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.

settling uneasily

When the color of the sky overhead begins to change, I know that I've taken too long in returning to Rapture. From the disdain in Damian's voice alone, I've gleaned more about the island than any stranger could tell me. Batman isn't welcome on an island such as this one. I know that there is a group of people who have taken it upon themselves to carefully watch over every possible source of danger and risk, a group that frequently denies access to Rapture, taking it upon themselves to make sure that every person who travels below is capable of defending him or herself. A nice sentiment, but already it rankles, settling uneasily over my skin. For anyone to have that level of knowledge is setting a dangerous line over which the island could topple at any moment. Creates an imbalance of power. For all the foolish choices that people may make, the option is still meant to be in their hand. Children should be overseen by their guardians. But if freedom is something which this island claims to grant its citizens in any capacity?

There shouldn't be anyone standing guard.

Still, I'm expecting it. The sun which threatens beneath the horizon won't make a difference deep in the caves, but it gives me a sense of how much time has passed as I run straight to the caves, turning sharply, relying on memory. A deep and faint glow heralds success as I spot the winding staircase, taking several steps down at a time, not bothering to completely silence my footfalls.

I don't expect for this island to turn a blind eye for me, and the least that means for my actions now is that I should avoid taking any of these officers by surprise.

letting them want for a home

The lack of care that I've put into covering my tracks in Rapture might be inspiring. Time has won this battle; I grasp after every spare second with my hands, feet quiet as I race down the path, but not silent. I feel the sticky warmth of blood sliding down the length of my neck, the metallic tang clear against the line of my teeth, but I feel not the way that my lungs scream for air, or for the ache of bruises coming to the surface. Adrenaline has left no room for that. Somewhere in these depths, Jason is waiting, hiding, and there's a part of me willing to bet that he'd close himself down here entirely, given a source of food and water. But living by the skin of one's teeth has always been what I sought to help the boys avoid. Never letting them want for a home, for room and board, for a guiding hand.

And no matter how much I've failed with each and every one of them, there is always a greater depth to fall into.

I refuse to leave without laying a line.

Nearly an hour passes before I pick up the proper signal from the cowl. A young man of the right size, less than a block away. It might take me six minutes to get there. Five, if I press.

And every second counts.