11263/The Sun Never Shines in the Batcave

The Sun Never Shines in the Batcave
Date of Scene:	21 May 2022
Location:	Batcave
Synopsis:	Humanoid sharks, secret safe houses, and imaginary Sunday breakfasts. Just a day in the life of the world's most dysfunctional family!
Cast of Characters:	Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne

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Damian Wayne has posed:
    It is the early morning hours. Damian recently returned from an all-night patrol. He is presently dressed in the lower part of his Robin suit from the waist down, and a simple black tank top. The upper part of his Robin suit is draped over the back of a chair.

    Up on one of the monitors are several graphics linked together by lines. Damian is considering them in deep contemplation.

    "Move image 3c one step chronologically earlier," Damian gives a voice command to the computer. There is a gentle audio cue and the computer complies. The teen vigilante frowns. "No, that can't be correct. Put it back." The computer complies once again.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
It was a late one for Bruce.

In truth, they were all late ones, but he tried to get back before the sun rose. Batman didn't operate in the day. Or, at least, he didn't when it could be avoided. Last night was not one of those nights.

A sleek, black submersible bubbles to the surface on the lower levels of the Cave. The hatch hisses open and from it emerges the Dark Knight. His suit, the newest iteration of a decades-old design, is heavily splattered with mud and shredded away at the arms. Bloodied, raking cuts run from his forearms all the way to his shoulders. He's soaked through, the pungent set of seawater wafting off him as he climbs up to the main level.

He doesn't say anything outright to Damian, nor comment on what he's doing. He simply steps past him, peeling off the cowl and cape and dropping them to the floor with a wet thwack. He pauses a moment to frown down at his arm before he fishes what can only be a shark tooth from its place embedded in one of the wounds. He tosses it into a metal tray on a first aid trolley already waiting for him by the Computer with a 'ting'.

"Hngh."

Damian Wayne has posed:
    Damian, generally, is cool and distant. In recent years he has started to warm some to his growing cadre of adopted siblings, but even so he moves among them with a barely disguised sense of superiority. But when Batman's submersible enters the Batcave, Damian drops all pretense. He looks on with a hint of awe. And when Bruce gets closer, Damian shifts his weight slightly from one leg to the other and swallows.

    "Father," he says. "You're injured. Would you like me to summon Alfred?" Since Julia's arrival, he has started referring to Alfred by his first name so he can refer to Julia as Pennyworth. It sort of annoys her, which is an added bonus.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Don't need to wake him," Bruce answers with a grunt and a shake of his head, nudging a stool out from under a nearby bench and settling himself down in it, "Mild lacerations. Only one needs stitches, and even then, it's just to stop scarring."

Looking at the skin on his arm with its crisscrossing network of scars, it makes sense that Bruce works tirelessly to reduce any additions to that particular roadmap of pain. He nods his head to a handheld applicator resting on the trolley near Damian.

"You can do it. Apply that," he instructs, nodding to the deepest and longest of the cuts in his right forearm, "Here and here."

Damian Wayne has posed:
    Like the Earth in orbit around the Sun, Damian moves around Bruce to get the wound crimper, the spray-on antiseptic, and a packet of sterile gloves. Through his League training, Damian had better suture technique by the age of eight than some doctors do.

    "Is that a shark's tooth, father? Did a bull shark rob a bank?" the teen teases.

    He peels open the pack of gloves and puts them on. Then he sprays down the wound with the antiseptic. There was a topical anesthesia on the table as well, but around the Batcave it doesn't get much use as everyone attempts to be tougher than everyone else. Mostly likely it's expired anyway. And Damian would never insult his father by using it.

    "Alfred is better at this than I am, but don't tell him I said that," Damian quips.

    *snap* *snap* *snap* The young heir dutifully -- and skillfully -- closes Bruce's wound.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"King Shark," Bruce explains flatly, unflinchingly staring at the work Damian does to ensure it's done correctly, "Or, more likely, someone using King Shark. I knocked him out long enough for the DEO to pick him up. Tranquilizer cannons built into the Bat-pod need calibrating. Couldn't puncture his skin. Had to go in manually. Hence ... "

He doesn't finish the sentence, instead gesturing with his other hand at the cuts and scrapes.

"Alfred has more interest in closing wounds and less in opening them," Bruce replies, "It's only natural he'd have a talent for it."

There's no praise forthcoming. There never is with Bruce. It's like drawing blood from a stone. Instead, he gives the tended wound a look for a moment and then draws his arm away as if to say it's up to snuff and requires no further attention.

"Note," he calls out, the Computer chiming when it registers his voice, "Adjust etorphine-azaperone dosage on c-type ammunition to ... zero point zero two milligrams to kilograms. Schedule calibration testing fifteen hundred hours to fifteen hundred forty-five."

A pause, blue eyes glancing sidelong at Damien.

"Robin to review."

