w (heir) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-10-09 04:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *narrative, damian wayne |
Gotham: Damian W
Who: Damian Wayne
What: soul-searching and destruction on a massive scale
Where: beneath Gotham, in Wonder City
When: after this & this
Warnings/Rating: some violence, mention of gore, and dire consequences
It was all about getting back to one's roots. Going down and deep, reaching, grasping for those tendrils that drank from dark, dank dirt. No. NO. More than that. It was honing in on radicle itself, one's seeded embryo. Going back to that pure, primal beginning, tearing that up, showing it to the sun and loving it, oneself, still, in spite of the harsh light that bathed ruthless over every flaw.—Or perhaps that is a misnomer: flaw. It enforces a negative perspective, does it not? And what, after all, could be flawed about creation? When lightning first struck heat into primordial soup, birthing organic matter—oxidizing in a single second of convection, biology and fulgurite branches going crystal—there were no flaws. It was what it was. It was perfect in that moment. It was creation! It was life. That moment, suspended in germinated amber, was what Damian sought. It was the point his mind was propelled to by noxious poison. This incapacitating agent breached blood-brain barrier, it applied dud chemicals to cholinergic receptors—like a bullet drawn blank into chamber and fired from feet away. One expected blood, piecing, death. Carnage at the very least! And all one got was a small fit of force, a bang, and nothing else. It wasn't regression, that desire to go back to roots. It was ascension. And had Damian not ascended in these last few hours? Was he not a god to the people of Gotham, deciding life and death, showing them the ugly, beautiful, perfect truth behind the putrid mask of routine? He was. Oh, most assuredly, he was. It would make sense then, that he fled to the subbasement of that abandoned science building, his phone shattered meteoric next to the Joker's lifeless form, and giddiness stretching rictus grin on his face. Taproot tunnels found he, gross and barrel vaulted, like some long lost intestine leading toward the gut and gutter of Gotham, miles away. Or, a better joke would be to call Gotham the anus, wouldn't it? Fitting too! He ran in bat-black, seeing nothing of the brick stalactites that hung above his head, created in some horrible heat long since snuffed. His laughter rang out, through the tunnels that carried him, but there was no response, no echo, nothing returned, like these very roots soaked the sound up as nourishment it was hungry for. And, boy, wasn't that just the way of Gotham? In desperate need of a laugh. The man didn't feel the sweat that sprung out on clammy forehead. He didn't notice the blood that dried on his palms, crusted beneath fingernails as craggy crescent moons. He was hardly aware of the green arrows he spray painted on walls, giggling, drowning in his own game. He lost his mask somewhere along the way, unstable explosives jostling happily in the pack on his back, and, eventually, his throat was too dry for laughing. He aspirated air instead—a sort of laugh, I suppose—a nauseating choking sound churned up and coughed out. No. In truth, the only sensation Damian experienced, consciously, during his flight was a sense of complete and utter excitement, beneath the usual curdle of bloodlust, of course. So when he stumbled into that great, growing atrium, after he trundled beneath wrought-ivy sign declaring 'WONDER CITY' in a script archaic, he did wonder. Oh, it was beautiful! Ghostly blues, patina and corroded-copper greens. Nautilus gone subterranean, it was utopia buried. It was that moment, suspended in germinated amber—the very one he was after. He stopped, gasping!—grinning!—knowing he had found his radicle, his taproot, the first cell all others had divided from. This was his heart. This was his heritage. This was his and he knew what he needed to do. He would bring them all here—all of Gotham!—here to his embryogenesis. He would bring them all here, to this pure beginning. It was the Bat's duty, after all, to serve the people. And this, this would cleanse them, this would be their baptism. Yes!—The underground city was quite vast, but he traversed it with speed bred into him after years of training. His eyes were wild, al Ghul green, his grin vicious, and Damian Wayne planted explosives along arc-boutants, pendentives with seismic glee. Oh, this would be his best punchline yet. A joke to die for. Let the countdown begin! |