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ABOUT Appearance 6'3"-6'4"—he's huge. Olive-ish skin, cropped black hair and blue eyes. Wears stupid shirts. Abilities Fluent in a dozen languages, even more fluent in the art of fisticuffs. Battlesmart. Not really emotionally smart. Has Hella Endurance. About Will ping with residual demonic energy, like he's been tainted. Has a million weapons on his person usually. PERMISSIONS
I'M SUPER OPEN TO EVERYTHING if you're uncertain just poke me!! likewise if I do something that you're uncomfortable just shoot me a message and I will back off immediately!! I am sorry in advance for Damian he is the worst. |
thread tracking;
memory registry;
registry;
strikethroughindicates regained memory* indicates possibly being regained repeatedly
hover to see extent of memory regained
unsorted
memory regains;
9/15 memory game;
vial one;
i haven't decided yet
vial two;
The fantastic fall of the Flying Graysons.
You would never tell anyone, but you, too, were excited for today.
It's his birthday—Timothy's, and you could have done anything else to celebrate it, but today, your family has decided to go back to the classics. Timothy has always been a fan of Haley's Circus—they visited once when you were both younger, and you both attended; you, too, have a fondness for circuses. It's not something you like to admit, especially not to Timothy. But today, today's alright. After all, it's his birthday, and Haley's Circus has made its rounds again, and this time you have more siblings to watch the show with—Timothy, rightfully your sibling now. A golden-haired girl with a long streak of white hair bickers lightheartedly with a red-headed boy as they plan out the evening—food, of course. First, cotton candy. Then, popcorn. Then, peanuts. Or maybe peanuts first, popcorn second, cotton candy last because cotton candy is sweeter, and don't forget hot dogs and after that they—we, they gently remind everyone in the crowd—have to remember to get dinner, too.
"We'll even get veggie dogs for you, Big Bird," Stephanie says graciously, to which you simply click your tongue in annoyance. She still calls you that. It's annoying, but you're used to it by now, and you would never admit that you're a little fond of that, too.
"The Flying Graysons have a new recruit," Timothy observes the giant painted poster on the caravan, The Flying Graysons, with a woman and a man and a small child between them. "He must be their kid—he's so young!"
He's impressed, but you just scoff again, without saying someone became a crime fighting vigilante at approximately that size, because one, today's his day and you've promised not to sass too much today and you have to save your sass reserves, and two, that's top secret information anyway and today would be a really shitty day to blow everyone's cover with a snide remark.
You feel a jab at your side and when you look down it's your youngest sister; she looks up at you with brown eyes and a look, the sort of look you get when you've done something she disapproves of. Ah. The scoffing. Right. Maybe that counts as half of a sass. You roll your eyes and tilt your head, alright, alright, fine, you'll stop. Timothy hasn't noticed—or if he has, at least, he's ignoring it. He's probably ignoring you. That's fine—it doesn't bother you much, you two have always had that sort of relationship. He's talking to Barbara about the itinerary; the commissioner's daughter, you remember her as, but at this point she might as well be a sister to you, or maybe a cousin. She stands a respectable distance from the redhead—Jason.
You're not entirely sure what's happened there, but you get the gist of it at least.
Anyway.
"—seven, huh? That's when the main event starts. Do you think he'll make it by then?"
"Father," you interrupt their conversation, "Is a man of many things, punctuality included. Broken promises, not so much. He will be here." Business meeting be damned. You don't think you'd need to, but you're filled with the conviction to drag the man from his office if need be.
But. You won't need to. Surely.
They give an affirmative to you and go back to their conversation, and you watch the world around you. There are many, many people, and usually, you hate that—you hate crowds, you hate having your back exposed and you most certainly hate people, but today, today it'll probably be fine. The lithe fingers wrapped around your hand that belong to the black haired girl next to you say so. So do the chatterboxes on your left and right. The conversation is dull, admittedly, completely unengaging, but it's calming, nonetheless.
"So look, all I'm saying is that elephants could totally—hey! Tim!" Stephanie stops suddenly, and the group stops too; she grabs Timothy by the arm and tugs, forcibly pulling him along(, and the group moves too).
"It's them, right? The Flying Graysons! They're doing photos! Come on, let's get a photo!"
