Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Damian creeps into the depths of the cave, snapping a glow stick once he cannot see the light of the main chamber behind him. He finds the fissure he located earlier last month and squeezes through, tossing the fading glowstick into the far side of the small chamber. He opens the box and removes the set of white candles, setting them in a perfect circle, lighting them as he goes. He scoops the shard of chalk out of the box and checks over his notes before kneeling on the ground to draw an intricate pattern of loops and swirls, that follow the ancient pattern of the stars and lines that map out the veins of power running through the earth invisible, but influential. He sits back on his haunches and surveys his handy work, brushing the chalk dust off on his pants. It was perfect.

He leaps back into the centre of the circle, taking his notes with him. Sitting cross legged in the small chalk free centre he begins to chant, the old Semitic language rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. He brings the blade across his hand, blood pooling thickly in his palm. He stretches his hand out over his drawings and turns it over, blood dripping onto the stone floor. Rather than ruin the temporary art, his blood flows over the chalk, following the dust lines until it reaches the seven candles. He jumps when they all go out simultaneously and waits in the darkness for something to happen. 

The candles flare back on in an explosion of light, temporarily blinding the chambers solo occupant.  He blinks rapidly trying to clear the black dots from his vision. That was definitely unexpected.

A blast of sickly sweet hot air ruffles his hair and he squeaks, scooting backwards, smearing the chalk and all he can think is that this was really, really, bad idea. And blah blah blah, stuff happens. Blah blah, more words.  And he wakes up a few hours later sore and more than a bit confused, yet convinced that there is an easier way to find his mother.

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He feels sluggish, like there’s an extra bit of something dragging behind. It’s upsetting his thought processes, making him frustrated and irritable. And there’s this constant buzzing in the back of his head that he does not want to identify as whispers because -that- would make him crazy.

It’s like listening to thousands of conversations underwater. And most of the time he can ignore it, like one ignores the ticking of a clock in the family living room, but sometimes he gets pulled in and that’s when the weird really gets going.

It’s been a fairly busy night, the usual spree of attempted muggings, thefts, and molestations. The moon has long set and the college kids are rushing home, their beer blankets proving ineffective against the winter chill.  It’s going on 3am and he’s swinging back to the city centre when something catches his eye.

The pub is done in the style of old Gotham but what gives it away is how new it looks. No matter how much money is poured into the preservation of Gotham’s historic architecture they still look aged.

He knows he shouldn’t stop, his father is waiting for him, but the inviting glow is too much for him to resist and the buzzing has...harmonized almost. Besides, it’s not like Robin stopping in for a pop and a bite to eat will hurt the pubs reputation, hell, it’ll become a hotspot overnight. Decision made, he shimmies down the adjacent buildings fire escape and pushes open the heavy oak door.

The pub is warmly lit and is filled with people. Laughing drinking, eating people. Smoke wafts lazily through the air and he makes his way to the bar. The smell reminds him of Todd, warm leather and smoke. The people here are strange, they don’t comment on his outfit or his age, rather they ruffle his hair as he passes, and a warm hand settles on his back and ushers him to a table. He feels oddly at ease here, the whispering is finally silent and he smiles as a chilled glass is pressed into his hand and a steaming plate of food is set in front of him.

The occupants crowd around him, asking about his day and what such a handsome young man like himself is doing wandering around this late at night? They chat amicably about music of all things, debating the skills of Robert Johnson and Blind Blake in comparison to classical artists like Mozart and Handel. He’s in the middle of a spirited discussion of Jelly Roll Morton’s prowess with piano, mouth full of the best steak he’s had in years when his comm crackles. Suddenly everything stops.

He blinks and the once warm pub is freezing cold, light streams in through broken slats on the windows and the roof is full of gaping holes. He looks around and every surface is coated in a heavy layer of dust including his plate and glass. He can see scorch marks and decades old detritus and refuse littering the floor. The taste of steak is still strong in his mouth and he gags, pushing himself up from the table and runs from the derelict establishment.He manages to stutter out a response as he enters a nearby ally before emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. This was not good, not good at all.

