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Call it nerves or anxiety, but for whatever reason, Damian found himself more antsy than usual as he watched Grayson diffuse the bomb. The components were unlike anything he had seen before, but that wasn't really what got to Damian. What got to him was the ticking of the clock, and how it kept going down, and down, and down.

By the time the clock was down to single digit seconds, the boy had enough and moved to shove Grayson out of the way. The explosion rings in his ears, and he uses his cape to cover his mouth, lest the dust get in. But the pair are still alive, and no one is dead. That has to count for something.

"The hell?"

Marc has grown used to strange things happening in the Midnight Mission. It comes with the territory of living in a sentient house from another dimension which pretends to be a haunted house. But that doesn't mean he can't be shocked every once in a while. This is certainly one of those times.

There's a strange red door where the door to his office should be.

"This isn't one of yours, is it?" He asks aloud, seemingly to no one. After a few seconds, Marc shoves his hands into his pockets. "Thought not." He steps closer to the door.

It doesn't seem like a trap, but nothing ever does. And some kind of magic being strong enough to influence the Mission is concerning enough. Where was Dr. Strange when you needed him?

He looks to his left, and then to his right. He's all alone, and the red door is right here. He takes a deep breath, and opens the door to step through to a... magic store? He's about to ask where he is and how he can get back to the Mission, when he sees the face behind the counter.

And here come the quips. The boy always has some quips.

Slade's hands rest by his sides, fingers alternating between relaxing and flexing, just in case he needs to be fast on the draw of the gun. Some people in the business still look at Nightwing and see nothing more than a Robin who grew up but Deathstroke knows better.

No, he was more than Batman's kid sidekick grown up. He was his own man, unshackled by his past.

"And nowhere near mine." The talk always grated on Slade. Never so much that he found himself unable to concentrate or focus, but just enough that he was always aware of it. He can't imagine being so chatty, not when all of his actions are so much louder than his words.

"Well, lore is for when you're talking about a specific body of knowledge, like vampire lore, while history is the general study of the past. So I guess that means history is just a subsection of lore?" That didn't wound right to Maps but she didn't know enough about etymology to dispute that claim one way or another. She's reasonably sure she has it right, but just unsure enough to know that she should leave the subject alone for now.

"...Okay, maybe I'm trying to make it sound a little bit cool. Let me have this." Maps glances up from her book to look at Cat. She offers a sheepish smile, as if to wordlessly ask if her attempt to make it sound cool actually worked.

The only Disney movie Damian has ever seen is Lilo and Stitch. It made him cry.

Logan has put considerable thought into what he wants to happen with his body, once he dies, and has thus put it in writing that in the event of his death, he wants his remains destroyed down to the last molecule.

Logan is acutely aware of what his body is capable of, and he knows what people will do with his remains if left unchecked. He knows he'll be cut open and examined from head to toe in order to make something horrible happen, and he doesn't want that to happen. Once he dies, once Logan finally rests, he wants that rest to be permanent. Thus, he wants his remains destroyed, to ensure that no one can make a Franken-Logan out of him, or worse, a bio-weapon.

Birds will fly, fish will swim, grass will grow, and Maps Mizoguchi will find herself wrapped up in some strange mystery which she insists on getting to the bottom of. Truly, an inspiration to all of the weirdness that comes with Gotham City. "I think it's a real actual werewolf but I don't know for certain. I had a silver thing somewhere but I can't find it anymore." Her organizational skills leave something to be desired, however.

"It's Gotham. Everything is risky. When my parents moved here when I was two their friends bought them gas masks just in case."

Which was actually more useful than not.