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By the hands of the Gods, you have been plucked from your time and from your world, dropped into the box. Only the box is a world of its own.

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Private the weight of family and the pull of gravity

Discussion in 'Pandora Town' started by Damian Wayne, Jul 11, 2018.

  1. Damian Wayne

    Damian Wayne DC Universe

    12 (+1)
    Chaotic Good

    June 20th, Y7
    @Tim Drake

    Damian wasn't one to flee in the face of danger, but even he had to admit that putting distance in between him and a half dozen assassins -- none of whom even flinched when he took out four of them beforehand -- was the smarter tactical decision. Really, he was more just buying time while looking for an opportunity to engage them on his own terms. It was just like his parents had both taught him to do when he was outnumbered in a fight. But usually, leading enemies on a crazy chase across rooftops would exhaust them, trip them up, show him signs of a stumble that he could capitalize on and strike.

    These guys though? Damian also wasn't one to get worried, but with the determined pace they were still pursuing him with, he was going to have to rethink his options.

    "Robin to Batcave," he spoke into the communicator on his wrist just as he had to duck and dodge underneath a dagger that whipped by where his head had been less than a half second earlier. A few pieces of black hair floated down forgotten underneath his quick feet. But he hesitated. Was he really going to call for help right now? Before he even turned to face his opponent in a fair fight? Damian was sure his father would've wanted him to call it in, but he would've sooner begged them for mercy than imply he was scared or didn't think he could handle it. "Nothing to report. Don't wait up for me."

    And then he clicked his communicator off a moment before a gunshot sounded and shattered part of the concrete underneath his boots. Damian wouldn't admit it later, but just for a moment, he stumbled a bit as he sailed from that rooftop onto one below. What kind of rounds were these freaks even using?

    He didn't have long to try and figure it out. Before Damian could even hit the ground running with the assassins in hot pursuit, he spotted a vaguely familiar red and black form not too far away on the opposite end of the rooftop -- straight in the path of both him and a band of people who really, really wanted them both dead.

    Timothy Drake. He'd met the boy briefly once at Christmas, but it wasn't as if he had been particularly impressed...or particularly observant, considering that was also when he had met Fake Grayson. But he was one of Father's apprentices, and so with a split second decision, Damian dashed forward and shoved him out of the way just as more bullets rained down on where the two of them had just milliseconds previous. As much as he didn't care for all these so-called Robins from other worlds popping into Pandora, he would at least do his best to make sure none of them got gunned down.

    Even if that meant shoving one off a roof.

    Trusting Drake to gather himself as any other 'Batkid' would, Damian tucked and rolled to land on his feet on the ground below. His boots splashed in a puddle, and he wasted little time before taking off running once again. "Hurry up or die!" he shouted without turning around. It was blunt and probably a little rude, but he supposed it got his point across well enough.

    Tim Drake likes this.
  2. Tim Drake

    Tim Drake DC Universe

    inside this weirdass box
    Chaotic Good
    (Tim's costume)

    For the most part, Tim had refrained from vigilante work since arriving in Pandora. He still patrolled once a week or so to keep in practice and to better learn the rooftops of the town. He kept abreast of the happenings Bruce kept track of as Batman, helping as he could hacking into systems and building gear, learning Pandora's magitech and how to build around it. The simplicity of it was... cleaner, somehow. More about moving parts and less about microchips and programming. Sure, there was that too, but Tim felt a visceral pleasure in simplifying gadgets down to as few parts as possible.

    One of the first things he'd altered was his gauntlet computer. On a flash drive made into a button was information relevant to crimefighting from Gotham, accessible with a simple click, but otherwise kept on standby, leaving the majority of the computing power to the database of Pandoran maps and history. The histories he'd read during his first weeks, Tim had made notes regarding people, places, and events, all easily cross-referenced. He'd sold this packaged info to Wayne Tech as a sort of Pandoran wikipedia, though his own version contained notes more appropriate to the batcomputer files.

    However, the intel he had on the group of assassins allegedly targeting the batfam was annoyingly vague. The only thing for certain was that so far, the assassins had been unsuccessful. And not for lack of trying. Their skill levels varied, but all were prepared to kill. There was evidence their civilian identities were unknown, but the second anyone put a costume on, they were fair game.