You have to admit, your sister, while incredibly bright and a ray of sunshine, has the worst ideas. You think this is a terrible idea. Not the idea of Timothy getting a photo with his favorite flying artists, no—the idea that everyone else should join in, too. You, included.
". . . I can take the picture," you offer, but it's to no avail. You have to be in it, apparently, and you have to fucking crouch because Tim is short and so is everyone else.
"I've always been a fan," Timothy says excitedly, "Since I was a kid!"
John and Mary Grayson laugh, which registers to you as happy. Happy, enthused that they have fans—well, they should be. It gives you half a mind to add that you've always been a fan too, but you don't. It's not your day. You watch the child between them, who looks happy for his parents, but there's something else—pride, you realize with a start. Well, he should be proud; there's nothing wrong with that.
Cassandra approaches the child, crouching on her knees. "This is my first time," she murmurs to him in measured syllables, and you can't help but feel a smidgen of pride when she speaks, "Are you going to fly too?"
—this, evidently, is when he shines, beaming brightly. "I sure am! It's my first time performin' in Gotham."
"I look forward to it," Timothy says, "Your parents are fantastic. I bet you will be, too. Could you do me a favor and do some flips for the birthday boy?"
The child seems to become more agitated—excited—and he bounces on the balls of his feet, "You got it, mister! Tonight's performance'll be special, just for you! 's the Flying Graysons wishin' you a Happy Birthday!"
Timothy seems pleased by this, and Stephanie expresses her desire to pinch the child's—Richard's, you make a mental note—cheeks, and acts appropriately, doing so. His parents look to you and you want to duck your head, but instead you make eye contact and they look at you fondly.
That's. Well.
Okay.
You're not sure how to process that, and you become a bit abashed, reflexively smiling back—right, you're a Wayne, a charming, charismatic Wayne. Ugh. Are you smiling right? Maybe you're smiling too hard. Too long?
Thankfully, the social interaction ends—there are still a few more things to look at, and Stephanie is so sad to see the cutest widdle acrobat to ever grace the skies leave, but she'd love to see him go—you know, in the performance. So everyone bids everyone adieu and you are, honestly, relieved. Parents make you uncomfortable. Including flying ones. Especially flying ones.
In the end, you don't have to drag your father from his business meeting after all. He arrives, just in time—of course, he's still in business, but he's downgraded to business casual so as to not stick out so much. You sit, at first, at the front row, but Jason and Timothy both complain that you're Too Tall, so you have to sit behind them, and you end up having to sit next to Father as well, as he too, is Too Tall. It ends up somewhat in age order—Father, you, and Stephanie sit behind Barbara, Timothy, and Jason, though Timothy breaks the pattern, and Cassandra breaks it further by sitting herself squarely in between Jason and Timothy, making the birthday boy not-so-in-the-middle, but nobody seems to mind. You don't mind.
The lights dim. Then darken. And the spotlight is on for Haley's Circus—it's begun.
Some people you recognize, from your first time around. Some people you don't—newcomers, obviously. The clown is still unfunny, you note, and the crowd continues to have bad taste as they all laugh at his jokes. You don't, because you still have impeccable taste.
(Your father laughs. You are not entirely sure how to process that. Then again, if there is ever a flaw that Father has, it's that he has shit taste.)
Lions, tigers, fires. You quell the boiling anger inside of yourself—the animals probably aren't taken care of properly and honestly, you should go around back and deduce whether their living conditions are suitable for creatures as majestic as they are, but your father is next to you and Stephanie has taken your arm hostage and Cassandra has a hand on your pant leg as soon as this act starts, as if she knows.
Damn girl.
Then, it begins—the fantastic Flying Graysons. Even you have to stop your internal criticism—they are as death defying and as flawless as you remember. Of course, this isn't something you couldn't do—in fact, you could do it easily. But there's a grace that you could not capture that they own like you and your family own the night, a beauty that you could not mimic. The air is theirs and you are in so much awe, and so is the crowd—your siblings, too. Stephanie has loosened her grip, but tightens it during the more harrowing acts.
Mary, first. She performs beautifully, flipping on the wires, pirouettes on a single point of the wire.
John, second. He is magnificent, doing illusion turns between roped bars.
