Distortions of an Empty Face
By Katany
Disclaimer: DC abuses them more than me.
Notes: I'm not will to call this story dead yet. As it stands, it's compact and heavy and dense and the prologue is written in a style most people abhor (though I admit to overuse), and it's not aimed at the masses. I'm working on The Distance Between Corresponding Points now, trying to get the kinks out of my writing. Then I plan to come back and try to release a more streamlined version with less background story and angst and more flow. Now, I don't plan to remove this story as it, I'd post the new version by itself as it would be a new story. At the speed I write I'm not promising anything soon. But this story is in my thoughts.
Also, I was doing some thinking about the prologue, and it occurs to me part of the problem with the prologue was ffdotnet doesn't allow strike-through script, even in the html editor. The text in the {brackets} was intended to be strike-through, indicating the subconscious thought being over written by a conscious thought. Which I hate explaining, but is a format problem.
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Distortions Prologue
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The mask was still on his face. Dick noticed it before he felt the press of a firm mattress beneath his back, the hum of electrical equipment in his ear, or even the knowledge that he was alive. One of the first things Batman had instilled in Dick (to fight crime and corruption and never swerve from the path of righteousness) was the importance of a secret identity for the safety of {himself} [those around him]. Dick had long ago figured out that the secret identity was part of the fear The Batman cultivated. True, Batman had taught Robin to put the fear into someone, but he had never been draped in it like Bruce had, frightening criminals and victims alike. Dick was the red, green, and yellow streak that had to kayo a goon twice his size before he was {noticed} [feared] and for a time he was just so happy to {be} [patrol] with Batman that it didn't matter. And though the colorful sidekick should have made Batman less frightening, Batman had never asked him to change. It was a (recently-seriously-injured) thought that Dick recognized, but was not allowed to dwell on.
The mask was still on his face, which meant someone didn't know he was in fact Richard John Grayson. Whether he was among friend or foe, Dick reprimanded himself for thinking "Bruce" as Batman; or was it "Batman" as Bruce? Though he had fallen among comrades, there was still no guarantee he was safe (with Batman). There were no restraints on him; he wasn't chained to a wall or a floor or slab for torture, at least that he could feel. The bed, bandages, and monitors meant that his body was probably not in immediate physical danger. If he was (Twenty-Something Hostage) bait in some trap or the sort than his captor wanted him alive and well for whatever reason, and if he was alive then there was a way to {be rescued} [escape].
The mask was still on his face as he regained consciousness, which implied that he had been unconscious. Not that the concept was anything new, but he felt distinctly {abandoned} [alone]. There had been times when he hadn't, when he felt warm and content despite his broken body, and not even pain and fatigue could dim that feeling. Blackgate: beaten and thrown into a pit with a mob of criminals who would have killed him had they managed to cooperate, forced to fight for his survival even before his eyes were fully open, and yet he had felt alive, his energy jolting through his muscles. Happy, like understanding (Jason) for the first time in years or like (Jason) had had a {death} [life] changing revelation. Even though (Jason) faded into memory, the feeling remained. He felt alone this time, as if time had twisted backwards since Blackgate so there wasn't (the Red Hood) watching him because he no longer deserved anyone (Blockbuster).
The mask was still on his face and he attempted to deduce how long he had been unconscious by the way the spirit gum and perspiration felt on his face. He assumed it was two to three days, but wasn't sure as he realized that it wasn't his mask on his face. This mask lacked the pointed tips on his nose and along the sides of his face. The shape was simple enough to just cover his eyes, though the edges did arch slightly upwards near his temples, most likely a stylistic choice for whoever owned the mask, though it could also have been to hide something telling on the person's face. He began systematically reviewing people's faces for identifying marks near their temples and costumes for masks similar to the one he was wearing. It felt most similar to (Tim's) Robin's mask, which was logical if his own had been damaged to the point his identity might have been compromised, though he doubted (Tim's) Robin's mask would fit so perfectly so he continued making a list.
The mask was still on his face and logically all he had to do stare out through lens filtered eyes and look, but then he would be giving himself away and he still needed more facts. He stretched out his senses slowly and reprimanded himself yet again for not noticing the light singing before. Starfire had not sung to him in years, but he still recognized the Tamaranian song of a warrior. His brain was slow at translating all the words, but the words didn't matter, and the voice was more like a distant memory. Starfire was there and he tried to reassure her of his health in the words of her dead planet as the darkness claimed him once more. Even if he was captured Starfire was there, and he was safe.
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