Valour // Dick Grayson

2

Bruce Wayne: 32
Dick Grayson: 18
Jason Todd: 17
Tim Drake: 15
Damian Wayne: 12

The garage doors slammed shut, cool metal reverberating beneath my palms from the force of the action. Standing there for a moment, I tilted my head up to the heavens, stars just visible amongst the swirling vortex of indigo. The agitated wind curled around my figure as strands of dark hair whipped across my face, relentless rain cascading down the leather jacket that I had flung on prior.
Eyes fluttering closed, I took a deep breath and opened my senses to the world around me as the storm raged on. The scent of saturated soils and vegetation assaulted my nose as the air crackled with electricity. Thunder resonated for miles whilst the muffled roaring of an engine approached...

Huh, that's not right.

Snapping my eyes open, I focused my attention on the winding dirt track that lead up to my residence, faintly making out the illumination of headlights through the darkness. The light grew stronger as they approached, my muscles tensing as I prepared for an uninvited visitor, when the glow suddenly lurched to the left and disappeared. Cocking my head to the side for a second, a calculating expression adorned my features as multiple scenarios ran through my mind. But like always, I payed no heed to them and darted towards the vague outline In the distance. Not breaking my stride once, even when the carnage of a motorbike crash made itself visible, I continued to the motionless body sprawled across the uneven ground. The moon briefly emerged from behind the inky clouds, it reflection in the distorted puddles casting a silvery glow over the mysterious strangers face...Well shit.

The fact that a boy who couldn't be older then 14 and was riding- or crashing- a motorbike probably would have raised eyebrows. Add that to the trademark black domino mask and the neon insignia stitched onto the Kevlar breast plate, you'd have to be a fucking idiot to not identify the unconscious body. Robin, Batman's latest gremlin of the night. Or as I like to call him, Bats junior junior junior junior, give or take a couple of junior's - its pretty hard to keep up with all the new additions. Kneeling down, I swiftly checked his pulse and let out a small sigh of relief to find it fluttering beneath my fingers, albeit weakly. Gathering the cloaked figure in my arms with relative ease, I made my way back to the converted barn that I had locked up only moments before, blindly dodging the pot holes with practised dexterity.

"Lights on FRANK" I commanded upon entering my 'humble abode'.
"Certainly Miss. Chase" a masculine, slightly robotic, voice replied. The darkness was immediately chased away as the room came to life. Metal tables and shelves strewn with various electronics and mechanical equipment furnished the large room. Huge machines ranging from clamps, to heavy lifting, to robotic arms were located to the left accompanying several cars of different shapes and sizes, one without a shell. The seemingly high tech equipment very much juxtaposed against the rouged wooden walls and rustic beams that crossed overhead, but as I always say, it adds character. Lying the motionless baby bat on a steel bench, I removed his cape and surveyed the damage. His dark uniform mostly concealed the growing stain on his abdomen, but the tell tale metallic scent was strong. Working quickly, I unclasped his armour and tugged off his undershirt with nimble fingers. What I saw didn't surprise me- though toned, he was still lean due to the developing muscles of the young boy, and scars littered his body. I winced slightly, my subconscious already listing off the causes of the varying old wounds. I know that some parents are more lenient then others, but seriously Bats, this is just fucked up. But more to the point, I focused on the gaping hole in his stomach, the loss of blood steadily increasing without the pressure of his suit. Grimacing, I grabbed a sterilised cloth, attempting to staunch the blood whilst I planned out the best course of action. Already having determined that it was a stab wound, most likely with a serrated edge and twisted upon entry according to the damaged tissue. The result isn't going to be pretty but it's better then death, I supposed as I reached for a blow torch on the desk next to me. Sorry kid, looks like you're going to have to tough it out.

As soon as the blue flame licked his wound, Robin tensed up and began writhing despite his unconscious state, which I couldn't help but pity as I had received similar treatment previously. But it was only for a few seconds, enough to cauterize the blood flow before I deftly slipped out a needle and thread and began the meticulous process of stitching him back together. Upon completion, I tied it off with a satisfied snap before cleansing the area with the whiskey I had beneath the bench... For medical reasons only of course. As an after thought, I also cleaned the minor scrapes and cuts on the rest of his visible skin. Pulling back, I observed the scene with mild incredulity and a hint of annoyance. So much for avoiding anymore possibly lethal drama then. Now awake, I was well aware that I wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight so I figured I might as well get an early start on my work. About to walk away, it suddenly struck me that the cold surface the young vigilante was lying on may not be the most comfortable. With grudging acceptance, I once again lifted the boy that had somehow managed to inconvenience me so much within half an hour and moved him to what I call my 'comfy zone'. Basically a pile of large, plush pillows in the corner that I frequently collapse in whenever I've had a hard day. Positioning him in a way that I deemed comfortable, I covered the fourth Robin with a thick woollen blanket before making my way to the Land Rover Defender I was meant to fix up by next Friday. Only a few steps in its direction though, a tragic scene flashed through my head. Biting my lip in contemplation, I looked between the truck and the closed garage doors a few times before shrugging. Fuck it.