Tim Drake-Wayne | Second Son (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
filialson) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamsanddisasters2014-09-16 11:20 pm
filialson) wrote in dreamsanddisasters2014-09-16 11:20 pm
Entry tags:
Clone What-If (GDI PLUS REALLY IS AN ENABLER)
[ Stone walls, tile floor, a tank; brilliant, fluorescent green glow. Breathing for the first time is unlike anything. There's cables hooked up to him and men looking down at him and they have questions. ]
What is your name?
[ He knows the language, and he knows the answer--
(Damian)
--and he knows this is danger and those men are jackals and he must give them nothing. ]
What is your name? What do you remember?
[ He stays silent, stares at them in silent incomprehension. They're disappointed, and he takes a vicious kind of satisfaction in that.
His name is Damian, and he remembers the feel of Kevlar-covered arms pressed around him, the bright and smiling undertones of a man's chatter, and the warmth of walking in from the cold and not being alone.
He's incomplete and defective, but he remembers he had a father, a brother, and a home. ]
[ Surprisingly, it's Tim's network that catches the leak first, rather than Barbara's. Perhaps because Tim has more people on the inside of the League, more bots crawling through the servers he can access. He keeps an eye on their dark-net projects where he can, but this one was buried deep.
It's a video, just one from what must be a series of many. Pretty standard, as far as medical logs go. There's a doctor, a scientist, sitting in front of the web camera, and he begins his report. ]
Subject Alpha is showing more promise, but not the results we were looking for. We'd thought, with the brain activity during development--
[ The scientist sighs. He thought they'd had it for sure this time. ]
The muscle memory transferred over, but it's incomplete. Re-training is going smoothly. The response levels to further synchronizations--
[ And the man lists numbers. Statistics. Comparisons between now and previous updates, of which there are many. There's even mention of other, terminated, subjects. Tim, watching, feels the first stirrings of unease. ]
--previous subjects may have been too young, and the accelerated aging, contrary to expectations, was, by all accounts, a success. Mental faculties fully intact, the subject remains responsive, aware, and cooperative. Most days.
There are very few rational explanations for why a natural age of fifteen rather than ten seems to have been the magic number, even with the reduction in data that could be transferred over--
[ There's ice in Tim's stomach and a pounding in his ears and he stares, transfixed, at the screen. ]
--hope to have better results for the Demon's Head, soon--
[ Tim's tuning out the words by now, numbly pulling up the attached documents, and he has to stop, remember to breathe, at the crisp photo image of a young man pops up on screen. Dressed in simple white clothes, he's been caught on camera in the middle of a spinning kick, and it's a set of too-familiar, sharp grey-blue eyes, ringed with the smudges of chronic exhaustion, that stare straight into the camera. A too-familiar face, expression neutral, with a too-familiar, impudent slant to his lips. Handsome, healthy--
--alive.
Tim stops breathing, and starts throwing everything to Babs. ]
[ Bruce is off-world, at Apokolips, but even if he wasn't this message would go to Dick, first, because Bruce is an asshole who doesn't believe in telling them the whole truth.
(Dick, also alive, Batman again in Bruce's stead. What happened to no more secrets, B?)
Attached to the message is the video, the photos, the documents he could pull up. A location, and a plan. ]
Just say the word.
What is your name?
[ He knows the language, and he knows the answer--
(Damian)
--and he knows this is danger and those men are jackals and he must give them nothing. ]
What is your name? What do you remember?
[ He stays silent, stares at them in silent incomprehension. They're disappointed, and he takes a vicious kind of satisfaction in that.
His name is Damian, and he remembers the feel of Kevlar-covered arms pressed around him, the bright and smiling undertones of a man's chatter, and the warmth of walking in from the cold and not being alone.
He's incomplete and defective, but he remembers he had a father, a brother, and a home. ]
[ Surprisingly, it's Tim's network that catches the leak first, rather than Barbara's. Perhaps because Tim has more people on the inside of the League, more bots crawling through the servers he can access. He keeps an eye on their dark-net projects where he can, but this one was buried deep.
It's a video, just one from what must be a series of many. Pretty standard, as far as medical logs go. There's a doctor, a scientist, sitting in front of the web camera, and he begins his report. ]
Subject Alpha is showing more promise, but not the results we were looking for. We'd thought, with the brain activity during development--
[ The scientist sighs. He thought they'd had it for sure this time. ]
The muscle memory transferred over, but it's incomplete. Re-training is going smoothly. The response levels to further synchronizations--
[ And the man lists numbers. Statistics. Comparisons between now and previous updates, of which there are many. There's even mention of other, terminated, subjects. Tim, watching, feels the first stirrings of unease. ]
--previous subjects may have been too young, and the accelerated aging, contrary to expectations, was, by all accounts, a success. Mental faculties fully intact, the subject remains responsive, aware, and cooperative. Most days.
