Damian poked his head into the South wing library for as long as it took to confirm that the place was, indeed, still the bibliotheca he remembered of his own mansion. Well, his Father's mansion, but the one that was in Damian's universe. Damian was about to move onward, but his steps stilled, then reversed, bringing him back into the hollow embrace of lofty ceilings and savory aromas of books weathered by time, some older than grandfather himself. Six hundred years was long to walk the Earth, but he could not claim to have predated time entirely, no matter Damian's childish feelings in his youth.
Damian's steps now took him over lightly carpeted floors and bare wooden boards. The carpet was pale green instead of purple: likely Pennyworth had not been forced to change it due to blood stains. Damian had not borne developed intentions when he entered the room, but his eyes were drawn to The Chair anyway. The armrests were too frayed, the seat cushion dilapidated. It was obvious Todd spent much time there.
Damian tore his gaze from the preferred reading place of a zombie and moved to inspect his own seat, a love couch with enough room to stretch out on and comfortable enough to curl up in. It looked much the same. A cursory investigation revealed no daggers within the cushions. Most of the library did look much the same… albeit more well-worn.
He walked over to the wooden panels that bordered the wall by the floor and checked for secret passages. He experienced a brief moment of surprise upon finding one, then remembered that even before being the headquarters of Bats this house had seen it's share of a war on injustice. An underground war, if one would. Squatting on the flats of his feet (like any civilized person: balancing on one's toes was a pathetic Western innovation and considerably less beneficial to one's spine) Damian breathed in the situation and breathed it out again, releasing tension and confusion into the air and letting it dissipate on his breath.
He could not remember when he'd learned that particular technique, but it had been with his mother.
Damian turned heel and made his way out the door, moving to check inside the supply closet. It had been his suggestion that they all take this time to refamiliarize themselves with the house, Tiny - Richard being carted off by Drake, who, no doubt, would take this time to conduct extensive investigations into the child's home life. Drake could often be annoying, but sometimes he could still be of benefit to Damian.
Damian swung open another door, noted the differences and moved on. He was conflicted concerning his own usefulness to Richard. Part of him believed that as the Robin to Grayson's Batman and as Damian Wayne himself, of course he was best qualified to help Richard in this. The other part whispered unhelpfully that this was not Grayson. This was Richard. Damian did not yet know the difference. Also, an older voice whispered other things.
Damian flung open a door, noted that it was as it should be, and tried to silence the little voice gnawing at his mind. He had not performed adequately. He was born to be perfect and yet still he failed. His Mother had gone to untold measures to bring him into existence and yet he still failed her. His Father had taken him into his home and promptly died, Grayson had made him Robin and then Damian died, leaving Grayson alone to be captured, tortured, killed, and sent off in a precarious mental state to be a 'spy'! And this did not even cover Damian's part in subjecting Grayson to the Court of Owls!
Surely Damian's involvement with Richard could but make things worse?
He flung open a door. Same.
On the other hand, the other options were Todd and Drake.
Another door. Same.
Surely, Damian could not do worse than Todd and Drake.
Door. Different.
Of course, Father kept Todd's uniform up in memorial, but not Damian's… and if Damian had to hear one more time about how much better Drake followed directions and his amazing detective work, and: 'no Damian, you can't just interrogate people with your wonderful, pristine, unparalleled, 10th century katana, you have to stare at dust trails and sniff leaves because that's what detectives like that over caffeinated failure Drake do and you have to be just like Drake even though you were raised to be perfect and he can't even keep his internal organs inside his body…
Door. Different.
Damian tired of spending this much mental exertion on Drake. It was simple. Richard required help. Todd was insane. Drake was incompetent. Even if this was not so, with only three people available, Richard was going to need all the help he could get. Damian would at least, do more benefit than harm, correct? Of course. And even if he was not, perhaps, the greatest child psychologist, he could enact revenge on this 'Daddy' whoever and wherever he might be.
Door. Same.
When Damian found Daddy… hmm. Death was far too good for him but he would need to be incarcerated somewhere…
Door. Different.
Forget this. Damian was skipping to the fun part. When Damian found Daddy he was going to cut off all his possible escape routes. If he still feared bats Damian would unleash a volley of them into his face. Damian could bring Goliath.
Door. Different.
Goliath would scream in his face and tear him with his claws and carry him up to a mountaintop where Damian would be waiting. Damian would have with him a katana… a very sharp poison covered katana, and a pit of acid and a lazarus pit so he could kill him many times and medieval torture devices…
Damian found himself bouncing on his toes and grinning as he fairly skipped down the hallway. He forced himself to slow down.
Door. Different.
Now, what was a good way to impart the sufferings this man had placed upon innocent tiny Richard? What was a good way to turn those cruelties back on the man himself? Something ironic, humiliating and very painful…
Despite his best efforts, Damian found himself humming.