I think the reply was ambiguous because acceptance has to go through the Co-GM @Inkarnate
Dblade26 Member
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"As if I'd need you to tell me how to sneak a Batmobile into Gotham."
Honestly! It was his Batmobile, or if nothing else close enough to being his! How dare she imply he might not know how to drive it? That was what really bothered him here, not the fact that Father apparently hadn't trusted him enough to give him full information on Huntress and the Mafia. Certainly not the numerous unfortunate implications Huntress's impaired behavior, glowing blue eyes and that serum of hers had for what was actually going on here.
Well, it wasn't as though Damian had intended to just rocket them into the city through the sky, at full blast and in plain view of every passerby while blaring obnoxious music out the window for sheer shock value. Not after the Bertinelli woman had ruined any enjoyment he was going to get out of it with her stupid lectures. As if she was in any position to talk down to him with a voice in her head. Worse yet, she'd started babbling at him barely lucid if that, all about her relationship with Gotham City and how unprepared he was for it.
Damian prepared a comment he was sure would put the Bertinelli woman in her place, but something about what she'd said brought back the events of last night in too-vivid clarity. There was a bloody knife in his hands and a shuddering weight against him while a man gasped through shock like a speared fish. His nostrils filled with the scent of blood and...eugh, had the man really pissed himself back then without Damian noticing? But there was more. That same squirming, sickening feeling in his chest he'd had to suppress back then, part panic and part...something else, all of it ridiculous!
Still, such a humiliating reminder of his lack of control soured his mood. Damian didn't bother putting on any music, he just drove in silence. He didn't bother to use the flight mode at first either, not until they got close to the water, and even then they were practically just hovering.
Damian was shaken out of his entirely non-childish not-pouting by the view. Not that there was a ton there, but seeing Gotham's shoreline glide by in the full light of day for what felt like the first time was oddly pleasant. Damian would have to replicate this view on paper later on, he decided. Not that he normally did landscapes, but he was getting tired of having nothing to draw but bats. In spite of his slow going, it wasn't too long before the pair of them had arrived at the old drainage tunnel. It actually was a fairly small space to navigate through, though Damian threaded the needle into the old flood runoff pipe with ease, a self-satisfied grin on his face at the smooth work the custom hand controls made of the maneuver.
Damian glanced over at Helena Bertinelli and briefly considered waking her for a well-deserved I-told-you-so, reconsidering at the last minute. He didn't want her babbling to the spirit or infection or whatever it was in her head, or worse, scolding him like he was some ordinary child. No, let her sleep in relatively peaceful silence. Naturally, his driving prowess was obvious enough without some woman's recognition!
As they slowed and then rose through the cracked and crumbling storm safety system, Damian wondered exactly how these arrangements had been made. Had it all been done with just ill-gotten gains from the Bertinelli family's extensive criminal coffers? Or...had Wayne Enterprises been involved as well? If Father had been bankrolling the secret construction of a hideout here it was yet another thing he hadn't seen fit to tell his own son.
Then again, Damian had an irritatingly scant knowledge of the woman sitting in his passenger seat. She was supposed to be a legitimate corporate face for the Bertinelli family, and in reality she was likely heading their operations. Apparently she was the Huntress as well, a vigilante who primarily targeted members of Gotham's more traditional organized crime rings and was known to be looser with the 'no kill' rule than most of the others Damian knew about. That itself had some interesting implications, maybe Helena was using the Huntress identity to kill off her competition? But if she were working with Batman...
Perhaps Damian's father was a hypocrite after all?
Before Damian had time to think through that dizzying spiral of logic, they arrived before a set of reinforced blast doors. Damian felt a minor impulse to simply load up the heavy ordinance and wake Bertinelli by blowing through her doors and activating her ejector seat, but he bit down on it. He'd never get the answers he wanted by pranking her.
"We're here, wake up."
Honestly! It was his Batmobile, or if nothing else close enough to being his! How dare she imply he might not know how to drive it? That was what really bothered him here, not the fact that Father apparently hadn't trusted him enough to give him full information on Huntress and the Mafia. Certainly not the numerous unfortunate implications Huntress's impaired behavior, glowing blue eyes and that serum of hers had for what was actually going on here.
Well, it wasn't as though Damian had intended to just rocket them into the city through the sky, at full blast and in plain view of every passerby while blaring obnoxious music out the window for sheer shock value. Not after the Bertinelli woman had ruined any enjoyment he was going to get out of it with her stupid lectures. As if she was in any position to talk down to him with a voice in her head. Worse yet, she'd started babbling at him barely lucid if that, all about her relationship with Gotham City and how unprepared he was for it.
