"Something's not right here."
There was a sudden breath, a hush, and she saw him out of the corner of her eyes as he glared. Her words had been spoken too loudly, with too much certainty, in a place where she was the sidekick and he was the superhero. It was not her call to make, she knew. She was here to watch; she was here for brute strength and agility. She was not here to make choices and be the Batman.
"… Father." The man's voice was soft, almost hesitant, but laced with determination. Even with her back turned, she saw the expression on his face, knew how his eyebrows drew together and how he bent his fingers, not quite a fist. He tapped the side of his cowl twice, drawing in a deep breath as he looked at the screen that projected. "Father. I am uncertain that this was on the map you gave me."
"The blueprints should be correct." Even Irey heard the aging Wayne's voice, sharp and crisp in the shallow hallway, turning her head only slightly to listen to the two speak. She kept her gaze forward, watching the security feed in the wrist of her - Damian's - glove. It was an outdated device, but no one had expected another Robin to take Damian's suit. It had been by need and not by want that she had suited up in his old outfit, smugly finding that it mostly fit. She had new boots ordered, but the rest was good enough for a time-to-time job.
"They are not." There was an exhale, and she took a gamble, turning to look at the cape and the blue-lighted face of her companion. His eyebrows were pulled, a frown on his face, carefully tapping on the projected screen ahead of him. "This hallway is a dead-end. It was meant to lead to the bank vault door. How old is this blueprint?"
"A year."
"Damian…" Irey's voice was soft, still facing his back. She glanced back at her screen, knowing too well the building was abandoned. It was the basement and the floors that descended below that they were investigating, and it would be far too suspicious for such a grand plot for people to be guarding a building that was meant to be condemned. They had bugged the security feed so it was frozen to any screens but Iris's, which flickered with the time and nothing else. There was a sliver of certainty that finally seemed to break through his thoughts, turning his head only slightly to peer back at her.
"I don't… What is suppose to be below these floors? What are we here for?"
She knew the answer, that she wasn't meant to know. She was a temporary sidekick, and giving her too much information was liable to get her in trouble. Not a single newspaper or online hero forum had figured out the identity of the redheaded Robin, one they assumed to be another boy. They speculators were incredibly intelligent, and they didn't take long to estimate her height and weight; thankfully, their blathering stayed online and hadn't surfaced anywhere else, leaving every day people oblivious to the fact that the newest Robin was not who they assumed.
"DNA," Damian murmured, shaking his head. "They have been robbing hospitals around America, trying to find DNA that is abnormal, and link it to a superhero. From there, they can multiply it, or find their weaknesses. We are lucky that the JLA knows better than to let us go to a regular hospital when we are injured."
Never before had she questioned their missions, but never before had they been this dangerous. She gave up spying, turning completely to face Damian. A step was all it took for her to brush his shoulder, peering at the blueprints that were projected, shaking her head. He tapped the screen, zooming on on their location.
"There is meant to be an old bank vault two feet from this wall. The vault is said to contain the passage way down to the lower levels." A hesitation again, offering her another glance. He drew his lip between his teeth - a habit he'd picked up from her - a sure sign he was contemplating how to proceed.
The end of the hallway didn't look poorly constructed, or hastily put up. The wall color matched and there was no seam to indicate new drywall. She tilted her head, reaching forward, raking her fingers across the paint as Damian spoke softly to his father, his head bent to the blueprints. A loud tick sounded and at once Damian's head jerked up, his projection sputtering and disappearing, leaving the two in near complete darkness.
"Iris—"
Another tick and she flinched at his touch, at how he yanked her back. The third sounded, and before the noise could end, the wall was exploding, light and heat appearing from behind the fake wall. There was no time for preparation or for fear; a deafening boom followed the explosion, windows shattering, walls caving. There was fire licking at the walls and concrete falling, and as quickly as it began it was over, the affect of the detonation taking over in the roaring flames and the crumbling stone, the wail of the security alarm and Bruce's voice talking over the chaos.
"Damian? Damian."
"Father—" It was a croak, barely a whisper, the man's voice no longer there. It was replaced with fear, with emotion that had long been stored away and hidden, coming out in waves and in gasps as he spoke. There was the sound of rocks being moved, of the attempt of movement, trying to turn his head and peer past the smoke and the flames that clung at the edges of his vision. He knew what his father was thinking, what was going on simultaneously across town, a fear so similar and vastly different on Bruce's mind. Damian knew he worried he had lost another Robin, another son.