    As far as Tim knew, Jason was in Horizon, Dick was hanging around Blackgate, and Damian had been in town doing god knew what. Knowing his little brother was around the city wearing his cape, being himself, made Tim feel protective. This worried him, but he did some uncomfortable searching of his feelings and came to the conclusion that this Damian didn't know him and didn't hate him and didn't want to kill him (so far), so... he was a brother. The way Jason was. From what Tim had heard, Pandora's Damian was very like Gotham's Damian, just three years older and, inexplicably, more confident in his bad decisions and less interested in whether his social interactions were appropriate. The only thing Tim could deduce from that was that the kid obviously hadn't started to have feelings for significant others yet. (And, well, hoped he wasn't around when Damian did, because that was going to be a mess for everyone.)

    So on the nights he knew Damian was patrolling, he suited up too. It was comforting, putting on the costume, making that magical transformation into someone who knew what the hell he was doing. Tim didn't shadow Damian, but he made it a point to be within half a mile of wherever the kid was dinking around. His comm was in and tuned to the batfrequency, but mute. Just listening. In Pandora Town there was much less swinging and much more jumping and running, and that was just fine with Tim. He was much better at the latter than the former.

    Another way Pandora Damian was like Gotham Damian - any declaration of being okay was a lie, and the more aggressively it was suggested, the less okay he was. If Gotham Damian ever commed in he was happy, Tim would know the world was ending. So hearing 'nothing to report' by a young voice obviously breathing in exertion probably meant that an entire Mongol horde had appeared in front of the youngest batkid and he'd managed, in a few seconds' time, to offend all of them.

    It was not as implausible as it sounded.

    The comm signals echoed strangely in Pandora, and Tim still couldn't pinpoint why, or how to fix it. That was compounded by the fact Damian didn't have any tracking device on him that showed up on any of the tracking receivers Tim had dug up. So the only thing he could gather from those breathless few words was that the kid was nearby.

    The distinct short bang of a gun, shockingly close, made him step out from behind a tall chimney he'd crouched behind, just in time to see his little brother running straight at him, trailed by five... no six angry armed pursuers. Another shot, the sound bouncing oddly, from a gun type Tim had never seen in person but thought was the kind that shot lead balls instead of cylindrical bullets. He ducked, but the brick the slug hit made the ball split and a sliver of hot lead scraped across Tim's right temple, slicing a jagged line through the side of his mask in the same second Damian's hand shot out toward him.

    Since he was pretty well convinced this Damian didn't want to kill him, Tim thought the extended hand was to pull him down, out of the range of more projectiles. He was completely unprepared (as well as disoriented from the bullet graze) to be shoved back rather than jerked forward, and he fell ungracefully (arguably the only way he could fall) from the roof headfirst, able to see the six... wait, seven? No wait his lenses were malfunctioning, he --

    Tim's head barely missed the iron railing of a fire escape, and only his automatically tucked arms kept his left shoulder from breaking on it as well, but the horizontal black bar caught him high on the left side. Training had him rolling over his left side to keep presenting his less injured areas to the attackers, but the pain it caused arched his body and his legs got tangled in the vertical balusters and Tim had just enough time to think 'of course' before he heard the bones in his legs crackle. He passed out right after one of his legs... he didn't know which... maybe both... slammed into the slatted escape floor, but he came to before he hit the ground. In a last ditch effort to keep his costume out of a display case, he managed to make his arms come back from wherever they were to cover his head and attempt to curl up. That meant the middle of his left side (again! what the hell!) was the first thing to meet pavement.

    Consciousness became spotty after that, though he felt more than heard the other pursuers land around him. Most of them continued to run after... after... Damian! Right! But one of them stayed back to look him over. Or something, he wasn't sure. From what Tim was able to piece together later, the assassin was thrown by the fact Damian appeared to attempt to kill Tim, and thus he wasn't killed where he lay because the assassin wasn't positive he was one of the targets. Sure, he was running around in tights, but the batfam didn't kill their own, did they?

    Tim could've told him they did, actually. A lot.

    So the killer ran after his buddies after giving Tim's already broken legs a few more good blows just to cut down on competition. Laying half on his injured left side, legs tangled, cape bunched half over him, Tim was grateful that the bullet graze that had ripped his mask had made his left eye swell up closed; his head seemed to be in a puddle and he didn't have to try to keep the eye closed and out of filthy alley water using actual energy and thought. It was difficult to breathe but had nothing to do with water... one... maybe two broken ribs. Concentrating on injuries above the waist... okay, above the bottom of his ribcage... helped to keep him from thinking of all the injuries below. Something was dislocated, and something else was pointing the wrong way, but that's all he allowed himself.

    The slipping in and out of consciousness was kind of nice too. Little commercial breaks.

    He should... call someone, right?

    Not the Ghostbusters.


    Wait, he knew this.


    @Damian Wayne
    Damian Wayne likes this.