crusaded | questions would not be asked

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damian wayne

questions would not be asked

From the moment the bathysphere surfaces, I wonder if I've made a mistake. The type of oversight that would have, in Gotham, possibly gotten me killed. On some level, I can recognize that the two situations are not the same. Gotham is a city that I've lived in all my life, no street unwalked and no corner unturned. I know it as well as the back of my own hand, or even better, for to know Gotham is to know the collective minds that inhabit it, the peculiarities and fear alike, practically palpable in the air. In Gotham, the face guarding the sole entrance to a building, let alone an entire civilization past, would not be unfamiliar to me. Questions would not be asked. Fear would lace itself into the pale blue of the woman's eyes, and her shock of red hair would rightfully send a jolt to the pit of my stomach— but the pieces don't fit well, and so I continue to wonder if I've made a mistake, etching each question into the back of my mind for safe-keeping, for when I know I'll return to the spot, requesting access to Jason.

But if there is one thing that all people should learn about mistakes, it's that retracing is rarely a fix. Apologies are thin, at best, a gesture more than a solution. No way to keep a bridge standing. So for all that a part of me wonders if I should have stayed in the depths below, I find myself pushing forward with the original plan, quickly covering territory and scouting the terrain. Wherever I sense people in the distance, I veer in the opposite direction, knowing that Damian isn't likely to remain there for long, or that Tim would also have a hideout somewhere hidden from the general populace. I press forward and towards higher altitudes, feeling the wind unseasonably warm against my skin. There's a light rustling in the distance, almost silent, but lumbering with all the ease of a beast unconcerned by my presence; in the distance, I spot a pylon clear above the canopy, then decide to walk its perimeter.

I can't speak for Tim, but if this fence is safe to cross, something tells me Damian might be on the other side.

And if it isn't, I'd be willing to double those odds.

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The shame of Halloween shadows Damian wherever he goes. He'd made a foolish mistake, got bested by a toy. A doll. A clown. In Gotham, it would be easier to move on. There would be a new case. A new villain. A new chance to prove himself. He wouldn't have to wait for the next problem to roll in. It would simply come and he would be there to meet it. Tabula Rasa, however, offers no such distractions. Though chaos exists, it's the exception to the rule. Peace runs rampant. There's no one to fight and fewer to watch.

Even the Red Hood has proven himself a boring target, though his absence tonight rankles. (It doesn't matter that Todd caught him. There's more evidence to suggest he'll turn crazy than there is he'll stay sane. A year in this place would surely mess with anyone's sanity and Jason Todd never played with a full deck.) Dinosaur Territory is the most interesting place Damian can go to on short notice, the walk from the hut he shares with Batgirl long by pathway, but quick through the trees.

The island is asleep at this hour, but he's been unable to shake the nocturnal habits of home even a month since he was stolen from it. He moves swiftly, silently -- like a ghost. But the prehistoric beasts that claim the northeast jungle for their own aren't particularly active this time of night and the challenge is somewhat dampened for it. Growing restless in record time, Damian decides to head elsewhere, sullen as he shoots a line up into the branches -- only to spot, in the distance, a familiar silhouette.

Grayson?

He wastes no time in getting closer, his footing secure as he races through the canopy. His mistake -- yet another -- becomes immediately apparent once he's within earshot.

No, not Grayson.

Damian stills in the trees.

"Father."

It takes no small amount of skill to mask movement in the brush of a wind. Some assume that it's an easier task to remain fully silent, but wind is always accompanied by a level of uncertainty. Carefully watch the clouds, and one might know when the wind is due to turn next, slipping through brush, bending blades of grass at whim. But rare is it that we have the opportunity to watch the air skirt across the sky, and when I hear the sound of someone coming to a halt in the trees, I remind myself that it's impossible to ever be too careful. Somehow, I missed the approach.

But the voice doesn't leave anyone in the dark for long.

