what do you deserve?

[crusaded]

"When will the absolute failure of your mission to defend Gotham become as apparent to you as it is to others?"

They say that no man is an island. That which we call man's greatest strength, or even his greatest weakness, only surfaces when he reaches outside of his immediate sphere. Changed by those who know him. Accountable for more than his own. I suppose the tale of my life only seems to support this fact. Returning home every day to the promise of a warm meal, and someone to remove the cape from my shoulders. Hands slightly worn, though to my eyes no more than the first day I came to realize that so long as Alfred Pennyworth remained, I would never be truly alone. I drew hope from boys far too young to understand the weight of what stood right before their eyes, the shadows that Gotham would forever envelop them in. For a man as reticent as I to be surrounded by such people isn't the result of chance or an act of providence so much as the inability of any single man to close himself away. The sheer and simple physics that tells us how every ripple, no matter how small, will spread.

Indefinitely.

I feel my hand, gripped tight around Tim's shoulder, and realization slices through with its sharp edge. It is only my imagination that holds me here. To glance across the sky and watch a bird's wings flap in time with the beat of my heart, to hear the cacophony in a breath freshly turned, and watch as I tangle in a trap of my own making, a web of my own design. I spot the same imperfections that I have all my life, but where memory fails me, I find none. It's the same room, age cracking through concrete and an acrid scent permeating the area. Jack Drake lies on the floor, and clouds push his gaze into the distance, unmoving, not a single breath on his lips. Memories spill over in my mind like photographs. One here, another there, the same shade of crimson that reminds us that all men bleed. I feel cold, and suddenly my arms are empty. I stand, and my breath hangs in the air.

"I've heard it all before." No echo in my voice, and I know that the walls have been removed at last, the walls that no longer listen for how often they yell instead. "Show yourself."

"You'll have to forgive me, Master Bruce." Alfred stands before me again, the shadows green where they settle against his skin, and in the line of his lips I see a struggle— the mind, so impossibly intricate, yet buckling easily under its own weight, raising a red flag now. "The Lump is... is using me to speak through." I listen for the other voice, and it rumbles about, shaking the ground beneath my feet. I hold firm.

"How can you fight me?" There's a snap of air, and the flow changes. No longer do my thoughts bleed through the fissures I am now only beginning to see. A flood of color washes away cast shadows, a sickly shade of flesh, teeth shining pearly white in contrast. Is it that he intended to have me see him now? Or are the tides turning, crashing, obscuring everything in their wake, and widening that slip of air through which I will walk again? I feel my breath rise, and this time it turns under my eyes in whorls. "I am life without form— I have no nerves. I feel no pain. In the kingdom of pure thought, the Lump reigns supreme! In your mind, the Lump can be anything. Do anything!"

Tables, turning.

"Your enemies have operatives and technology beyond your capacity. They're stealing your DNA. Your memories. To imprint unstoppable soldiers. Driven by your trauma."

There are no shortcuts, and the gun that rests suddenly in my hands, heavy and cold from disuse, is only there to further dispel the smoke. A soft click, heard only by my ears. An edge running against the pad of my thumb, and with that line, I taste his fear. Pain? He should only be so lucky. He should only be so fortunate. Its predecessor will always arrive first, numbing, still after a heartbeat.

"Then tell them they can have it," I tell him. "You can have it, too. If you can bear it all at once." And my eyes narrow, for all I find myself curious to hear the answer.

"What do you deserve?"

Suddenly it all fades into black, and a weight rests over my eyes— I don't know whether to trust the fading red at the edges. In the distance, a steady drip of water falls against stone. I raise my chin until the bridge of my nose presses against a groove, unyielding, and tighten my fists as I struggle against a pair of cuffs that dig into my skin. Whatever this device is, it doesn't matter. Steel, glass, stone— all have their weaknesses, none of which I haven't exploited before. What bothers me more is the fact that I know, this time, that I wasn't the one to break the link.

I doubt I have more than thirty seconds to break out of this hold.

Comments

[prodigaljaybird]

"Tabula Rasa."

Threading his fingers through an empty bolt hole, Jason holds on. Looks down. It's hard to tell when he holds himself so tall, but Jason thinks the set of Bruce's shoulders means he's pissed.

Good.

"The dead city is Rapture. The bathysphere where you came in will take you up and out, but you can't get back to Gotham." Jason's teeth cut white through the darkness. "I didn't kidnap you. But you can't go back. You're not in the same universe anymore."

[crusaded]

Universe. How many times have I heard it said that there are other timelines, other worlds beyond our reach? Clark makes no effort to keep such information from me, and isn't in the habit of keeping secrets in general. I've probably kept more than twice as much from him as he ever has from me, but there are times when the thread of trust still holds strong, for all that's left in the dark. He knows, too, that being able to keep some of my life away from his eyes is what holds me there in friendship, as well as it's developed between us. But for all that he's told me about other worlds, I find that it isn't in my place to dwell on the matter. I don't have the power to cross time, to leap from one existence to another; my hands are tied with Gotham, and that doesn't change even now.

Does this explain the change in Jason's behavior? Am I the only one who's been brought to where I stand?

I consider asking him for any other names. He would know, if this has been his town, whether or not anyone else has stepped in these buildings. That much, I know I've taught him well— and he has made no small effort to learn even more wherever the knowledge is offered him.

Then again, I have no reason to trust that he would take me to them. And to believe that no lie would go unnoticed is just asking for a first.

I turn, figuring that there's nothing to be done while he hides in the shadows. "A dead city is no place to stay," I point out, before deciding to try, heading out to find a bathysphere that may, supposedly, take me to the surface.