Richard, third. He is small, even smaller so high in the air, but he crosses the tightrope and makes a revolution on the bar, and another, and another, and then he lets go—Richard soars through the air before he's caught by his parents on the platform, and they raise him up for applause. You do. You untangle yourself from Stephanie and you clap, and so does the rest of your family.
What happens next, happens too quickly.
Mary and John set Richard down—you gather he's to wait, perhaps they're to do some sort of performance as a couple. Whatever it is, they never finish their routine—John jumps off the platform first, legs on the bar as he swings back, forth, back, forth. Back again, forth—to Mary's waiting arms, and they latch arms. They swing.
There's a crack. A snap. The rope breaks, and they fly, one last time, to hit the ground.
You can't be concerned with that yet. You are, but more pressing matters occur—the lights flicker and there are more snapping sounds, cracking sounds—you realize immediately that the whole place is going to come crashing down.
"Everybody out!" You yell, jumping to your feet, and your family already stands to take action; the panicked crowds don't help the situation and the pillars that stand the tent up are unstable without their central support, and they, too, begin to collapse.
A light falls. Smashes against the ground, gets caught on something flammable. Great. Now there's fire.
With the combined efforts of your siblings and yourself, you manage to assist most everyone who's inside, but—
"D!"
You hear your name called, and Stephanie is there near the entrance, pointing to the platform of the central pole, the singular pole still standing. Richard—is not there. Richard has climbed down the pole and he's next to his parents' broken bodies, shocked. Confused. Unable to move.
The pole creaks. The platform shivers and you do the only thing you can do, at this distance—you jump and tackle the kid to the ground, wrapping yourself around to hold him tightly, protectively. You don't have your armor. You don't have your suit. You don't have anything but your body but that's never stopped you before. You can hear the creaking, the crashing, the screams—but most of all you can hear the little heartbeat in your arms, the shuttering breaths. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize this kid's just seen his parents die and your chest hurts, but you can't think about that now.
It's a mere matter of seconds. The tarp has ripped a hole in itself from the fiasco, and as soon as it feels as if the pole won't squish the both of you, you pick up the surviving Grayson and pull at the tarp until the both of you can breathe again, until the both of you are no longer trapped.
You hear the last of the fire being put out—there's the sound of an air balloon popping, or something akin to that, as the ball capsule filled with extinguisher breaks open and the foam spreads on the affected area. You turn your head, holding the child close to your body, and there she is—Stephanie. The rest have, presumably, gone off to crowd control, or otherwise have slinked away to put their intelligence to use. Stephanie is here with her heart and her tears and you pass Richard off to her, wordlessly.
There he is, too. The familiar cowl, the cape. You look to him, and at first, you have to find your voice again.
"Batman." Father.
He isn't looking at you. He looks to the child. To Richard. And there is a sadness that you've finally become skilled enough to pick up on—or perhaps, you can sense it, because somewhere inside, you're sad too. Your chest hurts, just a bit.
Stephanie is holding Richard protectively, rocking him as she looks to your father—Batman—your father—earnestly, pleading. You know this look, too. We have to help him.
For once, you agree. Your father looks between the two of you and sighs, and you realize your face must have been doing something too, and Batman looks to Richard—Richard, who is still wide-eyed and shocked and numb but coming back to earth with tears in his eyes.
"It's over now, son. It's going to be alright."
You hear the police sirens wailing, and you turn to leave—your talents are best left to sleuthing and breaking skulls and sneaking around but you can occasionally do some PR, too. At least, you can do this much better than comforting a kid. At the very least, this time, you don't have to come up with a story. You couldn't make this up if you tried.
vial three;
Reading Cassandra bedtime stories.
You're not sure why you have to do this.
To be fair, Timothy and Stephanie do too, but at least they seem happy to do it. And they are far, far better at handling children than you are, but for whatever reason, she demanded you read this book to her. This. This book.
This . . . "Harry Potter". Sorcerer's Stone, the first volume.
You never bothered reading this hogwash when you were younger. It was never interesting to you, not when you were busy reading texts by Aristotle. Granted, Aristotle wasn't that exciting either, but this? This is just kiddish.
“I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed - or worse, expelled. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to bed.”
You mimic the voice of a young girl, and Cassandra is apparently intrigued by this. Voice mimicry—tt. Easy. And such a talent wasted on book reading. Please.
