Re: Log, Gotham: Donna C & Damian W
The world had started to go black, spinning into a weightless vortex that seemed almost welcoming right before she was dropped onto the cement. Donna coughed and hacked, the red of her face slowly starting to drain while she clumsily tried to crawl away, desperate to catch her breath. She was alive. Of course she was. This was Gotham, and there were heroes here. People like her were here to be saved. That's what bystanders did, they got in trouble so heroes had something to do. Donna had always hoped if she was going to be in comic-book land that she'd be like Oracle, but instead she was random victim #8. Didn't that just figure? Near death experiences brought life into focus, even for the inconsequential.
The cement was wet. Why were alleyways always wet? There was no reason for water to be on the ground back here, yet there was that constant trickle of a stream that inevitably split the alley in two. Blood meandered into the flow, soaking into her jeans at the hip where Donna had stopped crawling. Blood was something she'd only encountered in video games and on the big screen. She was sheltered from the actual dangers in the world, flashes of red against flesh jarring to her vision. That doe-eyed, innocent vision which could hardly process the scene laid out before her. The unnatural twitching as brain function shut down. The empty eyes that all light faded out of. The spray of blood across the man that was speaking to her. The man that did this. The man that saved her. The man in that costume. Robin.
With the scarlet splattering, he looked like he walked out of some Resident Evil cutscene. But this man wasn't a monster. No. This was Robin, and he had saved her life. At the cost of those four creeps. She was grateful but shock was a funny thing, and while she should have been getting up from the cement, there was only one thing she could concentrate on, her eventual reply far more inquisitive than accusatory.