The Bat's cape slithers across the floor, producing not so much as a whisper beneath the humming of electricity from the flickering florescent lights fixed overhead
Heavy-set boots don't make a sound as the Bat slowly moves through the hallway, white lenses cataloguing every inch of every surface, waiting for his progress through the facility to be interrupted.
He's made it into the bowels of the compound with a bone-chilling amount of ease, his decades of experience lecture his progression, pointing out all the glaring, neon signs that this is a trap.
But he came here for a reason.
Only one door populates the long stretch of corridor, and he comes to a stop in front of it.
The slightest breeze of cool, filtered air brushes over the bare lower half of his face, and he narrows his gaze at the slightly ajar stance of the door.
Carefully, batarangs poised at the ready in each hand, he nudges the door open with the toe of his boot, and ducks through.
The Batman creeps further into the labatory, head on a swivel, looking for any clue as to what he is being guided into, but puts away his weapons. It seems he is alone.
Rows of cabinets line the walls of the relatively small room, filled with all sorts of chemicals, and an array of lab tables divide the room into two, a strong line down the middle. None are particularly tidy, he notes, cataloguing their chaotic surfaces, but that is not out of the ordinary for a lab, he can say from personal experience.
He stops, to take a look at one such collection of papers, thumbing through creased pages, and hums under his breath. The sketches on some pages, the strings of formulae on another, entire stacks of scribbled out, incomprehensible notes.
Nothing out of the ordinary, but something about them pings a memory, to Tim's experiments, years ago, now.
He hums again, flicking his eyes over to the fridges standing unassumingly at the side of the room.
Dozens of vials of blood.
He picks up one rack, lifting it higher to inspect it, and narrows his eyes at the labels.
An alarm blares in his mind, and he silences it. He knew he was being led here, and chose to go along with it.
This fascility, this labatory, these experiments...it's all to do with him.
As if it was just waiting for him to make the discovery, there's a loud, haydraulic hiss, followed the the gasp of air releasing, and Batman whips around, hand going to his belt, and—
He scans the room just to be sure, and allows his eyes to catch on the now-visible lid to something, stretched up to the ceiling.
Still ready for an assault, the Bat slinks over to the far end of the lab, eyes fixed on that container, wondering what could be inside....it.
Batman stares down at the container, studying the lure that brought him here.
He's not entirely sure who laid down this breadcrumb trail for him to follow, and isn't sure it matters.
Clearly they know him well, which is more of a threat.
Can he take it? It might not be the wise choice anyway, but considering he doesn't know whether or not it's a weapon, that makes it even more unwise.
"Sorry, Damian," he murmurs, hoping his youngest—not so young anymore—son forgives him.
The door flies open, and Batman steps in front of the container, watching the oblivious scientist waltz in.
"Got your bottle, Terry, how are..."
The chipper voice cuts out as he makes eye contact with the impassive lenses of the Bat, who tilts his head, watching.
"Shit." The bottle slips from shaking hands, and the scientist stumbles back through the door they came from, turning tail and running, a scream of "HE'S HERE!" ringing out after them.
An alarm blares through the room, the lights turning red, and Batman scoops up the little, swaddled body from it's barely-even-a-cot, lifting it close to his chest plates. It doesn't seem bothered by the sudden racket, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes, and Bruce smiles down at him, lifting a clawed finger to stroke the plump cheek.
For @ilovemybruciewayne for putting up with me. <3
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