I don't know what to do. I try to make this - Robin?
, this fallen bird in berry plumage - as comfortable as I can, but then
- there's a deafening roar, a silent assault that I can't hear but it's all happening inside my head what is going wrong here
and there's a flash of high beams and the terrible familiar grinding of chassis against chassis and I remember that strange widget I noticed right before things went black what is that thing why would Mr Smithgel put it in the radio of all places?
but I'm not alone here, there's somebody else, watching subway doors close before him, looking through the glass at the Bat-man and ... me?
But he has questions, and there's something that Shemp mentioned to me in passing about some new gizmo Mr Smithgel was trying out, and I know
. A ditty is running in the background, on top of the cacophony and under it and weaving all through it, but I can't pick it out in the noise
and the shouts and the mad laughter why is everything so loud?
Then the agonising, grating screech, like metal being dragged cross-wise over metal, or - a knife blade, forced through tangles of wires and circuitry, burrowing its way to - Silence.
The obnoxious tune is gone, and now here's a thing you'd be lucky to hear on the dead Wasusy streets. It sounds like the chirps from those feathered ornaments that the wealthy keep in gilded cages, but this song is different - it's swooping, it's alive, it's free
There are fingers around my wrist, suddenly, and the bird-song vaporises, only a haunt for me to clutch at. Robin is looking up at me and her eyes are luminous. I know where I've seen those eyes before.
," I sob, choking on the breath.