Hey folks! It's me again. So this is another story based off of the Volatile universe created by Black Friar, and follows my two shot Reckless. You don't have to read that one for this to make sense, but it provides a little teensy bit of background as to why Robin's in the condition he is. This idea would just not leave me alone, and I finally started writing it out. It's unedited, as I have no beta, but I hope you enjoy it just the same. As always, reviews and comments are always appreciated!

Getting the stomach flu while having bruised ribs sucked, Dick had decided. Getting kidnapped while suffering from the stomach flu while having bruised ribs, however, was hell.

Dick clenched his eyes shut as another wave of nausea struck him. His fevered body shivered violently as he fought back the urge to vomit. The two goons standing on either side of him either didn't notice his struggle, or just didn't care. Dick was betting on the latter. He took deep, shaky breaths as he clung to the cold metal of his chair. Thankfully, they hadn't tied him up, so if he did end up hurling, which his ribs were begging him not to, he could at least lean forward and do so on the floor instead of down his chest.

The wave of nausea passed, and Dick swallowed heavily. He stared at the dusty carpet beneath his feet, noting the intricate swirls the yellow gold made against the crimson. The room he was being kept in was strange, and he struggled to place it. Instead of the usual warehouse, basement, or kitchen he was usually subjected to in these kidnappings, this place was actually sort of…nice.

Well, relatively speaking, of course. If he had to guess, he was in some sort of old dressing room. The mirrors lining the walls were cracked and warped, cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and a thick layer of dust covered every inch of the room. The goons guarding him hadn't spoken to him since he woke up, and neither had he for once. Dick was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would puke, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Dick had been awake for maybe half an hour now, and the mastermind of this operation had yet to show his or her face. He tried to remember the circumstances of his kidnapping, but the last thing he honestly remembered was throwing up in the waste basket by his bed and passing out from the pain in his ribs. Then, the next thing he knew, he had woken up here, leaving him to assume that he had been kidnapped. Again.

That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that the kidnappers had taken him straight out of the manor. Getting past the security measures that Brue had set up was no easy feat. Sure, Bruce and Jason had been out on patrol, leaving just Dick and Alfred at the manor, but it still would have been extremely difficult to break in.

Worry for the old butler made his temperamental stomach clench, and he fought to control his breathing.

The door opened.

Dick jerked his head up as a man walked out of the shadows and into the dim light. His stomach dropped below his feet as the blood drained from his face.

It was the Collector.

The scarred face was impossible not to recognize. After all, he, Jason, and Bruce had been trying to hunt him down for weeks.

One month ago, a girl named Elyssa Morgan had been found on the side of the road, broken and hysterical. She was a prodigy, an accomplished dancer and prima ballerina in an elite ballet company by the age of fourteen. Elyssa had vanished after one of her performances in Gotham, and had been missing for a week and a half before she was found.

Robin had gone to the hospital where she was being treated to find out what happened to her, and the interview had shaken him. Elyssa's eyes had been dull and lifeless as she described waking in a strange place where a man with a crooked, vivid scar running down the left side of his face had forced her to dance. He had done something to her, and she had lost complete control of her own body.

Hour after hour, day after day, he had made her dance for him. She was given no food, little water, and even less sleep. It didn't matter that her body was shutting down, or that her feet where bleeding and broken. Still, she had danced.

The details of her escape were fuzzy to her, and Dick hadn't been able to figure out how she had done it. But she remembered crawling past the trophy room. It was only when she spoke about that place that fear had entered her eyes. A room filled with bodies, all young, all mangled and horrible.

The doctors said she would never walk again.

Batman had immediately thrown himself into the case with a determination and anger that almost frightened Dick. Jason too, had become more grim and sleep deprived than usual.

Details quickly turned up while they examined all the missing kids and teenagers over the past six months. Every one of them had been taken from Gotham. Every one of them had been a prodigy of some kind. A master pianist, an opera singer, a painter whose skill rivaled that of Monet, a blind girl who could dance while performing any musical piece on the violin; the list seemed endless.

It was only a day ago that Batman seemed to find a breakthrough, though he wouldn't reveal much to Dick other than that the man called himself the Collector, and that he used to be one of the wealthiest people in the world.

"Richard Grayson," the Collector purred his name with such reverence and familiarity that Dick flinched. "It's an honor to meet you at last."

"I wish I could say the same," Dick replied, his eyes narrowing.

The Collector might have been handsome, once. He held himself like the elite people of Gotham did at the parties Dick was forced to attend. But the ugly, jagged scar that marred his face turned chiseled qualities into menacing ones. His thin, tall frame and stringy yellow hair made Dick think of a scarecrow.

The Collector drew up a chair and sat in front of him, his odd colored eyes boring into Dick's own with hungry intensity. Dick squirmed uncomfortably as the man's gaze seemed to devour every inch of him.
"It is most unfortunate, Mr. Grayson, that I find you so injured and indisposed with illness," the Collector frowned, as if Dick had done so on purpose. "You will not last as long as the others, I'm afraid. Still, I know I will find our time together to be quite…exquisite."

Another wave of nausea hit, but Dick couldn't tell if it was from the flu, or the man's words. He didn't want to admit it, but he was afraid. There was something terribly wrong with the Collector; he exuded madness in a way that not many people did.

Dick forced himself to swallow. "What are you talking about?" he asked, stalling. Bruce and Jason had to be looking for him already. He would be found and saved, he just had to keep the Collector talking as long as he could.

"You know I saw the Flying Graysons once?" the Collector ignored his question.

Dick paled and cold seeped into his veins.

"They were magnificent," the Collector closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, as if savoring the memory. "The way they performed their aerial feats was nothing short of magnificent. But their boy, mmm, that child…he didn't just jump into the air and do tricks. No…that boy could fly. It was one of the greatest things I have ever seen. Sadly, Mary and John Grayson fell to their deaths, and their son, their impossibly talented son, was adopted by a billionaire, never to perform again."

Dick was shaking violently, feeling more sick and more afraid than he'd felt in a long time.

"Until today," the Collector opened his eyes and smiled. "Oh, my dear Richard. I cannot tell you how…thrilled I am, to get to watch you again. The anticipation has been murderous, as I've wanted to add you to my collection for quite some time. You are my crown jewel."

"You're sick," the words spilled from his mouth. "You're a monster."

The Collector's smile faded. "The others said the same, too, at first. But then they didn't say anything ever again."

Dick shrunk back in his chair. "You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to…perform for you. Look at me! I'm not who I was. I don't do that anymore. And even if I was still part of the circus, I would be in no shape to perform."

"That won't matter. You see, thanks to a friend of mine, I have the means to make all of my dreams come true," the Collector's eyes gleamed with excitement and madness. He held up something small and silver. "It doesn't matter if your mind doesn't remember, Richard, your body will. And your body, sick and injured as it might be, will have no choice but to do as I command."

The situation crashed down on him in a violent, churning, icy wave. Dick struggled to keep his breathing even as the Collector leaned forward and brushed his hair away from his sweat covered forehead. "Richard, you are going to fly for me."

Dick vomited all over the Collector's shoes.

The Collector rose, seemingly without notice as Dick continued heaving violently. "Prepare him," he ordered, placing something in the guard's hands.

Dick panted, sweat rolling off his skin as he stared at the mess covered carpet in horror. The Collector would control him, just like the others, and make him perform until it killed him.