“Alas! Earwax!” you shout in great exasperation, and she giggles. Giggles! What are you now, the jester of the court? An entertainer?
You have to admit though, that these people in this book are stupid. Honestly, to be afraid of Voldemort—tt, please, there are more frightening people in the world and we all say Batman with fear. It's the point. Fear in a name—
“Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
—well, this Dumbledore has something right, at least.
You don't know when, exactly, it begins, but at some point throughout this journey you end up engrossed in the story, and you become—even, admittedly, to yourself—a bit hammy in your performance, and you're so caught up in the book you nearly miss when Cassandra stops moving, when her breathing slows, when she becomes quiet and peaceful and you stop reading aloud, though—you've never been one to leave a book down without finishing it at least once in a sitting. It's only proper to finish it, right?
So you finish the book, sitting in the dim light next to her, and when you finish—that bastard Quill, you knew he wasn't to be trusted—you close the book shut, but not before bookmarking the chapter nearest to Cassandra's last giggle for a bit of a reread. You place it on the nightstand, and you stand to leave, wondering to yourself when it became three in the morning.
As you turn for the door you stop, looking back to the little girl sleeping quietly on the bed—you wonder, if she's dreaming of flying brooms and lemon drops and magic, or if she's dreaming of knives and guns and blood. Or perhaps she's dreaming of nothing at all, with how peaceful she looks.
On a whim—it's a whim, you tell yourself—you kneel, brushing back her hair from her forehead. Her eyebrow twitches, almost imperceptibly, but her face is smooth, relaxed. This little girl—no, your little sister. Your little sister. Cassandra Martha Wayne. She's yours, now, part of your family, and she's here to stay. You think about how many Harry Potter books there are—how long it might take for you to read them all to her, or perhaps by that point she might have grasped reading on her own. The thought makes you a little sad—but if she could read on her own, then it's more power to her, after all.
You take another moment, memorizing the curves of her face, and you're overwhelmed. This girl. This child, this sister—a third and the youngest but so different from the others, so similar to you.
You lean down, pressing lips to her forehead, gently—it's quick. Chaste. A wish for good dreams. Pointless, maybe, but you don't need her to know.
You . . . almost think you can hear a giggle, when you turn for the door again—it occurs to you she could be awake, but you don't really want to test the theory. And anyway, when you open the door, something else preoccupies you.
A man, roughly your age, half your height—well not half but he might as well be, honestly—stands in the hallway, along with a blonde girl with a streak of white in her hair, and you're careful to ignore their presence when you exit Cassandra's room and close the door. He doesn't care for it.
"She finally asleep?" He asks, prompting.
"Yes," you simply say.
"It took her this long?" Stephanie asks, and your eyebrow twitches in annoyance, and your eyes close.
"Yes," you say again, and when you look back to her, she's grinning from ear to ear, the sort of knowing grin, you know you've made a mistake.
"Liar," she teases, "She was asleep hours ago. I peeked in there just an hour ago, you were reading the book by yourself!"
"—don't be ridiculous," you're scowling already, embarrassed.
"What's wrong, D? Embarrassed? It's okay, I like Harry Potter too!" There's a laugh in her voice and you have to leave, right now.
"Hey—" Timothy calls out, independent of your sister's sass, and you frown at him. He smiles, the sort that makes you uncertain if he's going to say something genuine, or if it's going to be ridiculous, or maybe it'll be both.
"Thanks. For spending some time with her. She's still getting used to everything, you know? Nice to see her big brother's around . . . and playing theatrics. That was some passion about jelly bean flavors."
—he caught you yelling about earwax. You're going to kill them. You're going to kill the both of them. You're going to strangle them and tie them up in coffins and bury them alive, Batman give you strength.
Your face is hot and Timothy and Stephanie are almost howling with laughter, and you grumble about how stupid this is and how this was all a big mistake and you will never, ever do this again.
(You do. Not the next night—it's Stephanie's scheduled night, and then Timothy's, and then Father's, but after that, you do.)
vial four;
Making a Faustian deal.
It's dark in the caves.
Above the caves, above ground, there is light, there are people, there is life. Here, not even the bats stay—it's too cold for them to sleep here.
Too cold for bats, too dark for people—that makes it perfect for you.