Damian prepared a comment he was sure would put the Bertinelli woman in her place, but something about what she'd said brought back the events of last night in too-vivid clarity. There was a bloody knife in his hands and a shuddering weight against him while a man gasped through shock like a speared fish. His nostrils filled with the scent of blood and...eugh, had the man really pissed himself back then without Damian noticing? But there was more. That same squirming, sickening feeling in his chest he'd had to suppress back then, part panic and part...something else, all of it ridiculous!
Still, such a humiliating reminder of his lack of control soured his mood. Damian didn't bother putting on any music, he just drove in silence. He didn't bother to use the flight mode at first either, not until they got close to the water, and even then they were practically just hovering.
Damian was shaken out of his entirely non-childish not-pouting by the view. Not that there was a ton there, but seeing Gotham's shoreline glide by in the full light of day for what felt like the first time was oddly pleasant. Damian would have to replicate this view on paper later on, he decided. Not that he normally did landscapes, but he was getting tired of having nothing to draw but bats. In spite of his slow going, it wasn't too long before the pair of them had arrived at the old drainage tunnel. It actually was a fairly small space to navigate through, though Damian threaded the needle into the old flood runoff pipe with ease, a self-satisfied grin on his face at the smooth work the custom hand controls made of the maneuver.
Damian glanced over at Helena Bertinelli and briefly considered waking her for a well-deserved I-told-you-so, reconsidering at the last minute. He didn't want her babbling to the spirit or infection or whatever it was in her head, or worse, scolding him like he was some ordinary child. No, let her sleep in relatively peaceful silence. Naturally, his driving prowess was obvious enough without some woman's recognition!
As they slowed and then rose through the cracked and crumbling storm safety system, Damian wondered exactly how these arrangements had been made. Had it all been done with just ill-gotten gains from the Bertinelli family's extensive criminal coffers? Or...had Wayne Enterprises been involved as well? If Father had been bankrolling the secret construction of a hideout here it was yet another thing he hadn't seen fit to tell his own son.
Then again, Damian had an irritatingly scant knowledge of the woman sitting in his passenger seat. She was supposed to be a legitimate corporate face for the Bertinelli family, and in reality she was likely heading their operations. Apparently she was the Huntress as well, a vigilante who primarily targeted members of Gotham's more traditional organized crime rings and was known to be looser with the 'no kill' rule than most of the others Damian knew about. That itself had some interesting implications, maybe Helena was using the Huntress identity to kill off her competition? But if she were working with Batman...
Perhaps Damian's father was a hypocrite after all?
Before Damian had time to think through that dizzying spiral of logic, they arrived before a set of reinforced blast doors. Damian felt a minor impulse to simply load up the heavy ordinance and wake Bertinelli by blowing through her doors and activating her ejector seat, but he bit down on it. He'd never get the answers he wanted by pranking her.
"We're here, wake up."
Why did Lex Luthor give him a grant?
By the way, since it's been a week from the start date with no word AFAIK, do we assume our Red Robin/Tim Drake player is MIA?
Damian had spent his childhood raised to inherit the League of Shadows, taught by his mother and by Ra's Al Ghul himself and that meant one thing if it meant anything:
He knew how to recognize a demonic possession when he saw one. Bertinelli was shaking, pale and twitching occasionally, not to mention covered in sweat and talking to the empty air. Oh, the ignorant might attribute such a thing to simple psychosis or drug use, but Damian knew better. He had seen ghosts and monsters in plenty in his short life.
Before he could say anything more, Bertinelli fixed him with a surprisingly familiar sort of glare. The kind that said 'fall-in-line or I kill you, painfully.' He'd seen better if he was being honest. David Cain, for example, had a fantastic murderous glare when he was teaching. but Damian could at least respect that she knew how to properly communicate.
Huntress surprised him further by actually admitting to her possessed state in a rather matter-of-fact manner. The boy couldn't help thinking that this was actually a breath of fresh air, even if her phrasing left something to be desired in terms of deference.
"Tch, as if I have anything better to do."
Damian walked off to find a Batmobile while Huntress finished taking her blood sample, stopping to collect a sticky note and a pen and jotting down a message in small, precise handwriting.
Dear Pennyworth,
Have been kidnapped by Helena Bertinelli, who is possessed. Will likely miss breakfast and lunch. Attempt to prepare something adequate for dinner before my likely return. If not back, Send Grayson. Do NOT send Drake.
Yours,
Damian W.
