[holo: Sanctuary] | my reach is global my tower secure my cause is noble my power is pure
It's an average night in Gotham. The city's alive with people, all bustling chaos and shining naivety, the vast majority ignorant of the other world bristling just under the surface.
It makes Damian sick, actually. That they pass through the streets and just assume everything will be perfect. Planned. Ordinary.
He scoffs, knowing better. Not that he's paying much attention to them at the moment; he's knee-deep in nondescript henchmen, after all. "This is so far beneath my abilities," he scowls, fist making impact with a man who evidently thought feathers was an excellent costume choice. He grunts, and the sound, coupled with the way the man crumples under the force, elicits a feral grin. One down, five to go.
...Provided his partner will allow him any more. The flash of grey and black pauses in motion just long enough to glance his way, and despite the fact that the gesture is so out of keeping with the image of Batman he can almost hear the accompanying eyeroll. "You always say that, and then you end up needing me to bail you out. I'll start believing it when it actually shows."
Another feathered heap collapses to the ground, incapacitated with a shot to the solar plexus, and Damian whirls to face the next one, yellow cape trailing behind him. "Only because I'm not allowed to kill them. If I could do things the way I was trained to I wouldn't need your help."
"Batman and Robin don't kill."
It's an old argument, one that has long since lost any real vehemence, though it clearly still chafes the younger vigilante. He loathes teamwork, having to rely on the abilities of others for success, and while he knows objectively that Grayson's more than capable of holding up his end, he still hates it. He yearns for the day he's no longer leashed to a second-rate Bat and can strike out on his own.
Nevermind that Grayson truly isn't as terrible in the cowl as he repeatedly accuses. It's hardly the point. He doesn't want it, not like Damian does. He only continues to wear it because Bruce asked and few have the audacity to turn down his requests. It used to awe him, knowing his father had that kind of power over people, but these days it only irritates him that his allies are so spineless.
A flip and a kick to the back of knees and the last one drops, a shot to the jaw that's maybe a bit too enthusiastic silencing the surprised moan. Damian spares a moment to hope he cracks his head on the pavement; it's the same thing every night, there hasn't been a decent villain in months, and he's starting to get restless. For once he departs from the script. "Maybe these idiots would think twice about committing crimes if we did."
It's hardly the right thing to say, too close to something Jason might have said in the same circumstance, and Damian knows he should probably have kept it to himself. It's bad enough his father already views him as a disappointment, he doesn't need to add 'lost cause' to the list as well. But it doesn't make it any less true, so he stands by it, chin raising in defiance as Grayson approaches, clearly angered.
"What? You know I'm right." Somewhere a warning bell goes off, telling him he should back down now, but it's far too late for that. He's never put much stock in rolling over, in taking back words. It may not be nice to hear, but it's nevertheless true, and Circus Boy can't deny that no matter how much he might want to. As twisted as Jason is, he does have a point, to a degree. Not all criminals can be locked up and expected to be rendered harmless indefinitely, the escape rate at Arkham is proof enough of that. How many times can the Joker get loose to ruin the lives of innocent people before it's obvious he needs something more permanent than being locked in a rubber room? He isn't even insane, not really.
The glare speaks volumes despite the fact that he doesn't say a word, something known more by feel than sight. There's a lecture coming, Damian can tell, and he'd like nothing more than to not have to be subjected to it, considering they seem to have it or something like it at least once a week.
"Nevermind," he spits out, kicking at one of the unconscious goons because he knows taking his frustrations out on Grayson with the way things stand at the moment will only gain him further trouble and in all likelihood a return to the 'no knives while at home' policy. "I don't need this. I'll see you later." And with that he spins on his heel and takes off across the rooftops, practically thrumming with energy that now has no means of exit, ignoring the shouted protest that echoes behind him.
Buildings pass under his feet, anger fuelling him to keep moving long after he's stopped paying attention to where he is. He leaps from one apartment complex to the adjoining one, but when he lands, skidding to a stop that leaves him in a crouch, cape unfurling around him as the momentum plays out, something isn't right. The building's gone, the concrete under his feet (and the loss of traction is as much responsible for the skid as the change in scenery), and so is the night itself. Instead he's greeted with lights, bright enough to remind him of his mother's infirmary, only the room seems to be empty. No operating tables, no huge tanks filled with special fluid to accelerate healing. No doctors.
And yet he doesn't feel like he's alone. He looks around the room, side to side, top to bottom. No doors. No windows. No visible exits of any kind, but a device that looks like a communicator and a strange device in the ceiling. He approaches the communicator, careful not to touch it until he knows for sure what it is, and addresses it, glaring at it through his mask.