As you paint the ground with goat's blood, you have no doubt. You draw the sigils exactly as you remember them from the book, though you have
vial five;
Predator & prey.
When you have, after a few hours of hunting and searching, finally caught up to your teacher—a woman of blonde hair with a sort of softness that's unfamiliar to you—when you finally manage to lure her into your trap, catch her, subjugate her and put a gun to her head, when she's caught, you feel victorious. All the effort was worth this win.
But when you move away, you hear your mother's voice boom from the intercom speakers all around the simulation dome;
"Ah-ah-ah. Miss Yermolov, honestly, I am disappointed. This is the fourth time my Damian has caught you."
"—he still has much to learn, I have so much more to teach him."
"Oh? From here, I can see that there is only one more thing you can teach him."
The look on your teacher changes from defeated to—to something else. You take half a second longer to realize that it's fear, a visceral fear—you've never seen your teacher make this face. Anger, yes. Caution, distrust, yes, but this—this is not the face of your proud, proud teacher. This is the face of an animal, a primal emotion. It resounds deeply in you, and you don't understand what could have caused this. Why?
"Damian, dear?"
Mother. Two words, and you're already compelled. You are seven years old but you are not so young that you don't understand people's happiness, and you would do anything for your mother to be happy. For her to approve of you. It is, after all, why you work so hard, why you train so hard—because at the end of the day your results bring a smile to her face and it makes your chest warm and you are happy when she is happy. You love your mother dearly.
"Yes, mother."
"You are carrying live ammunition, are you not?"
"Of course." —to carry rubber bullets, at the age of seven? That would be insulting.
"Good." There's a pause of silence, and you're not sure why she would ask such a—"Shoot her."
—what? Did you mishear her? Surely—but your teacher's face seems to confirm what your ears heard. Your mother goes on;
"You have done so well, Damian. My son. You continue to defy my expectation, you perform every task and every test beautifully."
Every word makes you feel like she's there, next to you, holding your hand, steadying your aim, and not looking down from above. You—wonder if you should be happy with her praise, with how terrified your teacher looks, but you feel warm nonetheless.
"Now this is your final test. You do not let your prey live; that is not what conquerors do. Shoot her and claim her head as your prize, dear Damian."
Prey. That's the sort of word they used for—tigers and sharks and that sort of thing, animals. Things to hunt and kill. Looking down on your teacher's face, it occurs to you then—you were hunting her, after all, and look at her now. This, you realize, is the sort of expression a prey animal makes. The cornered fear, the desperation.
You are so fascinated by her face and the realization that you forget, cornered animals will strike back. And this cornered animal does, swiftly smacking the gun from your hand and taking advantage of her size to overturn you, to pin you. But she acts out of desperation, and her moves are sloppy; it's easy for you to escape the hold. Of course, her strength never laid in close, unarmed combat, and you realize your second mistake, when she gets her hand on a rifle, because you never thought to keep the weapons that far away from her.
When she shoots, you move on reflex—and there's a cutting pain on your cheek and something warm and you realize, that's blood, and she's serious; if you hadn't moved in time, that bullet would have gone through your head.
[ like, an epic gun fight scene happens here don't ask me to write that okay ]
This time, when the gun is pressed to her head, you do not hesitate. The shot is loud, but your ears are already deaf from the tens of shots fired before. And the animal's head lolls back, all signs of life abruptly stop.
"Damian."
Your mother's voice is no longer on the intercom, you realize, and you look up quickly—you hadn't moved at all since the animal (your teacher) stopped moving and you don't know how long she's been there, how long you've been there, but she's there and she gently guides you away from the body (your teacher), embraces you, and you realize she is warm. Your teacher, too, is warm—she will not be warm for long.
She praises you—your mother does, and you feel appropriately lifted; you realize that killing a person is, really, the same as killing any other animal. People are animals too—and in this world there are the predators and the prey. Your mother explains this to you after you have already understood, and when you demonstrate that you're already aware, she beams; she is so proud of you. Of course, you already understand—you are a predator, you are a conqueror, you are Damian al Ghul.