I don't know how to feel before I turn around at last, or what there is to say. For all that Damian shares my blood, that singular bond isn't enough to put either of us at greater ease around one another. The costume draws my attention first, my brow already furrowing, wondering if my sense of time has been compromised more than I originally suspected. It's not a costume I planned on giving Damian for years yet; he isn't ready, and Tim fills the shoes well enough, perhaps even better than Dick ever had. Whether or not it's related to this, I'm not sure— he's worn the colors before, fashioned by his own hand— but I see something that seems to border on hesitation in Damian's eyes. Then again, I can't pretend to know the boy. Alfred would have an easier time of explaining to me Damian's wishes and whims, but he's nowhere within reach.

"Damian," I reply, relaxing my stance.

Damian has been of two minds about Bruce's return ever since he learned of its possibility, even back home. Here is no different. There's no other Robins to take his place instead, no one more deserving of the title than he, but still there is the fear that he'll be robbed of what he feels belongs to him and him alone.

"Robin," he says. A correction, and a deliberate one. He jumps down to land in front of Batman, his movements economical. (He doesn't need to show off. He knows he's good.) Carefully, he notes all the differences between his father's cowl and Grayson's. The weight of the cape, the set of his shoulders, the grim line of his mouth. He's taller than Grayson, and broader. This is not a man who smiles easily.

(Like father, like son.)

"They say there's no way out of here."

The fact that Damian thinks himself the best choice for Robin isn't surprising to me. At the very least, ambition is practically woven into his blood, and not even a trait solely inherited from his mother. He has as much drive as the both of us combined; uncompromising principles mixed with a need to excel in all areas. Even if I had any reason to doubt the biological link between the two of us, his behavior alone would be enough reason to be suspicious. And for that reason, as well as what I've seen and known of him thus far, I wonder how meaningful it is for him to make that claim, standing in front of me. That he is Robin.

I've never cared to be the one with the power to acknowledge another person's skill or worth. Time has passed, of course. I can see that in his eyes. But the effects that every second has left upon Damian are as of yet unknown to me. How am I supposed to accept him as Robin while that's the case?

"And how does what you've observed compare to what they say?" I ask, the set of my shoulders still tense, though I step closer to Damian. If for no other reason, at least it allows me to lower the volume of my voice.

Damian's never cared for detective work, but it's not due to a lack of skill. It just doesn't hold his interest. There are better things to be doing than poking around for clues. Than analyzing data. It's too easy. Beneath him. Dull. But there's been little else to occupy him in the month since his own arrival. He's watched.

Observed.

(And nearly fallen asleep, for that matter, the few occasions he sought out known associates of his father.)

"They're telling the truth," he says with a scowl. "No one decides to leave just like no one would ever decide to come here. They vanish the same way as they show up." Tilting his head to the side, he stares up at Batman with detached interest. "You were lost in the timestream when I showed up here. But you're from before that, aren't you?"

The expression on his face is a familiar one. One of the handful that I've seen from Damian, but perhaps familiar beyond that as well. I don't know whether it's one that I'd sooner expect to see in a mirror, or one that reminds me of Talia from some time ago, the way she always looked when I wouldn't fall in line with her plans. When she couldn't have things her way. I can picture her type of devotion as applied to a beloved son, trying her best to grant him his wishes and desires, hoping that it'll be what keeps him around to help construct the world of her dreams. A world where the two of us stand on top.

All too possible, and yet implausible all at once.

I know that he must have found it tiresome, overturning every rock, seeking the truth rather than taking the word of strangers. I have no place to be proud. I haven't raised him. I'm not even responsible for the cape on his shoulders. Still... if nothing else, I trust him.

"No one decides to leave, as far as we know," I reply, voice tight with irritation. "There's no reason to give up the attempt."

There's a pause, and my next remark seems to answer his question. "Did you take up the mantle before I disappeared?"

"Grayson made me Robin," he says, but what's left unvoiced is obvious: so it's not yours to take away.

