The Things That Bind Us- Damirae

Chapter One

Gotham.

What a shithole.

Oh Damian could ascribe a great, morbid poetry to that place: a cesspit of human filth; pure metropolitan sin; a place still figuring out whether it were purgatory or hell.

But today wasn't that sort of day.

Today, Robin peered over the grey and the gloom (a few gunshots resounding somewhere westwards, the rabid honking of traffic in the glow below) and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Hmph."

He might have tutted a few years ago; he sighed now, and looked up to the murky space occupied by zeppelins.

As expected, overcast. But with clouds or smog?

Giving the extended absence of the local ecoterrorist (one Poison Ivy), Damian wagered it was smog and sniffed. The heavens were clogged.

The heavens are clogged.

Robin tutted at himself: perhaps today was a day for poetry after all.

BEEP BEEP BEEEEE-

"Oh for-"

"Robin, Batcomputer sensors have picked up a major energy spike near the harbour. I'm heading there now. Sending coordinates." Batman said.

"Copy that father." Robin returned over the comms link, perfectly amicably sounding, but through scarcely un-gritted teeth.

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose and looked back up at the lightless sky. For once, he'd actually wanted a break from the action. Today was one of those  days.

But he was closer to the docks and Batman knew it. So Robin dutifully marked his path across the broken and dim and extravagant and dazzling appendages of Gotham City, until the skyscrapers were a distant image and he'd reached the harbour. It was late; Robin saw colourful crates before he saw people.

The distant, wet thwacking of water lapping against wooden boards was still audible over the quiet hustle of the harbour. Damian closed his eyes and embraced warm black over the rows of containers and warehouses. He grounded himself in seeking the noise and turned his head against the wind. He favoured the gushing water over the salt and oil on the breeze.

The vigilante's earpiece beeped and Alfred was feeding him the tracking information.

Robin worked his way surely through the maze of containers and down an old asphalt road between warehouses. He noted to himself how much un-cooler it was being a flightless, teleport-less hero. Having to walk (in the absence of a car or motorbike) to a situation was a tedious and humbling experience.

He rounded a corner, following the map shown by his mask, walking behind a building teeming with rust. Robin held his katana firmly with loose shoulders and narrowed his eyes. The sounds from ahead were unintelligible, scuffling noises. Robin frowned; his view was blocked by a dull heap of industrial waste.

"Robin, I'm close. No security cameras available in the vicinity. What can you see?" Batman asked.

Damian's ears sought the swooshing of colliding water and found it accompanied by a mechanic rumbling that drew nearer and nearer. The Batmobile was close.

At one with the shadows, Robin crouched and peered from his shelter of scrap. His eyes widened and the sword teetered on slipping from his grip. The ghost of a clanging rang in his head and Damian quickly tightened his hand around the katana, too addled to sheath it, too addled to duck back.

"Robin? Are you on scene?"

His heart made up the pace that it had missed and Damian snapped back out of view. The panic provoking him had been too strong and, in moving back, the dreaded clatter of metal sounded.