Damian Wayne has posed:
    It is unlikely that Damian would even know what to do if Bruce praised him for his work. It's...better this way for both of them, better for everyone. The disposable stuff gets tossed in the biohazard bin, the rest is put back on the first aid tray.

    "It is agreeable that you prevailed. King Shark is a particularly vicious antagonist that the civilian authorities would be hard-pressed to deal with," Damian admits. He tugs his encrypted, custom phone from his utility belt and imports the ammunition review order from the computer, setting a reminder. Not that he needs to, he almost never forgets anything.

    "Father, there is a new resident in Gotham," the teen begins. "I think you should know about her. It is a most unusual situation."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Who?

Bruce asks the question brusquely and without preamble. To the uninitiated listener, it might seem almost like an interrogation. But for those who have heard the Batman conduct a real interrogation, it's almost polite.

The wounds cleaned and cared for; Bruce rises from the stool. The top of the batsuit is discarded, tossed to the floor where it will wait until it is taken away to be dissembled and disposed of. He replaces it with a simple black t-shirt offset by his bandaged forearms.

Damian Wayne has posed:
    "Her name is Qira," Damian begins. "She was another child conceived by the League of Assassins and trained since birth like I was." The only betrayal of any emotional concerns for Damian is a subtle flicker his bright green eyes as his gaze momentarily flits around the Batcave. "It is not my first encounter with her. I killed her three year and ten months ago during my Year of Blood."

    The teen watches his father for any sign of reaction, though he knows from experience that he likely will get none. In fact, Bruce's stoic nature is a comfort to Damian, who sometimes doesn't know what to make of his post-League life.

    "She claims that she was resurrected in the Lazarus Pit under Gotham and experimented on in a lab by unknown parties for unknown reasons. She seems sincere and perhaps her story is true. Or she could be a sleeper agent sent by the League. I have her in a safe house at the moment. Not one of ours, just in case. It's one of my private safehouses down by the docks."

    Damian has a small number of safe houses around Gotham that he fancies are unknown to anyone in the Bat Family. It wouldn't be a surprise, though, if Bruce actually knew all about them.

    His voice uncharacteristically softens. "Father, I don't know what to do. I fear I may be emotionally compromised in this matter."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Sounds like it didn't take," Bruce says in a simple, inflectionless tone in response to news of Qira's murder at Damien's hands.

"Doesn't sound subtle enough for the League," he goes on, "The League are masters of deception. It wouldn't be hard for them to disguise an operative as any one of a million different people. The angle seems too obvious, too likely to arouse my suspicion. To hold her at arm's length."

His eyes narrow thoughtfully, taking on a thousand-yard stare of deep concentration. The World's Greatest Detective at work.

"The natural progression from there is to assume that is what they would want me to think. Logical spiral. Pointless."

After a moment he looks sidelong at Damian, and when he speaks his voice is sharp and castigating: "No secret safehouses. The Family is your fallback position."

Then it passes as quickly as a cloud over the full moon.

"I'll speak to her."

Damian Wayne has posed:
    There are two people in the entire world right now who are capable of making Damian feel his own versions of shame and embarrassment. One of them is his adopted sister, Phoebe, whom he has really started bonding with and looking up to lately. The other, of course, is here in the Batcave.

    When Bruce admonishes Damian for the secret safe houses, he momentarily -- very, very briefly -- looks downward. "Yes, father. I'll put the locations in the computer this morning. The house she is in is at 2980 Crown Street."

    He quickly adds, "Please don't be so...so *you* with her, father. She is very traumatized by the events. You know, being murdered and then relying on the person who killed you for help." A small shrug. Is Damian actually expressing sympathetic and empathetic thoughts? The boy who was literally raised for the express purpose of killing his own father sure has come a long way. Alfred, and now Phoebe, have had good influences on the young vigilante.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce gives Damian a long, unfathomable stare. For those trained as they are, reading the body language of others is almost second nature. But Bruce himself has always been unreadable to all but those fluent in that dialect - such as Cass - or those who find themselves able to effortlessly cut to the heart of him, like Selina. For everyone else, he is a blank and inscriptionless edifice.

"Noted."

Damian Wayne has posed:
    Although he wouldn't admit it to himself, Damian does get a bit intimidated when Bruce goes into his Blank Slate Mode. "Are you hungry?" he asks, daring to look up at his father hopefully. "I could make some scrambled eggs and sausage and coffee. You know, like we used to do on Sunday mornings when I was little?" Clearly it's Damian's version of a joke. When he was little he lived on Infinity Island and didn't know Bruce Wayne existed.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Protein shake," Bruce answers, moving towards the elevator that leads up to the mansion itself, "I'll do my debrief upstairs. Wake up scheduled for nine thirty."

It's only just gone five in the morning. Bruce really does exist on the barest minimum of sleep.

"Keep me posted on this League case. And I want to know about that Lazarus Pit. It's not going to still be usable, but it might suggest something about how is responsible."