(It is, though. There would be no Robin without Batman, and with Grayson nowhere to be found, that title belongs only to Bruce Wayne. He decides. He dictates. He holds absolute authority, and in that moment, Damian hates him. He's never had a choice in his life, not until he went to Gotham. Not until he chose to stand on his father's side. Fight for his beliefs rather than those of his mother, even though it's never been an easy fit. And yet he knows it can be taken from him in an instance. He could be kicked to the curb. Disowned, again.)

Damian lifts up his chin, defiant. "And I never said anything about giving up."

It doesn't come as a surprise. The only other possibility was that I had made the choice, at some indeterminate point in the future, to have Damian by my side as Robin. Looking at him now, the very tone of his voice and the raise of his chin, I don't know that he's ready. But I also don't know that I'm prepared to be the one to take that area just yet, not without reasons I can cite. However a cape makes its way to one's shoulders isn't the most important detail, but instead one's ability to wear it with confidence, yielding measurable results. I hope he's ready.

Still, learning that Grayson has taken up the cowl is no small discovery. In my mind, Jason would sooner try, place a different type of weight entirely to the costume. He'd relish it. But Dick, even before Azrael's time, never showed any interest in the role.

But the obvious doesn't need to be belabored. "As I'm sure you know, there's an entire city built underneath the island. That was where I arrived, and I'm inclined to take a second look."

Though Damian is aware of Rapture's existence, he's never been down to explore. Knowing he'd need a plan to get around whatever guard should be stationed there, due to the ridiculous age limit that would deny him access regardless of escort, he's shown remarkable patience for following the rules, to not draw attention to himself and keep the family secret secret.

He's just about the only one from their world who can say as much.

"Have you already run into your crazy ex-partner, then?" he asks, scoffing. Todd's been nowhere to find topside tonight, which means he's probably underground. Damian has only a vague idea as to Rapture's size, but he has little doubt that those two found each other, if only briefly. "You have to admit, Grayson has better taste."

In this, I'm certain that Dick understands far more than Damian ever will. Even Tim, with all of the care and attention he paid to filling in the blanks of the story, of pinning every last detail down, stands a better chance of truly understanding the circumstances that led Jason to where he is today. I can't help it. I know that Damian isn't as informed as the other two, and that Jason's recent behavior has done nothing for his reputation. Still, my jaw clenches, the remark settling uncomfortably, grating in more ways than one, and I find myself only further tempted to double back.

It isn't a question about taste. Culpability is the only factor that remains in the air. Dick can learn from my mistakes, and draw from the experience he had with his family, memories clutched tight in his hand; I've never done anything to take that from him. Dick understands what is necessary, possibly better than I did— with Barbara, with Jason, Stephanie.

If there's any greater of a reason to keep Damian from this mantle for a few years yet, I've yet to hear it.

"Batgirl is on the island, isn't she?" I cut out, the words feeling harsh, if not sharp. "You'll stay with her, Damian."

"What?" Damian asks, voice quiet but indignant all the same. He heard perfectly, but that's besides the point. He can't already be sidelined. He hasn't even had a chance.

"Why? I can help you."

How, even Damian isn't sure. He knows the lay of the land better. He knows of the players. But what good either will do in returning to Rapture is negligible given that Batman's just come from there.

"Do you even know who Batgirl is?"

"You will help me by informing her of the situation." The chance that such a statement will encourage Damian to sit calmly is next to none. Still, it's a task directly assigned, and chances are that Damian will follow through— there's nothing else on the island for him to concern himself over. No sound of sirens in the distance, no signal bright against the clouds above. Nothing but the quiet brush of wind in the distance.

I try, carefully, for a concession or two. Cassandra— or, the thought crosses my mind and turns my stomach, anyone else who might have taken up the position since— isn't invited to join. This is a challenge that I'm fully aware is drawn solely between Jason and me.

"And that stands regardless of who wears the cape."