Damian then crumpled it slightly and partially hid it under a tea saucer Pennyworth was sure to check, in case Huntress decided to check on him. Then he went and fetched his Batmobile of choice. It was a newer, prototype model his father had been working on for some time before his arrival: a Batmobile that could fly. Damian had since worked out the problems for himself with all of his extra time and got it running based on his father's designs, with a few tweaks of his own. It was a Batmobile at least partly of his own design now, and he was proud of that fact.
Not to mention, it was the only one with a seat and hand controls adjusted for his size.
He popped the canopy, hopped inside and used a combination fingerprint and retina scan to log in, grinning as the engine purred to life. He backed it up, spun it and came to a screeching halt right beside the medical bay before popping the canopy open again.
"Were you saying something? I couldn't hear you over the engine."
He knew how to recognize a demonic possession when he saw one. Bertinelli was shaking, pale and twitching occasionally, not to mention covered in sweat and talking to the empty air. Oh, the ignorant might attribute such a thing to simple psychosis or drug use, but Damian knew better. He had seen ghosts and monsters in plenty in his short life.
Before he could say anything more, Bertinelli fixed him with a surprisingly familiar sort of glare. The kind that said 'fall-in-line or I kill you, painfully.' He'd seen better if he was being honest. David Cain, for example, had a fantastic murderous glare when he was teaching. but Damian could at least respect that she knew how to properly communicate.
Huntress surprised him further by actually admitting to her possessed state in a rather matter-of-fact manner. The boy couldn't help thinking that this was actually a breath of fresh air, even if her phrasing left something to be desired in terms of deference.
"Tch, as if I have anything better to do."
Damian walked off to find a Batmobile while Huntress finished taking her blood sample, stopping to collect a sticky note and a pen and jotting down a message in small, precise handwriting.
Dear Pennyworth,
Have been kidnapped by Helena Bertinelli, who is possessed. Will likely miss breakfast and lunch. Attempt to prepare something adequate for dinner before my likely return. If not back, Send Grayson. Do NOT send Drake.
Yours,
Damian W.
Damian then crumpled it slightly and partially hid it under a tea saucer Pennyworth was sure to check, in case Huntress decided to check on him. Then he went and fetched his Batmobile of choice. It was a newer, prototype model his father had been working on for some time before his arrival: a Batmobile that could fly. Damian had since worked out the problems for himself with all of his extra time and got it running based on his father's designs, with a few tweaks of his own. It was a Batmobile at least partly of his own design now, and he was proud of that fact.
Not to mention, it was the only one with a seat and hand controls adjusted for his size.
He popped the canopy, hopped inside and used a combination fingerprint and retina scan to log in, grinning as the engine purred to life. He backed it up, spun it and came to a screeching halt right beside the medical bay before popping the canopy open again.
"Were you saying something? I couldn't hear you over the engine."
Gotham City, 01:00
Somewhere in the Narrows
It had taken some time to get a serviceable uniform in order given how much longer it had taken past Robins to be combat-ready by comparison, but by taking portions of the others costumes and combining them, Damian had managed to created a suitable facsimile for his purposes. The cape and utility belt from the Second Robin Memorial, Grayson's original mask and boots, the detachable R-symbol shuriken from Drake's outfit were all incorporated. Grayson's clingy, short boots gave Damian terrible traction as he sprinted across the rooftops, but they were the only ones that had fit a nine-year-old's feet. Thankfully he'd been able to use his own bodysuit and training gloves then quickly spray-paint a ballistic vest robin red with equipment at the Cave. Then it was child's play to hotwire one of the spare R-Cycles Father kept in the garage and take an access tunnel into the city.
Even late at night in the grimiest and most haunted corners, Gotham City felt gloriously alive. Noises drifted up to Damian in a cacophonous chorus of urban struggle, somehow forming a harmony from so many chaotic parts. Father thought he needed to be caged, but he'd never understood that this city should be Damian's birthright, the throne of his empire. Damian hadn't really understood it before either, but now the night air crackled and sang around him as blood pounded through his veins like thunder. Every leap from roof to roof felt like flying.
Damian's exultation was cut short by the panicked shriek of a nearby car alarm. Whatever imbecile had apparently left a half-decent car in an alleyway in the Narrows unattended deserved their fate-
Wait. No. Damian was Robin now. It could be fun to properly act the part. Besides, at some point he would have to begin cleansing the streets of filth and ne'er-do-wells. Best get some practice in now.
There were four men below him on the street, one holding a tire iron, the rest with weapons unknown. Damian aimed to neutralize the most obviously armed one first, leaping down onto him and wrapping his legs around the man's neck as he fell, spinning to throw him hard to the ground with an unsurprisingly well executed kani basami.