"You. Idiot. Person observing at large - because I know you're watching. Someone is, anyway. Whose wrist do I have to break to speak with whoever is in charge?"
It makes Damian sick, actually. That they pass through the streets and just assume everything will be perfect. Planned. Ordinary.
He scoffs, knowing better. Not that he's paying much attention to them at the moment; he's knee-deep in nondescript henchmen, after all. "This is so far beneath my abilities," he scowls, fist making impact with a man who evidently thought feathers was an excellent costume choice. He grunts, and the sound, coupled with the way the man crumples under the force, elicits a feral grin. One down, five to go.
...Provided his partner will allow him any more. The flash of grey and black pauses in motion just long enough to glance his way, and despite the fact that the gesture is so out of keeping with the image of Batman he can almost hear the accompanying eyeroll. "You always say that, and then you end up needing me to bail you out. I'll start believing it when it actually shows."
Another feathered heap collapses to the ground, incapacitated with a shot to the solar plexus, and Damian whirls to face the next one, yellow cape trailing behind him. "Only because I'm not allowed to kill them. If I could do things the way I was trained to I wouldn't need your help."
"Batman and Robin don't kill."
It's an old argument, one that has long since lost any real vehemence, though it clearly still chafes the younger vigilante. He loathes teamwork, having to rely on the abilities of others for success, and while he knows objectively that Grayson's more than capable of holding up his end, he still hates it. He yearns for the day he's no longer leashed to a second-rate Bat and can strike out on his own.
Nevermind that Grayson truly isn't as terrible in the cowl as he repeatedly accuses. It's hardly the point. He doesn't want it, not like Damian does. He only continues to wear it because Bruce asked and few have the audacity to turn down his requests. It used to awe him, knowing his father had that kind of power over people, but these days it only irritates him that his allies are so spineless.
A flip and a kick to the back of knees and the last one drops, a shot to the jaw that's maybe a bit too enthusiastic silencing the surprised moan. Damian spares a moment to hope he cracks his head on the pavement; it's the same thing every night, there hasn't been a decent villain in months, and he's starting to get restless. For once he departs from the script. "Maybe these idiots would think twice about committing crimes if we did."
It's hardly the right thing to say, too close to something Jason might have said in the same circumstance, and Damian knows he should probably have kept it to himself. It's bad enough his father already views him as a disappointment, he doesn't need to add 'lost cause' to the list as well. But it doesn't make it any less true, so he stands by it, chin raising in defiance as Grayson approaches, clearly angered.
"What? You know I'm right." Somewhere a warning bell goes off, telling him he should back down now, but it's far too late for that. He's never put much stock in rolling over, in taking back words. It may not be nice to hear, but it's nevertheless true, and Circus Boy can't deny that no matter how much he might want to. As twisted as Jason is, he does have a point, to a degree. Not all criminals can be locked up and expected to be rendered harmless indefinitely, the escape rate at Arkham is proof enough of that. How many times can the Joker get loose to ruin the lives of innocent people before it's obvious he needs something more permanent than being locked in a rubber room? He isn't even insane, not really.
The glare speaks volumes despite the fact that he doesn't say a word, something known more by feel than sight. There's a lecture coming, Damian can tell, and he'd like nothing more than to not have to be subjected to it, considering they seem to have it or something like it at least once a week.
"Nevermind," he spits out, kicking at one of the unconscious goons because he knows taking his frustrations out on Grayson with the way things stand at the moment will only gain him further trouble and in all likelihood a return to the 'no knives while at home' policy. "I don't need this. I'll see you later." And with that he spins on his heel and takes off across the rooftops, practically thrumming with energy that now has no means of exit, ignoring the shouted protest that echoes behind him.
Buildings pass under his feet, anger fuelling him to keep moving long after he's stopped paying attention to where he is. He leaps from one apartment complex to the adjoining one, but when he lands, skidding to a stop that leaves him in a crouch, cape unfurling around him as the momentum plays out, something isn't right. The building's gone, the concrete under his feet (and the loss of traction is as much responsible for the skid as the change in scenery), and so is the night itself. Instead he's greeted with lights, bright enough to remind him of his mother's infirmary, only the room seems to be empty. No operating tables, no huge tanks filled with special fluid to accelerate healing. No doctors.
And yet he doesn't feel like he's alone. He looks around the room, side to side, top to bottom. No doors. No windows. No visible exits of any kind, but a device that looks like a communicator and a strange device in the ceiling. He approaches the communicator, careful not to touch it until he knows for sure what it is, and addresses it, glaring at it through his mask.
"You. Idiot. Person observing at large - because I know you're watching. Someone is, anyway. Whose wrist do I have to break to speak with whoever is in charge?"