"I'm the only one who's kept it a secret," Damian replies, seething. His hands are curled into useless, tiny fists at his sides. His posture is rigid. Betrayal reads across the line of his mouth.

"The only one. The others would have the entire island know of the family's identities!"

Edited 2011-11-12 01:23 (UTC)

With that piece of information, everything comes clear. The reason for the ITF's hesitation, their justification for pulling me aside— if they do indeed, as it appears, carefully monitor Rapture and the people who enter or leave at any given point in time, then they know that Jason Todd sits under the waters, hiding in the depths, where he feels most comfortable. If the city is in any way his, as Jason claims, then they've likely met, spoken with him, found some way to justify letting him remain in a place where no rational being should be left. The empty halls are worse than Arkham's.

In spite of myself, I find that my steps slow to a halt, and I glance at Damian. "Then that means the island will be more difficult for the both of us to navigate, son," I reply, finding it too easy to imagine the details that Jason's shared. "But their missteps don't change the fact that I can't take you to Rapture."

There's more information Damian could give, but he's not so blinded by his own desires to know that it wouldn't be a waste of time. His father doesn't trust him. No surprise, there. Their whole family thinks of him as something to be watched, to be monitored. Drake would have had him killed he was considered such a threat.

(Technically speaking, this was just a returned favor, but Damian has the excuse of being raised by assassins and master criminals. His father's favorite pet does not.)

Grayson gave him a chance, at Pennyworth's urging. Batgirl, too, in her way. But Damian's never had much opportunity to spend with his father, and the consequences of this are clear, now. Something in his chest feels tight and it's a challenge to keep his face free of emotion. It's only out of pride that he meets it.

"Is this how it's going to be?"

The question is more revealing than his expression. In that, perhaps he takes after me. When I search for the signs, I stumble across them, littered about and haphazardly corrected. A jaw kept purposely loose against the bright and almost boring shine of his eyes. His hands rest by his sides, relaxed. And the element of control, the one that Jason Todd always lacked for the entirety of time that I knew him, is something that I find now in Damian, a blessing that isn't to be taken for granted. There is anger underneath the facade in both of us, and a ravine to be crossed. I've hardly made the attempt.

I can already hear Alfred's encouragement in the back of my mind, even in his absence.

I turn to face him fully; it's the most I can offer. "No," I reply, firm. No, this is not going to be the way things remain. No, I don't plan on keeping him at a distance. No, after what I've seen of his actions, I know that he is not solely his mother's son. If anything, he's more of mine.

"Damian, I expect you to be here when I return."

In many ways, he holds the greatest amount of potential on his shoulders. Tonight, I wonder if that's the very reason I've shied away.

It's what he wanted, that sign of recognition, but Damian has little intent for allowing that to show. He holds still for a moment longer, then shoots a line up into the trees, the sound cutting sharp through the quiet, and ending with a dull thump as the hook wraps around the branch.

He'll return here as instructed, that much isn't in question, but there's no mistaking Damian as happy, now. Whatever spark of trust Todd might have ignited with his actions on Halloween faded into nothingness the moment Batman decided he was more important.

"Whatever," Damian says, reeling himself up into the air, and then he's gone into the darkness.

I wait until the sounds fade, sensing already that this is another of many issues that I'll need to address upon my return. Not twelve hours in another dimension, and the only recurring theme seems to be the one and the same that I've carried on my shoulders for years. Fighting crime is a straightforward task, a matter of an observant eye and ear, and a willingness to press forward even in the most dire of circumstances. If anything, it's too simple to get lost in such a goal, to lose sense of perspective as one's aim narrows to pair of unrepentant eyes. It's those who help to shape my perspective who fade black and white into shades of gray. Alfred would make things clearer for me, were he around.

But he's not.

So I wait, until the last sound brush of leaves falls quiet under the evening wind, before I turn on my heel to return to the place I came from.

Wondering if, in trying to correct one mistake, I'll only make countless more in turn.

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