There are very few rational explanations for why a natural age of fifteen rather than ten seems to have been the magic number, even with the reduction in data that could be transferred over--
[ There's ice in Tim's stomach and a pounding in his ears and he stares, transfixed, at the screen. ]
--hope to have better results for the Demon's Head, soon--
[ Tim's tuning out the words by now, numbly pulling up the attached documents, and he has to stop, remember to breathe, at the crisp photo image of a young man pops up on screen. Dressed in simple white clothes, he's been caught on camera in the middle of a spinning kick, and it's a set of too-familiar, sharp grey-blue eyes, ringed with the smudges of chronic exhaustion, that stare straight into the camera. A too-familiar face, expression neutral, with a too-familiar, impudent slant to his lips. Handsome, healthy--
--alive.
Tim stops breathing, and starts throwing everything to Babs. ]
[ Bruce is off-world, at Apokolips, but even if he wasn't this message would go to Dick, first, because Bruce is an asshole who doesn't believe in telling them the whole truth.
(Dick, also alive, Batman again in Bruce's stead. What happened to no more secrets, B?)
Attached to the message is the video, the photos, the documents he could pull up. A location, and a plan. ]
Just say the word.
no subject
But right now he was back. He was going to get the rest of it back now.]
Word. I'm going.
[Yes, there were a thousand things pointing to the fact that it's probably not him-- not, his little brother. And this evidence and that and we know that they're capable of it, etc, etc. But if there was even the slimmest chance that this was Damian-- that he was alive, that he'd been dropped into a Pit somewhere that somehow, somehow he was back-- Dick was going to take that chance, no question. But if it wasn't Damian, then this kid, whoever he was, didn't deserve whatever the League was putting him through. Or whatever they were going to; and he was willing to take the risk either way.
The plan was easy enough to follow-- the transition from Spyral Agent 37 to Batman was surprisingly easy, but he'd always thought there was simply something about wearing the cowl that could make you act a certain way, even when his heart was beating with heightened stakes. Maybe it was muscle memory.
Disabled the security, and move fast-- find the room (the lab, god these people were disgusting) they were keeping him in. They had security, dispatched not without some trouble because this was the League of course, and more were on the way no doubt. But anyone else was just a scientist or a doctor, easily confused with a smokescreen filling the room, and easily dispatched with the right kicks and jabs.
Had to be fast. Had to find the kid, because more were definitely on the way. This was an investment for Ra's al Ghul.]
no subject
To be terminated. To be broken and molded into whatever form they wish him to take. Or to sit here, until he dies, suffering the constant poking and prodding until they've wrung every useful bit of data out of his body.
He prefers death. Almost takes the chance, when it arises; it would have been messy, and painful, and slow, but he would have been free from all of this.
But then he'd remembered the smell of greasy fast-food and the taste of vanilla. The feel of rubbing the soft velvet tips of a dog's ear. The glow of fireflies in a darkening cemetery. All these things he's never experienced for himself, should have no concept for, but he knows. They hold him fast to life.
But, routine. Reliability. Damian had developed an innate sense for when things should happen. And, this late at night, the noise outside his room breaks routine. He can't say his room is windowless, but it's a one-way street for that wall: an observation room lies beyond, and they can look in on him anytime they please, but he can't see anything. Just dark, black glass, and a door that's never been unlocked for longer than it takes to shuttle him in and out of the bare, clean little cell.
He looks up from his book--
(they allowed him that, at least, indulged him with entertainment, anything to keep him sane in his isolation, because they wanted him coherent)
--and listens, carefully. But it's too muffled, almost whisper-quiet. He thinks it may be yelling. After a beat of consideration, he sets his book down, gets up, and walks over to the speaker on his wall. They can hear him out there in the observation room, and even in the larger laboratory beyond that where his tests are conducted, if anyone is listening. He knows they're out there. They're always out there. ]
What's going on?
[ His voice is rough, and quiet, because he doesn't speak much at all, but it's anything but soft; demanding, in its way, for some explanation.
That -- that was a scream he hears, he thinks, and a frown settles on his face. ]
Doctors?
no subject
He can hear him, clear as day-- it's him, he-- sounds older, maybe, definitely more gruff than he could remember (god, but it's been so long). It's easier, in a way that Damian's voice never usually was, but somehow he could still hear him preparing for his usual sneer like he always had.
Up until now the break-in had practically been procedural-- but just like that, he was a little too rough with one of the doctor's necks on the nerve cluster. He'd be fine, of course-- but there'd probably be some pretty good bruising. But Batman had a lot more reason to finally be done with this mess in the main lab.
