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[for Arya]
Jun. 29th, 2013 12:24 amAfter two years on the island, there are few places Damian hasn't been before, though Summerfell has become a more frequent destination of late. He's come today in search of Bran, hoping to help with his training, but Damian finds himself distracted on the way there by another Stark entirely.
From the trees, he watches Arya move between a collection of deadly looking discs as though she were made of water, striking them before they could reach her. It's an impressive display of lethal athleticism, and a million questions spring to mind: what it is called, who taught her, can she teach him? He waits until the last of them have been dealt with before stepping out from his hiding place.
"Where did you get those?"
From the trees, he watches Arya move between a collection of deadly looking discs as though she were made of water, striking them before they could reach her. It's an impressive display of lethal athleticism, and a million questions spring to mind: what it is called, who taught her, can she teach him? He waits until the last of them have been dealt with before stepping out from his hiding place.
"Where did you get those?"
[for Stephanie] daddy issues
May. 1st, 2012 07:28 pmThe Manor is empty when Damian wakes, breathless and hungry. Gone are the trappings of the Wild West and the dream Gotham he's lived and breathed for what feels like a month, but was surely only a day. The Island is consistent in its inconsistencies. Stretching sleep-ached muscles as he walks, his first order of business becomes finding his father to ensure he survived the trip back to reality. This time of night, it's not unusual for Bruce to be on patrol, and given current events, an evening patrol strikes Damian as an excellent idea.
(He stops long enough only to feed the puppy, who he found whimpering outside his father's door.)
Tabula Rasa seems so claustrophobic in comparison to the city, palm trees seeming to encroach on every window. The effect is only magnified once he's outside, dressed in his uniform for a greater purpose than concealing his identity. It's a reminder of his true life, the one he woke from only minutes ago. (A dream, certainly, but a dream he would return to, if given the choice.) He stalks the jungle like a quiet, if sullen cat, eyes peeled for any signs of movement. Batman can hide -- and hide well -- but Damian is confident in his training.
Just as he's confident he won't be the only one of their peculiar little family (ugh, as if any of them could hold a candle to a flesh-and-blood heir) on the hunt for their patriarch. As the minutes stretch into hours, he expects he'll run into one of them before he encounters his father. In this, he's not disappointed, a familiar silhouette cutting the moonlight up ahead.
"Stephanie."
(He stops long enough only to feed the puppy, who he found whimpering outside his father's door.)
Tabula Rasa seems so claustrophobic in comparison to the city, palm trees seeming to encroach on every window. The effect is only magnified once he's outside, dressed in his uniform for a greater purpose than concealing his identity. It's a reminder of his true life, the one he woke from only minutes ago. (A dream, certainly, but a dream he would return to, if given the choice.) He stalks the jungle like a quiet, if sullen cat, eyes peeled for any signs of movement. Batman can hide -- and hide well -- but Damian is confident in his training.
Just as he's confident he won't be the only one of their peculiar little family (ugh, as if any of them could hold a candle to a flesh-and-blood heir) on the hunt for their patriarch. As the minutes stretch into hours, he expects he'll run into one of them before he encounters his father. In this, he's not disappointed, a familiar silhouette cutting the moonlight up ahead.
"Stephanie."
[for Stephanie] molossus
Nov. 13th, 2011 09:51 pmKept in the corner of Damian's bedroom is a wooden dummy, crafted by his own hand with tools he found in the Compound. It's laughably simple in its design, a solid trunk with a few pegs approximately thirty centimeters in length protruding its front and sides to simulate limbs, obstacles.
It's also the fourth such dummy Damian has made since his arrival, the first three having splintered after only a handful of uses. Like any other boy his age, he's rough on his toys (though few other boys regularly employ near lethal violence in the destruction of their playthings). Given the ferocity with which he attacks it, now, however, it's a wonder that a fifth isn't already required.
Not even twenty-four hours since the Batman -- his father -- has stepped foot onto Tabula Rasa, and already Damian has been instructed to stay put. It rankles no less than it did when Grayson dismissed him in Gotham. Perhaps more, in fact, given that there's no danger on this island that could compare to the horrors of the city. He's murderously miserable, cursing Todd and Rapture and the damned arbitrary rules that would keep him above ground under his breath. Still, he's not so distracted that he doesn't realize that someone else has entered the room.