Robin.
"Dad." The word was so rarely spoke on his lips that it was foreign, and even as his vision swam and his stomach churned, limbs protesting, he knew she had to have gotten the brunt of the explosion. She had been in front of him, and the Robin suit lacked the same protection that the Batman one had. She had her speed - he had never assumed she would have needed the same armor he had. "Iris."
"I'm on my way. I'm on my way. Hold on." The words in his ear were clipped, and he faintly heard the squeal of tires. For a moment he was sure it was here and not at the mansion, but his head was playing tricks on him. It was at least ten miles from the Manor, and the Friday night traffic could make his arrival take longer. Damian forced himself to sit, tried to sit, but while his drive and determination continued, his body could not. He could feel the sharpness of broken bones in his arm as he tried to put weight on it, the throb that encompassed his eye, the pain that swirled his vision and made him want to wretch. There was blood in his mouth and a hard piece against his tongue, probably a broken tooth. That was just the beginning of his injuries, he knew, grunting as his arm gave out and he collapsed back onto the concrete floor.
"Iris." He coughed, spitting out the tooth, trying to regain his voice. "Irey!"
There was no words, but he could hear the wheezing, the pained breathing from only a foot away. Why hadn't he seen her body before? Why was he so unable to see her when he had sat up? He paused for only a second, suddenly jerking in an attempt to roll over onto his stomach, the movement and the blinding pain causing his sight to nearly disappear. It wasn't until that movement that another throb began, blood wetting his fingers.
He allowed a glance to the gaping wound he knew was there, the concrete piece he knew was digging deeper into his stomach, but there wasn't any hope for him. He could feel it, the gut feeling that had washed over him. Removing the piece would cause him to bleed out. Keeping it in would cause internal bleeding. He was damned either way, and it was only a moment that he fought with the idea that if he was careful, he knew he could rip his cape off and dig the concrete shrapnel from his stomach. He could apply pressure and wait for his father.
Maybe he would have fended for himself if it had been someone else, if he couldn't hear the breathing of his comrade beside him. Maybe months ago he would have let her die. He reached for the nearest block of concrete, dragging his broken body closer toward the ragged noises she was making, teeth grinding together.
"Three minutes."
His father's voice rang out, tense and afraid and hopeful - he knew it was there somewhere, on the tip of his tongue or the back of his throat. Damian reached up and pulled his cowl off, feeling the sharp line of a burn across his cheek, and he blindly groped for the girl he knew was there.
"Irey—…"
As soon as he saw he knew what had happened, that the large piece that had found it's way into his stomach had been through hers first. She was smaller, closer to the explosion, and it had ripped through her ride only to lodge into his. Her eyes were open and her hand was pressed against the torn flesh, blood oozing from her fingers and her side. She wasn't consciously there, he could tell by the vacant look in her eyes, dragging himself closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. He shook it, forcing his shattered arm to act, pressing against her hand that covered her injury. It was that contact, it seemed, that broke her from whatever had snatched her consciousness, a shock of air raising her chest further than it had been, eyes widening.
It was the agony in her scream that broke him. He knew her body couldn't keep up with the injury, couldn't properly heal it when it was clogged with dirt and pebbles and sharp pieces of concrete, and he had no way to help her. There was nothing he could do. He felt the slickness of blood before he noticed her hand on top of his, squeezing, trying to slow the bleeding.
He heard the car's engine and the distant wail of sirens, the door slamming and the crunch of his father's boots as he ran to the collapsed building. He removed his hand from her shoulder, trying to push himself up, trying to signal them, but there was nothing there but the sway in his vision and the throb in his stomach, against his eye, in his arm. There was nothing but the tears on her cheeks and the nails digging into his hand, the blood that came in waves from the littlest Robin.
Damian barely felt himself lay back down, nor the way his head thudded against the floor. The vision in his one eye completely disappeared and his view from the other seemed to shimmer, a television trying to get a picture, hand groping to make sure she was still there.
"Damian—"
His father's voice came too late, a cry that whispered into his ears.
"Save her."