Dick Grayson was always (thebestchoice) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-05-10 03:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !hotel, !lost, *narrative, dick grayson |
Narrative: Dick Grayson - Run, Hide, or Die
Who: Dick Grayson
Where: Lost - Hotel Lobby
What: Getting out of the beach door - Bringing Dickie back from limbo.
When: Yesterday
Warnings: Death - DON'T PANIC ITS OKAY.
Journal. Lost. Ironic. Really Ironic. Lost. Lost. Lost. But there was a map written on a piece of notebook paper that was currently bleeding blue ink in the torrential downpour and guiding him toward a spot that just said "Black Rock." He knew he was looking for a ship. A ship that shouldn't exist in the middle of a jungle. A jungle that was currently dark and wet and windy. Palms were scratching and cutting at his skin as he made his way through a jungle with no trail. Following a sun that hadn't been out in days. Nights and days had meshed together and the rain hadn't let up. By his count it had been seven days.
Seven days since he'd left the safety of the Swan Station. Seven days since he'd forgotten to push the button and lost his phone, his journal, everything. Seven days since he'd begun outrunning his nightmares. Seven days since the hike to the closest door - the one at Black Rock, had begun. Seven days of running through the jungle toward the sound of a baby crying only to find an empty cradle that soon disappeared as he approached it. Seven days of running from the screams of a dying Robin.
Seven days until he found the charred remains.
The hull of the ship was nothing but a shell, a frame, the skeleton of a ship that may have once sailed proudly, but for now was a hollowed out and burned wreck surrounded by vines and mud as disembodied voices howled on the winds that raged through the trees. Screams of horror, and cries of sadness. Voices in every language that Dick could make out, some he knew and understood - some were modern conversations held just a few years prior. Others were voices of his family, Grayson hung there breathing through the foliage angry and spitting with the rain on his face. The cries of children, one was his, others were not. He would know the sound of his, his girl anywhere. The sound of Babs here and there, here telling him about their life together if it would work why it could or wouldn't. There when she was telling him which rooftops to jump to from the comm in his ear. Oracle.
Bruce, his father, the voice he wanted to hear always, but never heard enough, it was loud and booming with the thunder. The voice of a God. crackling with the lighting that struck nearby. When the lightning hit a tree nearby it erupted into flames. Odd with the rain pouring down but as the flames grew in a bright burst of orange and yellow, heat he could feel even at the distance he saw the door engulfed. He'd burn to death if he walked through. The trees rustled behind him the familiar roar came again. The monster was back. And he heard it coming. He'd have to run again.
It was then that from the corner of his eye he saw them. All of them. The Joker. The Riddler. Ivy. Two Face. The Penguin. Scarecrow. Freeze. All of them hollering for the Little Bird. Hide.
Run. Hide. Or Die. The Door was getting hotter. It was starting to crumble. He couldn't do anything. It was his only chance out. The Door was it. He could only hide for so long. If he ran from the smoke monster, the Rogues would find him. If he hid the smoke monster would find him. Either way he'd lose the door.
So toward the door he ran. It was 50 yards. And Dickie ran. He dove into the fire. And it burned and singed. And he flew and tumbled and felt the flames engulf every inch of him, his clothes burning to his body, his skin bubbling, and he screamed until his body went numb and he felt nothing.
The last time Dickie died he remembered that his life had flashed before his eyes. One life. This time the life that flashed before his eyes as his body gave out under the heat and flames was two lives, the life of a man, and the life of a boy. Two lives intersected into one body. Two lives that had been lived. Two sets of memories, one that felt far off and so close at the same time. Two sets of memories that stung and ached the same. Two people that needed to reconcile into one. Two lives flashed.
The second time Dickie came back to life he was tired and his were lungs sore. Full of smoke. His face and arms still cut but no burns and no Laz Pit in sight. The boy that stood up and brushed himself off felt whole. A little scared, a little worse for wear, but whole. Finally. He brushed himself off a bit. Slender olive colored with dirty finger ran through snarled dark locks of hair (whatever he still looked fine as hell) as he took a seat in the chair outside the calm looking door that still had a sign over it that said 'namaste'.
He took a deep breath.
The shiny new tablet that lay on the dusty old end table waiting for him beckoned like an impatient mistress. He didn't wait before he picked it up and started typing.