InsaneJournal

Narrative/Open
Who: Damian Wayne, Narrative or Open
Where: The Batcave
When: July 3rd (way backdated before all the chaos)
What: Training
Rating: PG-13, for killing flying mammals


Damian knew the folly of succumbing to habits, but since he'd been at the manor, he'd fallen into a routine. Mother had prepared him, in her own way, though it needed to be said that not all of Talia's teachings were based in combat. Grandfather had a global empire whose structure had a lot in common with a business corporation, albeit more ruthless than most. But Talia's resources were different than Father's and Damian would be remiss if he didn't take advantage of the opportunities provided to him.

He spent time in the library, curious to see what works his father considered important. He spent time researching Wayne Corp, both its public record and what inner workings he was privy too. He even spared a miniscule amount of time studying the shallow, vapid persona his father had cultivated. The social pages were frequently a mystery to him. Why would anyone waste of time with their grainy photos and second hand accounts of so-called scandals?

Then there was Father's other occupation. Damian poured through the massive amount of information and past case files. There was so much to commit to memory. Past encounters, statistics and details of each adversary (although that was a generous term for some of the Batman's past foes), not to mention the number of schematics and designs his Father had implemented over the years.

In particular, the batarangs had a clearly defined learning curve. They were weighted perfectly, sharp at the points, durable, but their design (while keeping with the theme) was unlike anything he was familiar with. It was hardly a shuriken, nor a stiletto. A boomerang would have been the closest approximation.

Damian had set up a variety of targets. Simple painted boards, assorted mannequins, and had even arranged for a few moving targets akin to clay pigeons. Even though more batarangs struck their target than not (albeit not as precisely as he had hoped), the cave floor was still littered with them. It was an obvious testament to how long Damian had been practicing.

He threw the last batarangs from his hand, watched as most struck their intended target, then took a deep breath before going to retrieve them. He pulled them from the mannequins and the targets then set about to plucking them from the floor, pushing the scattered, broken targets aside with his foot.

Moving targets were good even if they did fly in predictable patterns. After all, it wasn't as if he'd find something more suitable without actually being in the field. Or would he? He cast his gaze upwards, listening to the slight scratching noises from overhead. He had yet to fathom why his father was so fond of the flying rodents. Damian understood that the guise was a psychological thing but it hardly needed to extend to housing the flying pests.

His eyes studied the ceiling closely. It wouldn't do any good to wake the entire colony. He threw one batarang towards a group of outliers and startled six into taking flight. He quickly followed up with another. The second batarang found its mark and the bat let out a small squeal as it plummeted to the ground.