Damian had to roll with the fall to avoid injury, not bothering to check how badly he'd injured his first victim as they hit the ground and the tire iron clattered across the alleyway.
Damian was smirking as he rose, but the three remaining carjackers were looking at him with a mix of amusement, shock and outrage.
Eventually outrage won.
"Look you little shit," began the one nearest to him, ever so articulately "I don't know what got into your stupid, tiny brain just 'cause Mommy bought you a Robin costume, but if you don't get the fuck out of here right now I'm gonna-"
The threat was never elaborated on, mainly because Damian had crossed the space between them, front flipped to land on the poor man's shoulders and gouged at both of his eyes with mantis-fists before pummeling him all the way down as he fell. It hurt his fists to keep repeatedly hitting such a thick skull, but the pain was nothing compared to the satisfaction.
As Damian stood and turned it became apparent that he hadn't hurt the first one with the tire iron enough, seeing as he'd just gotten to his feet still swaying like a drunken camel. Damian glided back over to him on silent feet and kicked his leg out from under him. Then he grabbed the fool's arm, braced the elbow joint against his own body and wrenched. Hard.
"-tt!- Now stay down, mongrel."
In retrospect, Tire Iron may have been unable to hear him over the sound of bone breaking, tendons tearing, car alarms and wholly unnecessary screaming. Inconsiderate of him, really.
A soft flick-click and the sound of steps behind the would-be Boy Wonder made him whirl around on the balls of his feet.
Switchblade. Stabbing forward.
Damian didn't have time to register anything else as years of conditioning took over where conscious control had been before. He seized the wrist, yanked the blade toward himself and and spun to avoid and redirect the force of the thrust, twisting his opponent's arm around and inward to impale him on his own knife.
Kill or Die.
The sucking sound of metal piercing flesh, the shuddering intake of breath that presaged the scream of agony, the hot copper scent of blood on his hands, none of it mattered in the face of that truth. He twisted the knife and-
There was another noise nearby, another enemy! Operating on training honed to instinct, the young assassin ripped the R-shaped Shuriken off of his vest and flung it at the last remaining carjacker, striking him in the groin with the throwing blade.
Damian was only able to process what he'd done after the man in front of him slumped over onto the ground, clutching the knife handle and moaning wordlessly in shock. The others were either unconscious or left in similar states of trauma.
The sense of joy and freedom he'd felt before was tarnished now. Damian had killed before, sometimes without batting an eye, but always because it was what he'd wanted or needed to do. Killing like this felt wasteful, wrong somehow.
No, worse. He had promised Father he wouldn't kill as a condition of staying with him.
Does this mean I'd have to leave?
Damian tried to think, pausing only to choke the tiny seed of panic in his head to death. Given the typical response time of emergency services in the Narrows, an anonymous tip would have too high a probability of failure. Also, It wasn't as though he could carry four grown men to a hospital on the R-cycle, and just leaving them in the street would mean certain death.
I could easily find a solution if not for that car alarm stabbing into my brain and-Oh!...Well this is going to be practically Kafkaesque.
Damian struggled with loading each of the four men into the car they had just been attempting to steal before completing their job for them, far more competently of course. The plan did at least involve silencing the alarm before he hot-wired his second vehicle of the night even if he had to occasionally smack the semi-conscious passengers back into compliance.
Then it was only a quick drive over to the non-for-profit emergency clinic of one Dr.Leslie Thompkins- mentioned extensively as a trusted confidante in his father's files -and the childishly easy task of starting up the car alarm again and slipping out of the car before anyone noticed him.
Still, when he finally stripped off his makeshift Robin costume, cleaned all of the blood off of the borrowed parts and scrubbed them for DNA remnants, returned the R-cycle with a full tank and finally collapsed into his own bed, it was with a great deal more questions about his place in the household than he'd had before he left.
Stately Wayne Manor,
Damian's room,
07:39
Damian's sleep was...troubled, to say the least throughout the night, so he felt almost relieved when he was shaken out of a half-dream state by a series of very specific vibrations against his wrist. It had taken an age and a half to get the Bat-Computer to signal him whenever someone entered the Bat-Cave, but it wasn't like he had had anything better to do.
Slipping down to the Cave first thing in the morning was becoming a bit of a habit for him. Just in case it was Pennyworth that had accidentally tripped his alert, he took care to try and make as much noise as possible as he entered through a false closet and started searching the Cave. The old servant had admonished him more than enough times about eventually tying a bell around his neck if he didn't, after all. Besides, Father would never forgive him if Pennyworth had some sort of attack because Damian had forgotten to make noise as he moved.
