[debut] batman and robin must die: the robin and the hood
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.