crusaded | fringes

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damian wayne

fringes

There is a question that has been lingering on my mind since the island transplanted all of us in this alternate version of Victorian London: where did our city go? Whereas just about every other aspect of Tabula Rasa seems to have been carefully nestled among the various buildings in this small circle of land, Rapture and all of its faded decadence is nowhere to be found. I've searched high and low, inspected the very fringes of the space we're allowed to wander, but it seems to have vanished without a trace.

Normally, I wouldn't be too concerned. The place is mostly faded glory and peeling paint. There are resources worth salvaging in its depths, of course, but nothing that can't be reconstructed with what we have now, and nothing that I've forgotten in full. But there's one reason to be afraid of the fact that Rapture has gone elsewhere.

A laugh that echoed through its tunnels.

I've asked Damian's help on this at last. I get the feeling, justified or not, that something might happen if we don't find this man soon. If the rest of us are reeling from the change, where exactly would a madman fall?

Is this Sander Cohen's paradise, or is it his nightmare?

"I want to run another sweep of the Asylum," I tell Damian. There's a sharp breeze where we stand next to the Thames; the Asylum's only a few blocks away. Mere minutes.

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"Isn't that by definition insanity?" asks Robin, casting a glance up at Batman. He misses his old white lenses of his real domino; not only were they exceedingly practical, they made his expression less readable. Damian Wayne isn't the most expressive of children, never one to smile, only sneer, but his eyes are his tell. With them visible even when his face is partially obscured by a far clumsier mask than the one he's used to, he feels almost naked.

Even so, he's glad to be out on patrol, however nominal that patrol might be. He needles his father out of habit, nothing else.

"Repeating the same task over and over again, expecting different results?"

"Is that what we're doing?" I ask. We all have our habits during patrol. Each Robin speaks differently, some more than others, some nervous, others merely with great anticipation. I suppose the one thing that has been common between all of them is an acute awareness of the eyes watching their movements and their choices. For that, I'm glad. It means an ever-present desire to better themselves and hone their skills.

As long as it doesn't turn into a series of foolhardy events, this has only benefit them.

"I wasn't aware that we'd finished our search, let alone started another one."

It's a large city. Cohen has proven himself adept at avoiding people when necessary. This time should prove no exception. Assuming, at least, that he hasn't disappeared with the rest of Rapture.

"We've already been to the Asylum," Robin points out. "Why not broaden our search elsewhere."

"Make a suggestion, and I might consider it," I fire straight back, and if there's any edge in my voice, it's only because of that inexplicable tug under my skin, fueled by instinct and a deepening pit in my stomach. On a practical level, Damian is right. Technically, Cohen could be anywhere, and the cursory sweep we did of the Asylum would have shaken out any man with lesser resolve, or anyone lacking that edge of self-awareness that most of the criminals we dealt with on a daily basis had.

It's possible that the place simply triggers in a way that the other new buildings don't. I expect to find something there.

I can't imagine anything else.

"Cohen thinks he's an artist, doesn't he?" says Robin, finding comfort in the harshness of Batman's tone where others would find only fear. This part, he knows. Cruelty over kindness.

"Wouldn't he prefer an art gallery? A museum? Just because we know he's insane..."

"He thought himself superior in that respect," I muse, glancing around, considering our options. There are plenty of ornate buildings in the area, Buckingham not at all short on sculptures in the same vein of those that Cohen created over the years. He thinks that he has a better touch with reality, an eye for art that isn't typical or overdone.

"Perhaps if we see any sign of damage along the way."

I start in the direction of Buckingham, glancing over my shoulder. After having checked earlier, I know that the guards don't put up any resistance.

Pride swells in Robin's chest, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. His expression looks no more arrogant than is its custom. To have his suggestion not only considered, but taken seriously is a step in the right direction. One towards trust -- or, at least, not away from it. Nodding to show he's understood, he trails Batman like a shadow, showing a rare note of restraint in not belaboring his earlier point, and simply following in focused silence.

He's remarkably quiet. It tells me that there's little more that he needs than validation, that he's easily quieted by having his suggestions given proper consideration and weight. The problem is, of course, that I don't always have the liberty to take everything he says under advisement. There are still plenty of areas where he lacks experience, and more importantly, lacks discipline.

On the whole, it works against him. In order to teach him discipline, I can't allow the focus to rest only on the better suggestions.

Running towards the east wing, I eventually come to a stop by a window, hand carefully splayed over the pane. Glancing over his way, I'm curious to see if he's brought the proper tools to cut into glass.

Though Robin's had to grow use to this new uniform in a hurry, reaching into the transformed utility belt does not yet feel as natural as it once did, the movement feeling awkward even as he withdraws what's needed to get through the glass. Breaking in would be faster, but if Cohen is lurking around inside, drawing attention to themselves would be stupid -- or something Grayson might have done.

But then, his Batman was more prone to needless theatrics. His father's flair for the dramatic is calculated in a way that runs antithetical to Grayson's being.

Without a word, he steps towards the glass, and begins to cut.

The line of his cut accounts for both of our sizes. Good. That's one amateur mistake averted, one that I've seen the others make at times. Part of the difficulty that comes with these roles is fording responsibility for more than oneself. We're all partners, and in that sense, we have to work in tandem. Damian still hasn't learned that lesson fully, as becomes apparent whenever the two of us disagree and come to blows, but he is learning, and that's encouraging in of itself.