"Unless you're willing to fight me," he grits out between blows, "you should leave."
It's also the fourth such dummy Damian has made since his arrival, the first three having splintered after only a handful of uses. Like any other boy his age, he's rough on his toys (though few other boys regularly employ near lethal violence in the destruction of their playthings). Given the ferocity with which he attacks it, now, however, it's a wonder that a fifth isn't already required.
Not even twenty-four hours since the Batman -- his father -- has stepped foot onto Tabula Rasa, and already Damian has been instructed to stay put. It rankles no less than it did when Grayson dismissed him in Gotham. Perhaps more, in fact, given that there's no danger on this island that could compare to the horrors of the city. He's murderously miserable, cursing Todd and Rapture and the damned arbitrary rules that would keep him above ground under his breath. Still, he's not so distracted that he doesn't realize that someone else has entered the room.
"Unless you're willing to fight me," he grits out between blows, "you should leave."
Underestimating an enemy is one of the most dangerous mistakes to make. Damian knows this. But they were just toys. Not a threat and more of an annoyance. He didn't think twice about separating himself from Batgirl over the course of the day, wanting the chance to fly solo, to lash out against these paltry opponents, and prove himself still worthy of the name Robin. (That there's no Batman to speak of doesn't matter. Should either his father or Grayson arrive, he won't be sloppy.)
A single clown doll, brought to life by this place's magics, should not have brought him trouble. They stood at about half of Damian's height, though their coloring isn't dissimilar to the Joker's. (Purple hair instead of green, but the face is the same, painted white with a sloppy red grin, an artificial madness gleaming in their beady black eyes.) He's kept up with his training. This shouldn't be a struggle. And were there just a handful of them, perhaps Damian would have had no issue, but there's a veritable army encircling him, and there's no promise of backup any time soon.
That he'd been right about thinking the carnival suspicious is of little comfort when his swords cuts through the head of one clown only for another of the blasted things to launch itself onto his back, arms circling Damian's thin neck so tightly that it cuts off his air. With his free hand, he tries to find purchase around one of his blades, but there are clowns at his hip, too, tugging hard on his cape to pull Damian down to his knees, and he knows, in that moment, that he has his work cut out for him.
A single clown doll, brought to life by this place's magics, should not have brought him trouble. They stood at about half of Damian's height, though their coloring isn't dissimilar to the Joker's. (Purple hair instead of green, but the face is the same, painted white with a sloppy red grin, an artificial madness gleaming in their beady black eyes.) He's kept up with his training. This shouldn't be a struggle. And were there just a handful of them, perhaps Damian would have had no issue, but there's a veritable army encircling him, and there's no promise of backup any time soon.
That he'd been right about thinking the carnival suspicious is of little comfort when his swords cuts through the head of one clown only for another of the blasted things to launch itself onto his back, arms circling Damian's thin neck so tightly that it cuts off his air. With his free hand, he tries to find purchase around one of his blades, but there are clowns at his hip, too, tugging hard on his cape to pull Damian down to his knees, and he knows, in that moment, that he has his work cut out for him.
He's stashed the domino, the utility belt, the tunic, the gloves, the boots, the cape-- Anything and everything that could immediately connect him to Robin. On its own, the charcoal gray survival suit could pass for something like a wetsuit. It's not the most ideal of charades, but though Damian's only been on this island for under twenty-four hours, observation alone suggests the cape and cowl set aren't especially needed here, even if Batgirl and Todd hadn't confirmed as much in different ways. This isn't Gotham.
New clothing is a priority.
The box in the basement of the building known simply as the compound, however, has not been particularly forthcoming. He's been digging through its contents for at least ten minutes, and his bounty so far includes a number of oversized cotton t-shirts in an array of neon of colors he wouldn't dare wear and a pair of men's briefs bearing Superman's shield.
"Tt. This is idiotic."
New clothing is a priority.
The box in the basement of the building known simply as the compound, however, has not been particularly forthcoming. He's been digging through its contents for at least ten minutes, and his bounty so far includes a number of oversized cotton t-shirts in an array of neon of colors he wouldn't dare wear and a pair of men's briefs bearing Superman's shield.
"Tt. This is idiotic."
