Notes: Set at the end of Streets of Gotham #11.
The smell hits him before Dick even reaches the bottom of the ring: mold and mildew and decaying wood and above it all the cloying metallic scent of blood. A lot of blood apparently, because the floor is unexpectedly slick under his boots. He can barely make out Damian and Abuse in the darkness, not until he gets in closer to the pit where there's more of everything. More light, more stench, and more blood. On the floor. The walls. Damian.
For a long, shuddering moment Dick can't decide if the terror he feels is for Damian or of him. Around his eyes blood is thick and flaking off in dry brittle pieces and he looks twice his age. The intention of the mask is obvious, but its source is not and that alone would be enough to turn Dick's blood cold if it were the only warning sign. Instead his shirt is stuck to him and turning pink with sweat and blood, how much his own is unclear. There is blood running down his arm and the blade of his sword is sticky with more than that.
The boy standing defiant before Batman in civvies and someone else's gore is far too fierce for a ten year old. Maybe too fierce for a Robin. Except that he's still so small, muscle building fast on slender bones notwithstanding, and at least some of that blood is his. He sees the less than subtle way Damian is favoring his left shoulder. It's a damning detail, that anyone Robin is already gunning for would get a hit that bad in on the kid without suffering lasting repercussions. But Dick can't help but believe it when he says that he didn't kill Zsasz. He wants to at least believe they were only defending themselves.
Part of him does, but it's still only part.