You don't understand the feeling of an open hole inside of yourself; you ignore it, and you ignore the image of your teacher's corpse in the backs of your eyelids, every time you blink. You ignore it all and bathe in your mother's praise.
vial six;
i'm lazy but anyway
HEY GUESS WHO'S A TINY PERSON AND PANICKING AND TRYING TO GET OUT BUT HIS HANDS ARE TIED AND WEIGHTED AND WHEN HE TRIES TO GET THROUGH TO THE ONE HOLE FOR AIR WATER KEEPS POURING ON HIS FACE SO HE'S TRYING TO SOMEHOW DIG HIS WAY OUT
ENDS UP BEING DROWNED
THIS IS A FUN MEMORY RIGHT
vial seven;
Stephanie Wayne's funeral.
The whole affair is small. Quiet. On a bright day, which is not nearly how you'd imagine a funeral day to be, but it suits—it's fitting. It's just like her—warm, bright, and with endless chirping.
You never thought this day would truly come—and you never imagined you would be this affected. You want to resent her—because she spent so long getting under your skin, so much time around you—and now she's gone. Anger bubbles inside of your stomach as you view Stephanie's face; her peaceful expression makes you want to reach into the coffin and shake her until she wakes up—wake up, you want to beg, wake up. More than angry, you are upset—because it took you this long, this long to realize how much you cared about this stupid, stupid girl, and now she's gone.
Pennyworth. Timothy. Colin. Father—the only people here. Because Robin died, and Stephanie Brown—Stephanie Wayne, you correct yourself mentally—is an unknown. She had friends, certainly—but none of them would be allowed onto the Wayne manor. Security reasons.
The city would never know of her sacrifice, but you do. You know, and while you've always known that the job was a dangerous one, the unwelcome reminder makes you very afraid.
(You've always had a strange relationship with death; your father forbids it in his realm, forbids you from delivering it, but you remember the bright green bubbling oozing waters of the Lazarus Pits and your mother, your grandfather. That side of the family embraced the darkness and the Pit, and a part of you wants to speak to your mother, beg her for her assistance—Stephanie didn't deserve to die, she was too young, and your grandfather is hundreds of years old, a decrepit old man who hardly deserves another tomorrow, much less another lifetime. But you know it's a foolish endeavor; and besides, your father would disapprove. You and he have already fought over this, and while you are no longer under his supervision, she still is, even in death, and you resent him a little bit for that.)
It's when Timothy puts a hand on your back, and Colin looks to you, that you realize you're to speak next. Your piece, to Stephanie's corpse, before they lower her into her grave. You realize too, that the paper in your hands—your written piece—is wrinkled and crumpled from how tightly you've been holding onto it.
Stephanie is closer—no, you must have taken a step forward. You look down at the paper.
It's blank. You never finished writing. You never started. Instead, you speak, quietly and from—wherever. The heart, you suppose. You suppose you actually have one—funny, that.
"To laugh," you begin, quietly, reciting; "is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep, is to risk being called sentimental.
To reach out to another, is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings, is to risk showing your true self.
To love, is to risk not being loved in return.
To live, is to risk dying.
To hope, is to risk despair.
And to try, is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken, because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing, and becomes nothing."
Your voice cracks. Your eyes burn, your face feels hot. You were never good at speeches. You were never good at being sincere. You swallow the lump in your throat.
"Stephanie Wayne was a fool. She was a risk-taker, and she took a risk that led to her death.
. . . But in risk, she had faith. She dared to laugh, dared to hope, dared to try—she dared to defy death and gave the City her all for a better tomorrow. She believed in hope. She believed what she risked would be worth it."
Finally.
". . . Stephanie, was a fool. A risk taker. She was—tt—a hero to this city and she was—is—a sister to me. ...I just wish I could have told her this before."
You take a step back and someone's holding onto your hands—two are holding onto your hands. A hand on your back, one on your shoulder. Someone's crying, audibly—it's not you, but your eyes are wet and never lift from Stephanie's body.
There, I said it; I care, you think to yourself, as you take a shuttering breath, You win, Stephanie. You win forever. ....please, come back now.
She doesn't. Of course—there is no Lazarus Pit, no miracles, no hope. Nothing.