It wasn't hard to follow where the speakers were transmitting from, given it was right about in the same room, once the last person had been dispatched. There was an observation right there at the back, and behind the window--
It was him. Damian, Damian Wayne, or at least damn close to him. The same face he'd seen on the videos and photos when he couldn't believe his eyes, features slightly mature but the same steel eyes that had been so frightfully dull the last time he'd seen them. But these ones were still sharp and full of life and willpower and damnit damnit damnit it had to be him, his little brother, his Robin, his ex-partner back from the grave.
He'd stood there staring for something fast approaching the 30 second mark, which wasn't really time he should be sparing. His heart was pounding in his chest and and it wasn't from exertion, and his step was almost a stumble when he backed away from the observation window, scurrying back to the main lab to nick a key off of one of the scientists. Once he had the right one he flew back to the cell door, putting it and opening it as fast as possible, remembering to breath and not actually holding his breath, but--]
Damian.
[He was real. He was here. He was right here in front of him. It had to be him.]
We're getting out of here.
whoop that got long tl;dr: AIGHT I GOT ME A WEAPON LET'S FUKKIN GO.
If something happened? An emergency escape, maybe. An attack on the larger compound, or maybe the wrong kind of project on the loose. They'll come back, or they won't.
His life is simple in this regard. ]
If you've left me to die-- fuck you. Fuck you all. Actually, fuck you anyway.
[ His lip curls as the silence stretches, before he finally turns away from the window, stalking back to his bed and his book and what might be a long few days ahead of wondering if he's been left to die.
The key notches in the door. Clicks. The door flies open just as he's turning back, expectant, with a sharp rebuke on his tongue, and--
--he steps back, whiplash quick, at the figure that fills the doorway. Bristling, ready for a fight, book gripped warningly in his hand as if he means to bludgeon the stranger with the hardcover spine of the weighty anthology of Greek epics. Behind the man, he can see the larger laboratory, dissipating smoke hanging in the air and the bodies of the scientists and security laid out on the floor. It's a quick glance, and he can't see if they're alive or dead.
If he can lure the black-clad stranger in, he might be able to take him out, or duck around him and run for escape--
'Damian.'
The gears in his head stop, freeze, and his eyes snap up to meet Dick's own. Confused, wary, suspicious and ready to strike as a coiled adder.
He doesn't have a name. Not down here, not with them. If he was to be kept a secret, he'd keep this secret of his own, and hold it close. His.
At first he doesn't recognize the person in front of him, doesn't recognize the gravelly, forced voice, but the longer he looks the more familiar the outfit becomes, like a slow itch building at the base of his skull. Something he's forgotten, or only half-knew in the first place.
(Cold rain, and the dry shelter inside a cape, sitting close beneath a heavy arm wrapped over his shoulders. Bright green boots with complementary red laces, tucked next to a much larger pair of black boots. A name, on the tip of his tongue--) ]
Batman.
[ And just like that, more begins trickling in, a few tumbling snowballs the prelude to an avalanche, but it's easy to ignore that and respond when Batman says they're going--
(a Robin always listens to that voice, even if he doesn't obey, even if he's not a Robin anymore)
--nodding, shortly, as he drops the book back to the bed and takes a few steps forward, close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted. His demeanor is assured, professional and confident, ready to move, and he brushes past Dick out the door. One of the (alive) security guards has a pair of batons on her, and he takes the nonlethal sticks, giving them an experimental twirl in his hands before he looks back at his would-be rescuer.
The bare-footed young man in white is no small thing anymore, eyes only inches away from being able to meet Dick's without needing to look up; he's still a lean build, broad-shouldered and close-packed muscle rather than bulk, but there'll be real power behind his blows, regardless. They've kept him fit and healthy, well-kept, and that'll work against them.
But that stare is the same. Impatient, demanding, as if Dick is wasting time that could be better spent knocking in heads. ]
Alright, I'm packed. Let's go.
[ And the same dry, black humor. ]
gosh so inconsiderate
Glad you travel light.
[Well, he certainly couldn't keep him waiting after all, could he? And it was only a matter of time before they had more security already on them, so they had to get out fast. So it was good to see that Damian was up and moving just fine.
He jerked his head towards the door, only a second before dashing towards the exist himself.] C'mon. We gotta go fast.
hey i put the tl;dr didn't i
(hotfooting it to match pace with Batman, playful and challenging when he'd throw on some extra speed to outstrip him by just a few feet, a wordless reminder that soon soon soon he'd be the one wearing the cowl, better keep up--) ]
Tell me you have an exit strategy.
[ Damian usually didn't get far when he tried for escape. He'd found a kill chute once that had helped him hold out against security, but it had left him with a dead end, inaccessible to anyone without the clearance: a door that wouldn't open for him, and some pissed off men with tranquilizer guns.
They round a corner, bump into a shocked guard, and Damian takes the enemy down during that window of surprise with a jump and a bootless foot to the face, almost effortless in how efficiently he knocks them out with the kick and keeps going.