"Kid, if you think you're sneaking around on me, then your father seriously underplayed how good I am at the games you capes play."
Damian was more than surprised to find Helena Bertinelli, business woman and secret Mafia Don, sitting in the medical station. There were only a handful of people in the world with knowledge of the Batcave's existence and location.
Given everything Damian knew about her, which was considerable, there were only a handful of possibilities and all of them were annoying.
Partly to be sure, and partly in exchange for the almost inevitable annoyance, he plucked a blunt batarang up off the floor and-
"If you throw that thing at me, swear to God you'll need your own medical attention..."
Damian lowered the batarang and stepped out of the shadows to face the Huntress's secret identity.
"-tt-, Do you even know how to work that device? I was unaware that they taught hematology at business schools. Or is it something anyone who dabbles in vigilantism and organized crime is expected to know?"
Somewhere in the Narrows
It had taken some time to get a serviceable uniform in order given how much longer it had taken past Robins to be combat-ready by comparison, but by taking portions of the others costumes and combining them, Damian had managed to created a suitable facsimile for his purposes. The cape and utility belt from the Second Robin Memorial, Grayson's original mask and boots, the detachable R-symbol shuriken from Drake's outfit were all incorporated. Grayson's clingy, short boots gave Damian terrible traction as he sprinted across the rooftops, but they were the only ones that had fit a nine-year-old's feet. Thankfully he'd been able to use his own bodysuit and training gloves then quickly spray-paint a ballistic vest robin red with equipment at the Cave. Then it was child's play to hotwire one of the spare R-Cycles Father kept in the garage and take an access tunnel into the city.
Even late at night in the grimiest and most haunted corners, Gotham City felt gloriously alive. Noises drifted up to Damian in a cacophonous chorus of urban struggle, somehow forming a harmony from so many chaotic parts. Father thought he needed to be caged, but he'd never understood that this city should be Damian's birthright, the throne of his empire. Damian hadn't really understood it before either, but now the night air crackled and sang around him as blood pounded through his veins like thunder. Every leap from roof to roof felt like flying.
Damian's exultation was cut short by the panicked shriek of a nearby car alarm. Whatever imbecile had apparently left a half-decent car in an alleyway in the Narrows unattended deserved their fate-
Wait. No. Damian was Robin now. It could be fun to properly act the part. Besides, at some point he would have to begin cleansing the streets of filth and ne'er-do-wells. Best get some practice in now.
There were four men below him on the street, one holding a tire iron, the rest with weapons unknown. Damian aimed to neutralize the most obviously armed one first, leaping down onto him and wrapping his legs around the man's neck as he fell, spinning to throw him hard to the ground with an unsurprisingly well executed kani basami.
Damian had to roll with the fall to avoid injury, not bothering to check how badly he'd injured his first victim as they hit the ground and the tire iron clattered across the alleyway.
Damian was smirking as he rose, but the three remaining carjackers were looking at him with a mix of amusement, shock and outrage.
Eventually outrage won.
"Look you little shit," began the one nearest to him, ever so articulately "I don't know what got into your stupid, tiny brain just 'cause Mommy bought you a Robin costume, but if you don't get the fuck out of here right now I'm gonna-"
The threat was never elaborated on, mainly because Damian had crossed the space between them, front flipped to land on the poor man's shoulders and gouged at both of his eyes with mantis-fists before pummeling him all the way down as he fell. It hurt his fists to keep repeatedly hitting such a thick skull, but the pain was nothing compared to the satisfaction.
As Damian stood and turned it became apparent that he hadn't hurt the first one with the tire iron enough, seeing as he'd just gotten to his feet still swaying like a drunken camel. Damian glided back over to him on silent feet and kicked his leg out from under him. Then he grabbed the fool's arm, braced the elbow joint against his own body and wrenched. Hard.
"-tt!- Now stay down, mongrel."
In retrospect, Tire Iron may have been unable to hear him over the sound of bone breaking, tendons tearing, car alarms and wholly unnecessary screaming. Inconsiderate of him, really.
A soft flick-click and the sound of steps behind the would-be Boy Wonder made him whirl around on the balls of his feet.
Switchblade. Stabbing forward.
Damian didn't have time to register anything else as years of conditioning took over where conscious control had been before. He seized the wrist, yanked the blade toward himself and and spun to avoid and redirect the force of the thrust, twisting his opponent's arm around and inward to impale him on his own knife.
Kill or Die.