"Although it may take longer, I want the both of us to search within earshot of one another," I tell him. "If Cohen's here, he's had more time to settle into the building and knows its layout better than the two of us. There's no evidence to show that he's particularly skilled in a fight, but he also operates as a man with nothing to lose."

The logic is sound, Robin still can't help but think that the plan is designed strictly to keep an eye on him more so than any concern about Cohen's abandon. Nodding tersely all the same, he replaces his tools into the utility belt and jumps through the hole, silent as the grave, waiting for his father to follow suit before he moves any further.

It's been years since I've studied the layout of Buckingham Palace, and it'll be years yet until this place will see me in my rightful time. I believe that we've managed to slip into the guard room, a small wing that branches off the main building, a place where Cohen surely won't have many areas to hide, but enough that we could spend a fair hour or two here, if we wanted.

But speed is the name of this game.

I take off to the right, abandoning the first floor in favor of climbing to the second. We should be able to see most activity from above.

Though Robin appreciates it, this Batman's silence is almost unsettling. Grayson would fill the empty space with pointless conversation, and loathe as he would be to admit it, Robin almost misses the idle banter. Still, sentiment won't stop him from following at his father's lead, trailing him like a shadow with a speed that belied the length of his legs.

Either unconcerned by our presence or completely unaware, a few ghostly apparitions pass us by, but it doesn't hinder our progress. To his credit, Damian seems relatively unfazed by the quiet. Had we a connection to Alfred, I'm sure that there would be more to say, a greater cooperative effort to sweep the building. Unfortunately, that line's been cut.

So our search continues for a time in silence, save for the occasional direction. Until I finally decide that we need something more than that. I don't need him to be a machine.

"Have you spoken with Cassandra yet?"

"Is this your attempt at small talk?" asks Robin in lieu of an answer, finding it curious he doesn't refer to her by codename, but choosing not to comment on it. He has little interest in the interpersonal dramas of his father's wards.

"This is my attempt to see how much effort you've made towards getting to know the others," I reply, stopping by a statue that catches my eye, a splash of red down the alabaster side. Blood? Or paint. It looks like the latter, judging by its consistency and the lurid hue. "Setting aside your disdain, you'd probably find that there's something you can learn from each of them, if only you seized the opportunity."

The drying paint sticks between my fingertips. Given the amount, it's hard to narrow down when exactly Cohen passed by this spot. Could have been minutes ago, could have been hours.

"Yes, I've spoken to her," replies Robin, his tone disinterested if only because of the clue they've just found. There is plenty to learn from Cassandra Cain; on this, he won't argue with his father. There'd even been a time he'd looked forward to meeting her, but as was often the case with Damian Wayne, the reality didn't live up to his expectations.

"He's been here."

Meaning he was right to turn their focus away from the Asylum.

He states the obvious, or perhaps he's looking for acknowledgement. The latter I plan on giving him by not yet leaving this place. A further investigation shows not only that I've seen his success, but that I'm willing to place my chips there as well for the time being. It's not a fluke. And it's not a success so far removed in time; we may catch a glimpse of him yet.

"You sound as though you weren't particularly impressed," I add. "Why is that?"

"Her interest in Stephanie," Robin replies, taking his father's lead to eschew the use of codenames. "It's a distraction. They're not partners."

"Agreed," I reply.

That Damian has noticed the bond between the two and seen the weaknesses that it surfaces only serves as further proof that the girls are too highly involved.

"I suspect that the life here is more enjoyable to the both of them." I press forward. "Let's head to another wing."

"How?" Robin wonders aloud, running slightly ahead of his father. "There's barely anything to do here. If it weren't for Cohen, we would be making up an excuse to get out of the house."

"There are people who are suited to civilian life."

It feels slightly strange to be having this talk while in uniform, but the further we run, the clearer it is that there's no one to overhear, and should there be any living souls around, we'll notice. Between the both of us, little can escape our watch.

"They enjoy seeing the sights. Relaxing together. And I believe that they are increasingly less convinced that we'll find a way off the island."

"What do you think?" asks Robin, suddenly. It's not a subject they've really broached before, which now seems like an oversight, given that the rest of their peculiar little family seems happier here.

"Do you want to stay here?"

I have the feeling that we're of the same mind when it comes to this. It's rare. I'm not sure that I can allow myself to take comfort in it, aside from the fact that agreeing means one less charged debate between the two of us.

"No," I tell him. "I don't want to stay here any longer than we're held."

It's about Robin expects to hear, but he's no less glad for the confirmation. As easy as it's proven to dismiss the insanity and poor judgment of others, his father's would be another matter entirely. Falling silent a moment when he thinks he hears something around the next corner, he waits until he's sure the coast is clear before he asks a question that forces him to halt in his own tracks.

"What happens if you leave first?"

No one has all the answers, and I may be more prone to tripping over my own than most. But this time, Damian asks, and there is only one reply that I can give him, falling from my lips at once.

"I won't leave first."

I understand that no one's been able to thwart the whims of the island yet, but if you'll notice something about the people who stay, having that strength of will and conviction seems to make a difference one way or another.

"I can't leave you here," I add.

"How do you know that?" Robin asks, still making no effort to move forward. He stares up at Batman -- at his father -- his expression unreadable. "No one controls how they come here, let alone how they leave."

"No one knows how to come or go," I correct him, and the truth is I don't really have the right to speak with as much certainty as I do. But that won't stop my resolve to turn a hope into reality. "But we may yet learn. That's the most crucial action for us to take now, to try and determine the mechanism behind our arrivals and departures. I have faith that we can."

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