[for Stephanie] bats and birds
Sep. 29th, 2011 12:50 amJoker's drugs should have worn off hours ago.
It's an uncomfortable realization, to say the least, to know that Jason Todd, of all people, was telling the truth with all his nonsense about pocket dimensions. Even so, there's little denying that the dark world around Damian feels real, from the deep, lush smell of the surrounding jungle to the cool night air. Real or not, though, none of this makes much sense. But then, life in Gotham rarely does, either, does it? His rogues' gallery is comprised of circus freaks and costumed lunatics with too much time on their hands. Interdimensional travel to an island with no immediate escape is surely the next threat to master.
"Tt."
Getting away from the headcase had proven interesting, but Damian's been on his own since before sunset, exploring unfamiliar territory to the best of his ability -- an ability somewhat hindered by a persistent, lingering panic he's trying to ignore. He's been all over the world, but never before beyond it, and with this thoughts still in Gotham -- still with Grayson and the Joker and the recent chaos from which he is only hours removed -- he can't be blamed for his unease. The bizarre circumstances of his arrival aside, he's yet to come across anything that improves upon his first impression of this Tabula Rasa.
The large, concrete building sticking out through the trees is a sight far more welcome than the chicken coop he's just vacated, though, and he decides, immediately, to make this slight nod to civilization his next destination. Only in locating the entrance, however, does he spot a glimpse of familiar blonde hair up on the rooftop.
She's not Grayson or Pennyworth, but Stephanie Brown is at least better company than the Red Hood. It's child's play, joining her on the ledge. Damian's movements are quiet as he treads behind her, stopping only once he's a few feet away.
"You."
It's an uncomfortable realization, to say the least, to know that Jason Todd, of all people, was telling the truth with all his nonsense about pocket dimensions. Even so, there's little denying that the dark world around Damian feels real, from the deep, lush smell of the surrounding jungle to the cool night air. Real or not, though, none of this makes much sense. But then, life in Gotham rarely does, either, does it? His rogues' gallery is comprised of circus freaks and costumed lunatics with too much time on their hands. Interdimensional travel to an island with no immediate escape is surely the next threat to master.
"Tt."
Getting away from the headcase had proven interesting, but Damian's been on his own since before sunset, exploring unfamiliar territory to the best of his ability -- an ability somewhat hindered by a persistent, lingering panic he's trying to ignore. He's been all over the world, but never before beyond it, and with this thoughts still in Gotham -- still with Grayson and the Joker and the recent chaos from which he is only hours removed -- he can't be blamed for his unease. The bizarre circumstances of his arrival aside, he's yet to come across anything that improves upon his first impression of this Tabula Rasa.
The large, concrete building sticking out through the trees is a sight far more welcome than the chicken coop he's just vacated, though, and he decides, immediately, to make this slight nod to civilization his next destination. Only in locating the entrance, however, does he spot a glimpse of familiar blonde hair up on the rooftop.
She's not Grayson or Pennyworth, but Stephanie Brown is at least better company than the Red Hood. It's child's play, joining her on the ledge. Damian's movements are quiet as he treads behind her, stopping only once he's a few feet away.
"You."
He's said he's different. That he's not like the other Robins. Damian Wayne was raised by assassins, criminals, and as such, was taught to kill without mercy. Despite the promises he's made -- despite the promises he's kept -- not for one second would he hesitate to inflict severe brain damage upon one of his father's rogues, and the Joker is certainly no exception. The crowbar felt good in his hands -- an effective weapon, if a clumsy one -- but that doesn't matter, now, not the boasts or the threats or the satisfying rush of adrenaline that comes from a fight.
None of it matters for one simple reason: the clown moves fast.
Robin the Boy Hostage lives again.
The thought alone makes Damian's stomach turn, though he can't dismiss the idea that this sudden bout of nausea's just one of the lingering effects from the drugs he's been doused with. His father wouldn't. Perhaps more importantly, neither would Grayson, and Damian knows he can't afford any more oversights. Ropes bite into his wrists. His ankles. Across and around his torso. Duct tape painted with a crude red smile pulls at the peach fuzz hair on his youthful cheeks. Even were he not presently shoved in an undersized coffin, he'd have a difficult time of moving. But while the Joker's more adept at tying knots than others who've tried the same, the matter of escape is child's play for someone of Damian's skill. It's just a matter of actually doing it.
