[ No response. The sounds, yells, gone quiet. He can never tell what's going on out there, but the entire laboratory suddenly feels still in a way it never has before. He doesn't think, even for a second, that it's rescue. Nobody knows he's here, let alone anybody that could save him. His existence is buried under a mile of water, stone, and secrets. He's come to terms with that.
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. ]
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. ]