Some time passes—it becomes darker, not with the sun setting, but with a single cloud obscuring the sun's rays. Eventually, the casket closes, and it's lowered. You, Timothy, Colin, Father—you all assist Pennyworth in lowering her to her final bed, and you bury her with bouquets of flowers.
vials masterlist;
two. the fantastic fall of the flying graysons. taken by dick
three. reading cassandra bedtime stories. reserved for cass
four. making a faustian deal. reserved for bucky. INCOMPLETE DON'T LOOK
five. killing his teacher. taken by Dick
six. drowning. taken by roy
seven. stephanie wayne's funeral. taken by tim
august;
day 8
day 9
day 10
september;
day 12
day 13
day 14
day 15
vials taken;
from roy mustang
from dick grayson
from cassandra
from Dick grayson
to be written;
kissing game - some terrible trauma
memory share - family shit
eggs - wearing the cowl for the first time
costume - being replaced
starter;
memory 01; kissing game
memory 02; memory share
memory 03; eggs
october;
day 16
day 17
day 18
11/12 sword game;
memory masterlist;
pre-movie night
being replaced;
"Listen, D," she says, "I'm not trying to take your place. I'm not robbin' you of Magpie—I'm gonna be my own robin," and she stops, blue eyes glinting with something that you don't understand and it makes you confused, and then angry that you're confused, she's muttering to herself, "Robin, that's good. That's got a nice ring to it—"
you click your tongue and turn away, finishing the descent to your motorcycle. whatever. she couldn't replace you if she tried. she's only a nobody, after all, she's stephanie brown, she could never be anyone more than that. she isn't an al ghul. she isn't a wayne. she's just stephanie brown.
pre-movie night;
not disappearance, you correct yourself—his death. his death. that's right; he went and died and now you have to pick up the pieces.
your chest burns, twists; there's a bitter taste in your mouth and an energy in your limbs that makes you want to throw things to the ground, your muscles ache for some sort of release, but you can't—you've got him in your arms. and he is hurting, far more than you—no, to compare grief is flawed, but to lose his parents—and then his guardian, in the span of a couple months. to lose everything once, and then lose it all again—so young.
you remember how you were, at that age. already you were a killer, already you had blood on your hands that would never come off no matter how many times you washed them. no matter what you did, these are hands to hurt—
were, were hands to hurt. but you could never hurt the child in your arms, whose heart beats too faintly, whose breath comes too quickly; his shoulders are still shaking.
you could never hurt him, but it occurs to you how easily he could be hurt. he's so small it makes you miserable—you're not fit to care for him. you're not fit to take care of a child like this, you don't even know the first steps how, and bitterness fills your mouth again.
how dare he die, how dare he just up and die like that—how could he leave you, no, how could he leave him? nevermind yourself, you're an adult now, you can cope, but him? he's so small. he's so young—and he's so alone, and how could he, how could he, how could he—
(it's poor manners to blame a dead man for his death, but you have terrible manners anyway.)
"Richard," you murmur long after his shoulders stop shaking, when it seems like sleep might finally claim him, "It's time for bed."
"No," he mumbles in turn, small arms around you gripping tighter, fists full of turtleneck, "I don't want to."
"You must. You're falling asleep."
"No, I don't want to."
—you sigh, meaninglessly, but you can feel his shoulders tense and you can feel his grip tighten even further, like he's afraid you'll pull him off, like he's afraid to let go, like you'd disappear if he did—
—oh.
". . . Richard," you begin again, softly, and he cuts in, looking up to you with puffed up, angry blue eyes, tear stained cheeks—
"I don't want to go to bed, D, 'm not tired, I—"
"Alright."
—he looks surprised. that's probably what that emotion is. disbelieving, perhaps?
you go on;
"Since you will not sleep, and since it is obvious that I will not get to Bolivia's aggregate report tonight, what do you say . . . . to a movie?"
the words are foreign on your lips, honestly. the sentiment too, and it shows, because richard looks at you like you might be a—what's the term?—pod person.
you continue,
"The theatre room is hardly used as often as it should be. And I have been told I am sorely lacking in what is referred to as 'pop culture'—though, I truly doubt it's necessary—but in any case. A movie of your choice; we'll certainly have it, or otherwise have the means to purchase it."
he's thoughtful, for a moment. he takes a sort of sly look,
"Do you have The Incredibles?"
somehow the movie choice makes your eyebrows raise.
"That is a movie?"
he looks to you with wide eyes and scoffs, like he's offended. "Uhm, not a movie! The best movie! It's about superheroes—"
04; costume