The sucking sound of metal piercing flesh, the shuddering intake of breath that presaged the scream of agony, the hot copper scent of blood on his hands, none of it mattered in the face of that truth. He twisted the knife and-
There was another noise nearby, another enemy! Operating on training honed to instinct, the young assassin ripped the R-shaped Shuriken off of his vest and flung it at the last remaining carjacker, striking him in the groin with the throwing blade.
Damian was only able to process what he'd done after the man in front of him slumped over onto the ground, clutching the knife handle and moaning wordlessly in shock. The others were either unconscious or left in similar states of trauma.
The sense of joy and freedom he'd felt before was tarnished now. Damian had killed before, sometimes without batting an eye, but always because it was what he'd wanted or needed to do. Killing like this felt wasteful, wrong somehow.
No, worse. He had promised Father he wouldn't kill as a condition of staying with him.
Does this mean I'd have to leave?
Damian tried to think, pausing only to choke the tiny seed of panic in his head to death. Given the typical response time of emergency services in the Narrows, an anonymous tip would have too high a probability of failure. Also, It wasn't as though he could carry four grown men to a hospital on the R-cycle, and just leaving them in the street would mean certain death.
I could easily find a solution if not for that car alarm stabbing into my brain and-Oh!...Well this is going to be practically Kafkaesque.
Damian struggled with loading each of the four men into the car they had just been attempting to steal before completing their job for them, far more competently of course. The plan did at least involve silencing the alarm before he hot-wired his second vehicle of the night even if he had to occasionally smack the semi-conscious passengers back into compliance.
Then it was only a quick drive over to the non-for-profit emergency clinic of one Dr.Leslie Thompkins- mentioned extensively as a trusted confidante in his father's files -and the childishly easy task of starting up the car alarm again and slipping out of the car before anyone noticed him.
Still, when he finally stripped off his makeshift Robin costume, cleaned all of the blood off of the borrowed parts and scrubbed them for DNA remnants, returned the R-cycle with a full tank and finally collapsed into his own bed, it was with a great deal more questions about his place in the household than he'd had before he left.
Stately Wayne Manor,
Damian's room,
07:39
Damian's sleep was...troubled, to say the least throughout the night, so he felt almost relieved when he was shaken out of a half-dream state by a series of very specific vibrations against his wrist. It had taken an age and a half to get the Bat-Computer to signal him whenever someone entered the Bat-Cave, but it wasn't like he had had anything better to do.
Slipping down to the Cave first thing in the morning was becoming a bit of a habit for him. Just in case it was Pennyworth that had accidentally tripped his alert, he took care to try and make as much noise as possible as he entered through a false closet and started searching the Cave. The old servant had admonished him more than enough times about eventually tying a bell around his neck if he didn't, after all. Besides, Father would never forgive him if Pennyworth had some sort of attack because Damian had forgotten to make noise as he moved.
"Kid, if you think you're sneaking around on me, then your father seriously underplayed how good I am at the games you capes play."
Damian was more than surprised to find Helena Bertinelli, business woman and secret Mafia Don, sitting in the medical station. There were only a handful of people in the world with knowledge of the Batcave's existence and location.
Given everything Damian knew about her, which was considerable, there were only a handful of possibilities and all of them were annoying.
Partly to be sure, and partly in exchange for the almost inevitable annoyance, he plucked a blunt batarang up off the floor and-
"If you throw that thing at me, swear to God you'll need your own medical attention..."
Damian lowered the batarang and stepped out of the shadows to face the Huntress's secret identity.
"-tt-, Do you even know how to work that device? I was unaware that they taught hematology at business schools. Or is it something anyone who dabbles in vigilantism and organized crime is expected to know?"
Gotham City,
Somewhere Beneath the Wayne Estate,
12:22 A.M.
There was a darkness in the cave complexes beneath Wayne Manor that surpassed even the most shadowed corners of Gotham's streets. By night, it grew deeper still until it was almost tangible, almost alive. It was a heavy, sullen thing that resented being pushed away by the cheerful, insistent hum of artificial lights. It lurked at the edges of these bubbles of illumination, eager to swallow up those who ventured far enough away and make them disappear. It was the sort of darkness that liked to slither into the backs of human minds, settle into a half-forgotten ancestral corner, then start quietly birthing nightmares.
Damian Wayne found it insufficient.
Therefore, he had blindfolded himself with a monogrammed hand towel he'd sneaked from one of the bathrooms and now hung suspended upside down from a stalactite, slowly spinning to ensure the proper degree of impairment. He had a throwing knife in each hand and a target propped up at the opposite side of the cave, or what he had been sure was the opposite side when he'd started to spin.
