(no subject)
There were advantages to the change in environment. Damian would be loathe to admit to as much, but having grown used to Gotham's rooftops and larger than life architecture, there's a comfort in the city. Cities lend themselves better to Batman's brand of vigilantism than Tabula Rasa's default setting. Though the ghosts that populate the city aren't propagating any crimes, the atmosphere, the business, the noise and the clatter feel familiar.
It's about the only thing that does. The past handful of weeks have been an exercise in patience. First the arrival of the original Batman, and then, hot on his heels, a Batgirl who's proven disappointing in her seeming obsession with Stephanie. Those days spent crammed all under one roof had been trying, and while the Victorian apartment he and his father have appropriated for the month lacks the space of home, the freedom of not living with girls has suited Damian. (As much as anything suits him.)
His studies (meticulously, if unenthusiastically) completed for the day and a few hours left until he's expected to train, Damian's taken to the streets on a bicycle he's been customizing since he'd found it in his basement. The wheels had been a lost cause at replacing, but with parts and tools acquired from the many shops, he's managed to improve the suspension and frame of the bike to make navigating through the slush-filled streets a bit more tolerable. It doesn't hold a candle to his old motorcycle, but in the middle of the day, it's a better means of transportation than swinging through the streets on a zipline dressed as Robin.
(There are only so many people here who fit his general description, and while he's very tall for his age, could pass for older at a glance, he won't be the one to disappoint his father, even if living under one roof, with no Pennyworth to mediate, is proving a chore.)
No destination in mind beyond not inside, he's pedaling as hard as he can to get some semblance of speed, ignorant of the fact that his itchy wool pant leg's caught in the chain until it's too late. Unable to correct for the mistake, boy and bicycle tumble towards the ground, skidding to an abrupt halt that's softened only by the wet snow that soaks through his stupid period clothes with the speed of water.
Stunned from the fall more so than injured (he's been shot, multiple times, this is nothing but an embarrassment), his fingers are clumsy as they try to pry the fabric from the blasted chain. Impatient and irritated, he pulls out one of his knives, silver flashing quick in his hand, and cuts at the seam with a surgeon's precision, freeing his leg just in time for an audience to arrive.
A flush that has nothing to do with the cold rises to his cheeks and instinctively, he hides the knife. Some concerned citizen might try to confiscate it and that's one humiliation he hopes to escape more deftly.
[Timed to Wednesday afternoon. He's more embarrassed than injured, the knife is out of sight, and the bicycle is still intact. That said, he is likely to be as rude as ever. Open to new tags until noted otherwise.]
It's about the only thing that does. The past handful of weeks have been an exercise in patience. First the arrival of the original Batman, and then, hot on his heels, a Batgirl who's proven disappointing in her seeming obsession with Stephanie. Those days spent crammed all under one roof had been trying, and while the Victorian apartment he and his father have appropriated for the month lacks the space of home, the freedom of not living with girls has suited Damian. (As much as anything suits him.)
His studies (meticulously, if unenthusiastically) completed for the day and a few hours left until he's expected to train, Damian's taken to the streets on a bicycle he's been customizing since he'd found it in his basement. The wheels had been a lost cause at replacing, but with parts and tools acquired from the many shops, he's managed to improve the suspension and frame of the bike to make navigating through the slush-filled streets a bit more tolerable. It doesn't hold a candle to his old motorcycle, but in the middle of the day, it's a better means of transportation than swinging through the streets on a zipline dressed as Robin.
(There are only so many people here who fit his general description, and while he's very tall for his age, could pass for older at a glance, he won't be the one to disappoint his father, even if living under one roof, with no Pennyworth to mediate, is proving a chore.)
No destination in mind beyond not inside, he's pedaling as hard as he can to get some semblance of speed, ignorant of the fact that his itchy wool pant leg's caught in the chain until it's too late. Unable to correct for the mistake, boy and bicycle tumble towards the ground, skidding to an abrupt halt that's softened only by the wet snow that soaks through his stupid period clothes with the speed of water.
Stunned from the fall more so than injured (he's been shot, multiple times, this is nothing but an embarrassment), his fingers are clumsy as they try to pry the fabric from the blasted chain. Impatient and irritated, he pulls out one of his knives, silver flashing quick in his hand, and cuts at the seam with a surgeon's precision, freeing his leg just in time for an audience to arrive.
A flush that has nothing to do with the cold rises to his cheeks and instinctively, he hides the knife. Some concerned citizen might try to confiscate it and that's one humiliation he hopes to escape more deftly.
[Timed to Wednesday afternoon. He's more embarrassed than injured, the knife is out of sight, and the bicycle is still intact. That said, he is likely to be as rude as ever. Open to new tags until noted otherwise.]