His knees knock up against the wooden lid as he wriggles and kicks, trying to slip through at least a few of the innumerable loops, but it's mere background noise to the pounding of his heart in his ears. His breaths are shallow, rhythmic, too-hot air reflected back on his face with every exhale, making his skin feel flushed, sticky. Sweat builds underneath the humiliating clown nose perched on top of his own. He pushes his thoughts elsewhere, to Gotham and to Batman, but the muffled sound of Joker's delusional monologue pulls him back into the moment.
"Wait. What's that? 'Knock knock,' you say. Who's there? 'Why, it's Robin, my dear!' Robin who? 'Robin Graves.'" A laugh that could strip paint follows as the Joker finds amusement with his own conversation, accompanied by increasingly louder footsteps.
He's close. A fruitless, frustrated growl tears itself from Damian's throat in protest, but gets no further than the tape over his mouth.
"Born from a coffin. Angry, too, by the sound of it. Kicking."
The brush of fabric along the outside of the coffin. The creak of wood as the Joker settles on top of it. Just one more obstacle to bypass once he gets out of here, one more bump in the road. Damian tries to land his boot through the wood and against the lunatic's shin, but succeeds only in hitting the lid another time.
"I can feel it kicking. Our baby in its box. So here's the story so far, baby..."
The lid begins to move, and Damian steels himself for the insanity that's sure to follow. But though he would never admit it -- not to himself or anyone else -- nothing could have prepared him for the sight of a bright, Jokerless sky. He expected darkness, the clown a gleaming white ghost in its depths, and to be met with the antithesis of Gotham in its stead is enough to send a single frisson of panic down Damian's spine.
He won't admit to that, either, but then, he has little time to waste on such a pointless reaction as fear.
None of it matters for one simple reason: the clown moves fast.
Robin the Boy Hostage lives again.
The thought alone makes Damian's stomach turn, though he can't dismiss the idea that this sudden bout of nausea's just one of the lingering effects from the drugs he's been doused with. His father wouldn't. Perhaps more importantly, neither would Grayson, and Damian knows he can't afford any more oversights. Ropes bite into his wrists. His ankles. Across and around his torso. Duct tape painted with a crude red smile pulls at the peach fuzz hair on his youthful cheeks. Even were he not presently shoved in an undersized coffin, he'd have a difficult time of moving. But while the Joker's more adept at tying knots than others who've tried the same, the matter of escape is child's play for someone of Damian's skill. It's just a matter of actually doing it.
His knees knock up against the wooden lid as he wriggles and kicks, trying to slip through at least a few of the innumerable loops, but it's mere background noise to the pounding of his heart in his ears. His breaths are shallow, rhythmic, too-hot air reflected back on his face with every exhale, making his skin feel flushed, sticky. Sweat builds underneath the humiliating clown nose perched on top of his own. He pushes his thoughts elsewhere, to Gotham and to Batman, but the muffled sound of Joker's delusional monologue pulls him back into the moment.
"Wait. What's that? 'Knock knock,' you say. Who's there? 'Why, it's Robin, my dear!' Robin who? 'Robin Graves.'" A laugh that could strip paint follows as the Joker finds amusement with his own conversation, accompanied by increasingly louder footsteps.
He's close. A fruitless, frustrated growl tears itself from Damian's throat in protest, but gets no further than the tape over his mouth.
"Born from a coffin. Angry, too, by the sound of it. Kicking."
The brush of fabric along the outside of the coffin. The creak of wood as the Joker settles on top of it. Just one more obstacle to bypass once he gets out of here, one more bump in the road. Damian tries to land his boot through the wood and against the lunatic's shin, but succeeds only in hitting the lid another time.
"I can feel it kicking. Our baby in its box. So here's the story so far, baby..."
The lid begins to move, and Damian steels himself for the insanity that's sure to follow. But though he would never admit it -- not to himself or anyone else -- nothing could have prepared him for the sight of a bright, Jokerless sky. He expected darkness, the clown a gleaming white ghost in its depths, and to be met with the antithesis of Gotham in its stead is enough to send a single frisson of panic down Damian's spine.
He won't admit to that, either, but then, he has little time to waste on such a pointless reaction as fear.