Eyesight and basic spatial orientation were things that any common human could use to hit a target, so Damian had taken them away. Now he could feel the silken, calligraphic W pressing against his face and the tickle of air currents against his skin as he twisted and swayed. There was an older smell underneath the harsh, lemon-tinged acridity of antiseptic cleanser, something that was part animal, part musty stone and part aerial dampness. Comfortingly cthonic, he'd labelled it. It was the sounds that Damian found were most improved, though. He'd become accustomed to the roosting bats in the cavern roofs, their chatter-shriek and the flap-snap of leather wings. The sound of his heartbeat and breathing were there if he checked, a subtle sussurus over a tiny, steady drumbeat.
There was something else, constant and pinprick sharp in his ears. The high, quiet electrical whine of the Computer as it monitored the city's sins. The noise shifted subtly as he spun, giving him direction. The flow of air across his face and through his hair gave him timing as he twisted, a point of reference narrowed down further with each heartbeat. He waited until they were all lined up perfectly and threw.
Damian's heart briefly jumped up into his stomach after he picked up the sound of metal blades sinking into the target, but after a moment's consideration he tore the blindfold away in frustration. As Damian had suspected, he'd struck a full centimeter off of the bullseye!
It took a few moments thrashing and flailing, some of which seemed more dramatically angry than was strictly necessary, for the boy to undo the knot at his feet. He tumbled soundlessly to the floor in a neatly executed roll, marched over to the target with a purposeful stride, and began kicking it with all of the considerable vindictive savagery a nine-year-old could manage.
Tantrum thoroughly achieved, Damian plucked the twin throwing knives from the target and walked back over to his starting position. He threw both behind himself without bothering to look back and confirm that they had drilled the center exactly, still too nauseated by his earlier failure to care. the boy crossed over to his father's over-sized chair and hopped up to sit in it cross-legged, brooding in unconscious imitation of its' usual occupant.
Pennyworth couldn't have been right about lack of sleep impacting his training no matter how patronizing his tone. After all, 'bedtime' was not now nor had it ever been a term applicable to Damian himself and his League of Shadows training ensured that a maximum of three hours sleep was all he required to function. More likely that it was Father's fault.
If Father was going to go missing for a month, he could have at least had the decency to give Damian free reign of the city in his absence rather than leave him trapped in a nearly empty headquarters with nothing to do but train endlessly, reflect and sketch the occasional bat. Damian had even begun naming the creatures out of boredom based on minor physical tells or behaviors, but it was hardly diverting enough.
The only other things to do were watch the Computer for alerts or use the internet, and moronic, self-indulgent garbage aside doing so offered Damian only glimpses of a realm that was increasingly deteriorating in his father's absence.
Oh, it wasn't that Damian was worried, of course not! Apart from maybe Damian himself there wasn't a human being yet born capable of killing The Batman. It was just that it would hardly do if half of his inheritance burned to the ground while Father was away on some adventure. Besides, how was Damian supposed to prove his superiority as the Wayne heir sitting here doing nothing?
Damian huffed and spun the chair in place, debating forcing Pennyworth to tell him where he'd hidden the sweets if only to practice his interrogation skills. A multi-colored blur caught his attention as he whirled, and it took considerable effort for his small, light frame to slow the chair down enough to figure out what had caught his attention and why.
It was the Robin costumes, over by one wall underneath transparent casings. Damian got out of the chair and started looking them over, face and hands pressing against them in turn to get a better look. Utterly senseless attire for urban combat and stealth for the most part, but they were traditional. Father undoubtedly kept them there for some unfathomable reason involving nostalgia or symbolism or the like, but they did give Damian an idea.
He wasn't allowed off of the grounds of Wayne Manor alone as Damian Wayne.
But what if he were...someone else?
Somewhere Beneath the Wayne Estate,
12:22 A.M.
There was a darkness in the cave complexes beneath Wayne Manor that surpassed even the most shadowed corners of Gotham's streets. By night, it grew deeper still until it was almost tangible, almost alive. It was a heavy, sullen thing that resented being pushed away by the cheerful, insistent hum of artificial lights. It lurked at the edges of these bubbles of illumination, eager to swallow up those who ventured far enough away and make them disappear. It was the sort of darkness that liked to slither into the backs of human minds, settle into a half-forgotten ancestral corner, then start quietly birthing nightmares.
Damian Wayne found it insufficient.