(The curling, toothy smirk of satisfaction at the crunch says he hasn't grown out of his tendency to gleefully curbstomp his opponents at all.) ]
Because, no offense, if we get caught, I'm not sharing my room with you.
no subject
Even Damian's unspoken (well, along with his spoken) threats of seizing the cowl, to which always responds with unnecessary flurries like the way he lets the cape pillow out on the next stretch of corridor, as annoying as they were-- he'd missed them. Missed all of it.]
Don't worry. [He may not be smirking like he'd allow himself to do again at Spyral (had to have some small victories), but the amusement isn't hidden from his voice at all.] If they catch me they'll probably just kill me. So I think you're good unless they decide to move your room to the morgue.
[The plus side was that the League most likely wanted Damian alive-- granted, they could repair a lot of heavy damage, but on yet another plus side, Damian was still small enough Dick could probably fling him over his shoulder and carry him if need be.]
We go up. The Batjet'll be waiting for us at an extraction point in the Northeast of the compound once we get out of the labs and get outside.
no subject
[ He laughs, harsh and short, and it used to be that darkly amused little chuckle sounded like a piping yap rather than the bark it's become. They hit a T-junction, and he turns right. ]
Too much of a liability now--
[ Whoop, that was a slew of rubber bullets slinging past his face the minute he stuck his nose around that corner. Hello, heavy duty reinforcements. Damian digs his heels in, spinning back around, and pushes Dick the other way, breaking into a sprint because that's a lot of company they have. ]
"Go up"? That's it? -Tt!- Your planning could use some work, Batman. There's elevators, but up needs clearance.
[ He doesn't even know where in the compound they are. Down here there's no such thing as north or northeast; just left, right, and straight. He's mapped out and memorized the twists and turns he's taken before, so he has some idea of where things are. A service elevator, two turns ahead of them, but it's useless if they can't even get into it. ]
no subject
(That Damian is an investment for them really is kind of a saving grace. Never thought he'd hear rubber bullets in an assassin compound, at least not when the firing is directed at him.)]
I'm Batman.
[His tone almost sounds like he sees fit to leave it at that; he's studied the maps with due diligence and three times over that, and knows where the service elevator is and heads straight for it without a word.
He throws a punch at the button to call it down, busting through to damage the circuitry as soon as it's in range. For the door, he plants a small explosive with a timed detonator of only a few seconds, pushing Damian away from the blast zone as soon as it starts beeping.
The explosion isn't gigantic, just enough to blow the doors wide open-- but it is loud, and not gonna do them any favors if they sit around too long. And Dick's already stepping through the new mess in the wall, into the elevator shaft.]
I make my own clearance.
no subject
Oh sure, easy enough to say when you have explosives. Last time I had to bite a man's finger off just to get past the touch ID.
[ But even he can't refrain from following eagerly at Dick's heels into the elevator shaft, wide eyes immediately snapping up to the top of the shaft; shadowed, but promising. Freedom.
(He looks like he'd climb it with his bare hands and feet.) ]
Wasn't even the right finger.
[ The batons are still gripped in his hands, and now he's looking at Dick as if asking 'what next?' Actually climb? Get the elevator itself to work after blowing the circuitry? ]
no subject
[The smirk on his face says that he thinks he's the most hilarious asshole on the planet right now.
But he missed this. Dick was a chatty guy, and while Tim and Babs had more in the way of wit, Damian's sarcasm always had a vicious bite to it that Dick couldn't help but laugh at. He probably was not setting the best example. But, who cares.
He answers the unspoken question with action, whipping the grappling gun out of his belt and pointing it straight up at the ceiling, releasing the mechanism with a simple flick as the cable flew straight through the air. And once it caught and the line pulled tight, he didn't bother to ask permission to reach out and curl his arm around Damian's torso (he's heavier, and taller, and it's not as if he could toss him around like Bruce could've when Dick was that age, but he's still got a strong grip) and pull him close.]
Hold on tight.
[The sound of bullets and footsteps rapidly approaching-- another click, and up they went.]
no subject
Batman.
[ He doesn't appreciate being squished up against Kevlar. Or being touched at all, for that matter. But he connects the dots quickly, accepts his lot in life with a grumble and curls his own arm over Dick's shoulder to strengthen the hold.
Bullets, ringing in the hall. Urgent yelling and the stampede of feet. It's so much like last time, when he'd been so close, pressed against this same service elevator, that he can't help but think it's back to the room for him. Back to the slow insanity of being isolated, tested, a science experiment with no hope for any release but death.
Except escape is a reality. The jerk of velocity, dragging him up, is a reminder of that. The pissed off yelling below brings a vicious smile to his face, though it drops at the sound of bullets -- real bullets, this time -- ricocheting off metal as they're fired on. ]
Try again, assholes! [ He yells down at them, taunting. ] A little to the left this time!