As we walked through the halls of WayneTech, we exchanged nothing but silence. The précédant predicament still left us shaking, and now we were out to chercher for more. It was obvious that Scarecrow knew of our presence, which is why he had the gas sprayed all over the building. Every now and then I heard rats squeaking, glass breaking, and spiders crawling, but none of them so much as gave me a start.
Oddly enough, Robin knew his way around the building. Without getting lost, we retrieved and destroyed much of the fear serums, but we weren't done unless we found Scarecrow.
Finally, letting go of my fear, I asked, "How do toi know your way around here?"
Robin shook his head. "Just luck."
"Hmph." I frowned, which made him smile. I loved seeing him smile, even if it was because I was annoyed.
He took my hand and pointed. "Let's go through this hall."
I followed him into the hall, which led to another one, and another, and another after that. The loss of air and scenery suddenly made me yearn to be outside, but I didn't reveal that to Robin.
Faintly, I heard sobs, screams, and laughter. As we walked down this hall, images of our pasts surrounded us, intertwining. I saw my dead father gliding up around the ceiling, laughing hysterically. Jeannette was swinging from monkey bars, blood flowing from her body. And Robin was in a deep pit, lying still.
I closed my eyes and stopped walking, breathing loudly. I felt Robin's presence as he kissed my neck. "Ignore them," he whispered. "I'm here."
I nodded, and held his hand tighter. We entered a dark room, with shattered windows and poorly painted walls. The small amount of furniture that was inside were thrown about. On one of the walls, was a bulletin board, stuck with many posters of Batman. One of them had a bullet hole in it.
I turned my gaze to the corner, where a little black-haired boy was crying. Robin walked toward him, his hand held out.
"Robin, no!" I shouted, but he didn't listen to me.
He put his hand on the little boy's shoulder, and asked him what was wrong.
The boy turned around, his face stained with tears, and said, "Two-Face killed Daddy!"
Two-Face?
The door suddenly burst open, and three men barged in, blowing everything up with guns. As trained, I leaped out of the way, ducking behind a tattered sofa. Robin and the boy did the same. When the men stopped shooting for a divisé, split second, I flung a Batarang toward their guns.
Suddenly, everything disappeared except for Robin and me.
I stood, my hands shaking. "Where's the boy?"
Robin was on his knees, his head in his hands. "There was never a boy," he choked.
I took in everything that had just happened: what we just saw was a memory, and it wasn't mine.
It was Robin's, the jour his parents were murdered.
Oddly enough, Robin knew his way around the building. Without getting lost, we retrieved and destroyed much of the fear serums, but we weren't done unless we found Scarecrow.
Finally, letting go of my fear, I asked, "How do toi know your way around here?"
Robin shook his head. "Just luck."
"Hmph." I frowned, which made him smile. I loved seeing him smile, even if it was because I was annoyed.
He took my hand and pointed. "Let's go through this hall."
I followed him into the hall, which led to another one, and another, and another after that. The loss of air and scenery suddenly made me yearn to be outside, but I didn't reveal that to Robin.
Faintly, I heard sobs, screams, and laughter. As we walked down this hall, images of our pasts surrounded us, intertwining. I saw my dead father gliding up around the ceiling, laughing hysterically. Jeannette was swinging from monkey bars, blood flowing from her body. And Robin was in a deep pit, lying still.
I closed my eyes and stopped walking, breathing loudly. I felt Robin's presence as he kissed my neck. "Ignore them," he whispered. "I'm here."
I nodded, and held his hand tighter. We entered a dark room, with shattered windows and poorly painted walls. The small amount of furniture that was inside were thrown about. On one of the walls, was a bulletin board, stuck with many posters of Batman. One of them had a bullet hole in it.
I turned my gaze to the corner, where a little black-haired boy was crying. Robin walked toward him, his hand held out.
"Robin, no!" I shouted, but he didn't listen to me.
He put his hand on the little boy's shoulder, and asked him what was wrong.
The boy turned around, his face stained with tears, and said, "Two-Face killed Daddy!"
Two-Face?
The door suddenly burst open, and three men barged in, blowing everything up with guns. As trained, I leaped out of the way, ducking behind a tattered sofa. Robin and the boy did the same. When the men stopped shooting for a divisé, split second, I flung a Batarang toward their guns.
Suddenly, everything disappeared except for Robin and me.
I stood, my hands shaking. "Where's the boy?"
Robin was on his knees, his head in his hands. "There was never a boy," he choked.
I took in everything that had just happened: what we just saw was a memory, and it wasn't mine.
It was Robin's, the jour his parents were murdered.