He has no idea how he made it home that night but he wakes up feeling like he hasn’t slept in days, the taste of cigarette smoke and steak is still heady on his tongue.

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He was so bored. So utterly bored. He was so bored that synthesizing poisons had lost its charm and working under the hood of a car seemed like a burden. Hell, patrol was boring. Bruce was off on a super secret no-you-can’t-come mission and Alfred was still lazing about on a beach somewhere. He -hated- being alone in this gigantic house and the cave was no less comforting. It didn’t help that the manor decided to do an impression of the Overlook Hotel...well if the Overlook was boring and was full of boring people reading papers and going about their boring lives. He’d sometimes hear snatches of conversations or noise from a party long past but the house was mostly quiet. It was still creepy though.

He already reversed everything in his father’s perfectly symmetrical room and painted the constellations on Alfred’s ceiling in glow in the dark paint, what else was there left to do? All in all nothing was rainbows and everything was boring.

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He dropped his head onto wooden worktable and closed his eyes. He knew he should be getting home, to the apartment, but that would require more effort than he is willing to give. The studio is half filled with students working on projects, sleep, or aimlessly browsing the internet.

It’s almost midnight but deadlines are looming and projects need to be perfect for the upcoming presentations. He jerks his head up when a crash is heard three tables over, Mark Jefferson, age 27 and going for his second masters. His first is in music theory and his current project is on the floor twitching. The man lets out a cry of rage and stomps repeatedly on the robots steel frame before bursting into racking sobs.

Damian sighs heavily and turns away. Honestly, those dramatics are better suited to art and architecture studios.

The studious atmosphere has been ruined and he scrubs tiredly at his eyes. His contacts are irritating but if he’s going home he can’t take them out. He noticed the change weeks ago; his eyes were lightening until they became the colour of ash, with only flecks of their original blue to be seen. Easily fixed with contacts and no one had noticed so far. What wasn’t easily fixed was what he was seeing.

The buzzing (whispers) had faded with the onset of the change but the sightings had increased. Only this time it was more than haunted dives and the occasional spectre. He was seeing –things-. Strange things that were so far from human they boggled the mind and others...other that were so close but with one dramatic difference. And that difference was never pleasant. He hadn’t told anything about this, not even Todd, and when he had informed Grayson of his...problem...that had not gone so well. And it was a problem.

What he was seeing was so off putting at times it distracted him despite his best efforts. It was hard to concentrate at a crime scene when the victims’ spirit was hanging about or even better, creatures there to collect the soul or just enjoy the ambiance of murder. It was disturbing and a nuisance and he was –seconds- from plucking his eyes out.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew that he had to act like he did not see them. If not they would –flock- to him and that was certainly the last thing he needed. Still it was difficult to act like he did not see things attached to others and creeping out of the most innocuous places.

His knowledge of the supernatural was remedial at best and there was little information at the manor and the apartment. The internet was unreliable and the books at the university library were checked out. Not surprising since it was almost finals.

He was secretly grateful to be honest, like if he could ignore the problem, it would go away. But deep down he knows it’s not going away. It’ll only get worse and he doesn’t know what to do with that. It’s hard not to notice the Aralez that follows Jason,  sticking to him like a second shadow. He thought it was a death omen at first. He found any excuse to pester Todd for days until he identified the creature. It seemed highly amused.

And he –knows- something is hanging around Grayson but he isn’t home enough to let him get a good look. The amount of things that have attached themselves to people is astonishing. Gotham seems to be a hotbed for such activity, a neutral space that draws all types, and so is Bludhaven by extension.

He’s not going to get anymore work done tonight...he can feel it. His eyes are tired, his back hurts and he wants to go –home-. So he peels himself out of his sometimes comfy chair and packs up his things, locking his project securely in his desk.

Mark Jefferson is still suffering hysterics and he picks his way through the mess and heads out the door. The sooner he gets home the sooner he can sleep. At lease when he sleeps he doesn’t see those things, just his usual brand of fuck up nightmares. The campus is nearly devoid of life, a few students rushing here and there to get out of the cold. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the non living (can they be considered alive?) things that call this place home. And if he runs to his bike he can simply blame it on the cold.