Therefore, he had blindfolded himself with a monogrammed hand towel he'd sneaked from one of the bathrooms and now hung suspended upside down from a stalactite, slowly spinning to ensure the proper degree of impairment. He had a throwing knife in each hand and a target propped up at the opposite side of the cave, or what he had been sure was the opposite side when he'd started to spin.
Eyesight and basic spatial orientation were things that any common human could use to hit a target, so Damian had taken them away. Now he could feel the silken, calligraphic W pressing against his face and the tickle of air currents against his skin as he twisted and swayed. There was an older smell underneath the harsh, lemon-tinged acridity of antiseptic cleanser, something that was part animal, part musty stone and part aerial dampness. Comfortingly cthonic, he'd labelled it. It was the sounds that Damian found were most improved, though. He'd become accustomed to the roosting bats in the cavern roofs, their chatter-shriek and the flap-snap of leather wings. The sound of his heartbeat and breathing were there if he checked, a subtle sussurus over a tiny, steady drumbeat.
There was something else, constant and pinprick sharp in his ears. The high, quiet electrical whine of the Computer as it monitored the city's sins. The noise shifted subtly as he spun, giving him direction. The flow of air across his face and through his hair gave him timing as he twisted, a point of reference narrowed down further with each heartbeat. He waited until they were all lined up perfectly and threw.
Damian's heart briefly jumped up into his stomach after he picked up the sound of metal blades sinking into the target, but after a moment's consideration he tore the blindfold away in frustration. As Damian had suspected, he'd struck a full centimeter off of the bullseye!
It took a few moments thrashing and flailing, some of which seemed more dramatically angry than was strictly necessary, for the boy to undo the knot at his feet. He tumbled soundlessly to the floor in a neatly executed roll, marched over to the target with a purposeful stride, and began kicking it with all of the considerable vindictive savagery a nine-year-old could manage.
Tantrum thoroughly achieved, Damian plucked the twin throwing knives from the target and walked back over to his starting position. He threw both behind himself without bothering to look back and confirm that they had drilled the center exactly, still too nauseated by his earlier failure to care. the boy crossed over to his father's over-sized chair and hopped up to sit in it cross-legged, brooding in unconscious imitation of its' usual occupant.
Pennyworth couldn't have been right about lack of sleep impacting his training no matter how patronizing his tone. After all, 'bedtime' was not now nor had it ever been a term applicable to Damian himself and his League of Shadows training ensured that a maximum of three hours sleep was all he required to function. More likely that it was Father's fault.
If Father was going to go missing for a month, he could have at least had the decency to give Damian free reign of the city in his absence rather than leave him trapped in a nearly empty headquarters with nothing to do but train endlessly, reflect and sketch the occasional bat. Damian had even begun naming the creatures out of boredom based on minor physical tells or behaviors, but it was hardly diverting enough.
The only other things to do were watch the Computer for alerts or use the internet, and moronic, self-indulgent garbage aside doing so offered Damian only glimpses of a realm that was increasingly deteriorating in his father's absence.
Oh, it wasn't that Damian was worried, of course not! Apart from maybe Damian himself there wasn't a human being yet born capable of killing The Batman. It was just that it would hardly do if half of his inheritance burned to the ground while Father was away on some adventure. Besides, how was Damian supposed to prove his superiority as the Wayne heir sitting here doing nothing?
Damian huffed and spun the chair in place, debating forcing Pennyworth to tell him where he'd hidden the sweets if only to practice his interrogation skills. A multi-colored blur caught his attention as he whirled, and it took considerable effort for his small, light frame to slow the chair down enough to figure out what had caught his attention and why.
It was the Robin costumes, over by one wall underneath transparent casings. Damian got out of the chair and started looking them over, face and hands pressing against them in turn to get a better look. Utterly senseless attire for urban combat and stealth for the most part, but they were traditional. Father undoubtedly kept them there for some unfathomable reason involving nostalgia or symbolism or the like, but they did give Damian an idea.
He wasn't allowed off of the grounds of Wayne Manor alone as Damian Wayne.
But what if he were...someone else?
Agreed, the problem is, is our GM gone??
Again, not willingly from Damian's perspective. But yes, that's going to be a hilarious convo.
<Snipped quote by Dblade26>
Trips to the zoo? Soccer games? Damian's eyes popping out when she tries to compare growing up with Cluemaster to R'as?
All of my yes! Though depending on how things go, 'trips to the zoo' might be 'Catman is using the Gotham Zoo to train murderous big cats' but still!
Also, when you remember that technically both of them were raised by super-villains, it kinda makes sense that they wind up bonding. Even if Damian does it grudgingly.
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