Chapter Text
Unlike the room before, which gave some impression of an apartment, the giant space that stretches out before Batman, Robin, and Red Hood looks more like an empty parking garage. Square pillars interrupt the landscape in a grid, electric camping lanterns hanging from hooks and placed on the ground. Between the lack of windows and the sporadic lanterns, the room is draped in shadow, pools of warm flickering light lapping at the edges of dark pockets. The light reflects off the water, which now reaches past the midsoles of their boots.
With the door shut behind the three of them, the closest light source is the weak glow of a lantern on the ground at their feet. The effect is not dissimilar to a flashlight held under a chin; Robin, whose face is the most visible, looks especially unsettling as the shadows warp his features. He’s clearly struggling to make out much, domino tech less sophisticated then Batman’s cowl or Hood’s helmet. The eyes of his mask narrow as he squints across the room.
There’s not much to see, even with all the tech Hood (and Talia and Roy) could cram into his helmet. The basement space is incredibly underutilized, with the large expanse of concrete, columns, and lanterns only interrupted at the other end of the room. There, a row of tall furniture– bookshelves or cabinets, most likely– form a makeshift wall. A bright glow paints the ground around them, indicating the space is well lit with something other than camping lanterns.
Although the floor, walls, and ceiling are made of concrete, the only sounds that the cavern picks up are a strange scraping and a low muttering, both distorted as they echo over each other. Jason can’t make out the words, if there are any, and neither Batman nor Robin seem to feel inclined to share if they can. The cadence is almost familiar, but as hard as he wracks his brain, he can’t quite place it. A song, maybe?
Another shiver down his spine; a strange pit in his stomach. The scenery is spooky, but nothing that would draw out this kind of reaction from a seasoned vigilante. Or anyone who’s stepped foot in Arkham. He wants to trust his gut and leave. But Batman is above such fear (or common sense) apparently, and signals for Robin and Hood to step carefully and make as little noise as possible as they follow him.
As they slink across the floor, attempting to minimize ripples as well as sound, Batman drapes his cape over the crook of his arm and fiddles with the clasps on his shoulders, trying to lift the hem high enough to avoid trailing in the water. The awkward position and sideways tiptoeing doesn’t exactly cut an intimidating figure. Jason’s lips curl up involuntarily under his helmet, forgetting a bit of his trepidation.
They’ve all put themselves in humiliating or embarrassing situations before; contrary to popular belief, the Bats (and company, Jason reminds himself) can’t all be cool all the time. While undercover work typically stays out of the blackmail circuit, any other embarrassing instance is gleefully documented by a Bird or else hoarded by Barbara. All this to say Jason’s itching to take a picture, but he settles for reminding himself to isolate the footage from his helm-cam later. It won’t be as clear as his camera or phone, but he’s not in the mood to be snapped at or worse, yelled at, after they’re done here.
Robin, being lighter and smaller, has an easier time crossing the distance than Hood or Batman. He’s nearly to the makeshift wall already, angling towards the open end. The line of cabinets juts out from one wall of the basement, all shoved tightly enough together that light barely peeks through the cracks. They stop about 3/4ths of the way to the opposing wall, light spilling out onto the exposed floor, although the light sources must be placed in a way that whatever’s happening behind the wall doesn’t cast a visible shadow. The cabinets all roughly the same height, but the differences stop there; they’re all different widths and colors and conditions, although they definitely range towards the “old” side of the spectrum rather than the new. Come to speak of it they’re probably thrifted, judging by the peeling paint and genuine wooden backs. Old furniture can be heavy; Hood doubts Aaron Beckett, the skinny chemist, would be able to move even a coffee table down the stairs by himself. So probable accomplices then– Riddler goons, maybe. But why would he need the wall in the first place? Why not use the entirely of the gigantic space he has?
Robin’s nearly to the furniture wall when the scraping and muttering stops.
They all freeze in the sudden silence. Hood hunches into the shadows and focuses on the sounds in order to work out what’s happening.
First, a slight scuffling. Rustling fabric, a soft grunt: a person is pushing themself up from the ground, rising quickly enough, standing from a crouch or other uncomplicated position. They stretch; a joint pops. There’s a curious lack of splashing accompanying their footsteps– soft steps and slight squeak of sneakers or tennis shoes, crossing dry concrete. Odd rhythm; either a residual stiffness from being in one position too long or sidestepping something; faint-to-light tread, which increases the likelihood of this being Aaron Beckett– all 105 pounds of him. The footsteps stop, an absent minded humming starts up, and a page flips.
After a moment, Robin resumes cautiously inching to the right to be better hidden behind the shadow of the cabinet. Before Hood can decide if he’s going to risk moving again or not, the book slams shut. Hurried footsteps, again with the odd pattern– likely avoiding or hopping over something in the middle of the floor, then. The muttering begins again a second before the scraping does, a sense of urgency infusing the person’s movements this time.
Hood still can’t make out the words, even as close as he is, and he exchanges a glance with Batman before the two of them begin advancing again, as gradually as before. Batman’s fixed his cape, hanging at about mid-calf now, and so the uneasiness returns full force. He steps into a dip in the concrete, water inches deeper then usual, and nearly trips. Hood shakes off Batman’s stare and re-centers himself, compartmentalizing the unsettling feeling. He can’t afford to be distracted.
When they finally catch up with Robin, the teen’s impatient enough that he’d be tapping his foot in any other circumstance. He seems to have regained his attitude from the rooftop, whatever strange hesitance he’d shown at the top of the stairs long gone. He’s flush against one of the cabinets close to the end, and the reason become apparent when he points to the top. Batman holds up a finger, warning Robin to wait and let him assess the situation first. Robin scowls, brow furrowing, but ducks his head in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Batman takes a moment, head tilting like he can hear out of the bat ears.
Maybe he can. They were purely decoration last Jason knew, but his domino mask could barely wrinkle back when he was Robin. Compared to the expressiveness that Robin’s taking full advantage of to communicate his displeasure, his was practically as stiff as a board. He hasn’t noticed any oddities in his interactions– fights or otherwise– with Batman that would indicate that he’s stuck listening equipment up there, but there’s definitely other upgrades to his and Robin’s suit.
The body armor, for one.
Batman catches his attention, motioning towards the side of the basement where the furniture meets the wall. He starts signing out a plan, gauntlets flashing in a sliver of light, before the scraping noise stops again.
The muttering doesn’t this time. The male voice raises in volume instead, the now-obvious chant almost drowning out the sound of what is probably Beckett standing up again and striding around. After a moments, it’s loud and clear enough that Jason starts catching syllables, then words, and then he’s launching himself around the corner of the cabinet.
Fuck Batman yelling at him after this is over. Jason would just be happy they weren’t dead.