questions would not be asked

[crusaded]

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.

Comments

[aworthyone]

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?"

[crusaded]

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?"

[aworthyone]

"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."

[crusaded]

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."

[aworthyone]

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."

[crusaded]

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."

[aworthyone]

"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?"

[crusaded]

"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."

[aworthyone]

"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!"

[crusaded]

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."

[aworthyone]

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?"

[crusaded]

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.

[aworthyone]

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.

[crusaded]

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.