[prodigaljaybird]

Jason bites down the retort that wants to follow, but he takes comfort in his indignation, not so far gone to surprise and fear that he can't resent Bruce his patronizing. He lets him go, watching from the shadows until the last trailing edge of the cape is gone, and realizes he's at another crossroads.

He could go, now, back to the home he's made in the lower levels. He could follow Bruce, make certain that he gets out where Batgirl and Robin can better introduce him to his new life. He could send word to Bucky. He could sit up here, where it's safe, forever.

Strangely, it's Bucky's face that pops into his head then, the smirk he wears when the danger's at its worst, and Jason finds himself leaping down, renewed control rendering his footsteps silent when he moves across the stage. Head cocked to catch the sound, Jason can't hear Batman, but that doesn't mean a goddamn thing. In fact, the silence is probably worse, but Jason's said enough to intrigue him. The detective in Bruce won't let him linger here for long, not when there's a whole world promised to him beyond the bathysphere, and Jason moves closer to the mouth of the stairs, following them up and peeking, carefully, into the outer hall.

[crusaded]

Only when I reach the mangled, twisted metal of the machine do I stop. The bathysphere sits, awash in a strangely golden light, drawing me to its existence, encouraging me to step in. I find that I don't. The silence left in my wake is unsettling. Again, the sound of water dripping, leaking, is steady in the background; a part of me wonders how structurally sound this city is. I could, perhaps, step into the bathysphere with little effort. I could trust the fact that it functions properly, in spite of how all elevators prove to be somewhat of a trap, enclosing a man in a small space, little room for escape. But I find myself turning to face the silence, seating myself on the stair leading up to the bathysphere. Waiting.

When I catch a flicker of movement in the distance, I rise to my feet. After so many years of being the one who chases, I find myself waiting for the opposite, today.

Or perhaps it's always been a process. More and more of the crazed seek me out with each passing day. Maybe I invite that kind of behavior.

"Are you coming?"

[prodigaljaybird]

Jason stills.

The island isn't what it was an hour ago. It won't ever be the same again, either, not now that Bruce is here. It doesn't matter what approach Bruce takes next - to contain Jason, to elude him, to haul him outside by the scruff of his neck. His mere presence is no less destructive than a wrecking ball, already swinging through every facet of the life Jason's made for himself here.

He finds -

talking to me like it's nothing

- it makes him angry.

"Why are you talking to me?" Jason hisses, his face upturned and bearing the beginnings of fury. "Is this our new dance? We make conversation until you find the right window to cut my throat?"

[crusaded]

Diversion. Distractions. His words intend to take me away from the answer that I wanted, an answer that has nothing to do with an encounter from months ago. But his anger is familiar, and it would be in my best interest not to step where it will only ensnare me further, though I feel the hold of it around my ankle already, anchoring me in place. Blind. He is blinded right now by an anger I've done nothing to solve— nothing that's lasted; I wouldn't know how— and somehow, I feel that anything I say will only make it worse.

"You have an entire city," I point out, voice even and elbows still resting on my knees, although my stance proves to be anything but relaxed. "I don't plan on chasing you through it. I only asked if you were coming."

[prodigaljaybird]

"I only came to make sure you left," Jason snarls in return, annoyed, if not surprised to find the edges of his vision blurring, his eyes too wide and hot. So out of practice, so uncontrolled. Talia and Ducra would have his hide in turns.

If you pick a fight, you'll lose.

"Your son's up there. Your real one. Batgirl, too."

[crusaded]

Real son. I can't tell who that's meant to refer to— Tim or Damian. Tim knows how to handle himself— I trust him to be nearly as capable as Dick in that respect, and having Cassandra up there would only help. They've walked the path long enough to know which choices are the right ones to make, no more liable to make mistakes than I am, for all that I've seen. Perhaps more importantly, they're allies, capable of working in tandem. But Damian— I find my eyes narrowing in spite of myself.

What wouldn't I put past Jason, at this point? What wouldn't I expect for him to do in response to the one action I could never take for him— pulling that trigger on a cresent smile, painted red.

I stand, turning on a heel; removing myself from the scene might be the only reasonable course of action. If I don't find them up there, Jason can be sure of this much— I'll make my way back down to the depths, come what may. Lifting open the door to the bathysphere, I keep my focus on him. Turning my back may prove dangerous.

[prodigaljaybird]

Jason watches him shift away, Bruce's focus unrelenting even when he's through the door, and tries to be proud he's still considered this big a threat. He should've mentioned them earlier, the other kids. Damian, Bruce's own blood, and Stephanie, who came back to him after everything. The good kids, the honor role to Jason's bad seed.

His face breaks wide in a smile he can't control, and Jason laughs his way through a sob.

I think. Maybe. I'll pull a building down.

[crusaded]

There's a slip of a window to peer through once the door closes. Scratched on the surface, grimy with a lack of care and maintenance, but enough that I can see through to the other side. Whether or not I should find it surprising that Jason makes no move to follow, I'm not sure. What I do know is that everything about this moment, leaving him behind in this city, turns my stomach. It's not a place for him to stay, it's not a place that will pull him out of a destructive frame of mind. Although I believe, wholeheartedly, that I am making the right choice at the moment, that doesn't make each action a good one. I am leaving behind unfinished business, and that can never be allowed to wait for long.

The bathysphere rumbles, creaks, and I feel the lurch of movement. And before all else fades into black, I catch a glimpse of his expression.

Possibly the flash of a smile.