red when, instead of pushing him away, Peter pulled him in closer.
Feeling the shape of the pistol over the fabric of his sweater, Peter lifted his eyes to him, frowning.
"That sounds like a question you'll have to learn the answer to the hard way," he murmured, much angrier now. “I'm simply dying to see what happens next, Red Hood, but it's not something I would recommend for you.”