crusaded | pounding

We didn't find Sander Cohen in London. It wasn't for a lack of trying. It wasn't even for the lack of intuition. He'd left marks in places, both in Buckingham Palace and in the Asylum, but we never found the actual man. When we were fortunate, his voice would ring in places, a distressed wail echoing through the halls, and yet somehow, he'd eluded both Damian and myself.

I can't say that I'm entirely unhappy, as a result, when the island changes back to its usual form. The officers of the ITF, stationed by Rapture's entrance, are probably accustomed to my presence now. Bucky Barnes knows my face both in the open and behind the cowl. But beyond obscuring my identity and trying to hide it from those who might take advantage, there are other reasons for the suit. It leaves an impression, and it frames a state of mind.

So I'm wearing it again, careful to change into the outfit in a safe space away from the hut, and running on the fastest route that I know to the caves. It isn't until someone's presence brushes too close for comfort that I realize my mind is far too occupied with any number of thoughts to be at my best.

I haven't slept in days, either.

It's too late to run around her, so I carefully walk some distance away, hoping she won't notice. Just another neighbor passing by.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No? What's even down there, anyway, besides the remnants of some forgotten world?" Ellen replies, her curiosity more than a little prompted by his correction. She knows it's not the kind of place one wants to go to without making good use of the buddy system, and she's not going to go wandering in alone. Despite what the FBI guys might've thought about her back home for choosing to go up against Patty, she doesn't come with a death wish.

"So I'm guessing it's not just you heading down there tonight," she adds, gesturing to the getup.

I shake my head. Fortunately, I doubt that Ellen Parsons is the type to make the trip down into Rapture without a strong reason or an escort, but it does throw into sharp relief just how uninformed the citizens of this place are. Most people probably have no idea that Sander Cohen is still alive. And that number will only increase as people continue to cycle on and off of the island. I can understand the reasons for not broadcasting this information everywhere, but I wonder if the ITF officers patrolling at least give every individual a run-down of what to expect down there before being sent in the bathysphere.

"There's one remaining native of Rapture, and occasionally other island civilians who head down there. I'm not meeting anyone." All facts, and all brief.

"Someone's still down there?" Ellen replies, both eyebrows rising. It's not that she's disbelieving, or discounting his words in any sense, but it seems like it's the kind of thing people would normally bring up in conversation about Rapture, at least when the subject comes up. That means there are few who actually know the truth - aside from this man, apparently, as well as anyone else who has had the fortune (or lack thereof) to encounter the individual down in Rapture.

"Well, it stands to reason you'd be encountering someone eventually, if there's a person in Rapture. How big could it possibly be?"

"Someone is still down there," I confirm, just to help her ease past that surprise.

I can see her already trying to iron out the details, and I make no move to stop her. Yes, more people should be aware that there is classified information, not for the sake of weeding it out, but instead to be ever-aware that the island's far from the safest or happiest place to be. All I want from this population is a concerted effort to trying to control the island, whether it means departure, or simply disallowing all of its whims that it's put us through.

"And Rapture is very large, I assure you. We could readily move the entire population of Tabula Rasa down there if we so desired. Although I'd advise against it."

She gives it a little more thought, time for consideration, but it isn't the thing that nags deep down, that feeling that pulls at her like an impatient child until she listens to it, gives in just long enough to ask the question that dangles on the tip of her tongue only seconds before she actually utters it out loud.

"Do I - know you, from somewhere?" she asks, squinting slightly into the semi-darkness. "I only ask because I'm pretty positive I would've remembered us meeting if you'd had on, you know, the cape."

"No."

If Ellen Parsons sees the cowl as being merely a tool which obscures the person, then she doesn't understand. And she's never known this before, the true man, the identity that feels more mine than all of the champagne that comes from the legacy my parents bequeathed to me. She doesn't know Batman, and frankly, I hope she never does. Not really. For as long as crime is suppressed, there's little reason for her to, and I become nothing more than a strange man in a costume.

"We've never met."

"Oh." She allows herself to process that, and can't decide whether she's relieved or more curious based around that new piece of information. And yet she also can't shake that pressing sense that she's supposed to know better, but she doesn't want to stand around wasting time by trying to jog her memory for something on the fringes, dangling just out of the reaches of her mind.

"Well, you obviously have somewhere to be in that," she murmurs, gesturing to the suit again. "I didn't mean to sidetrack."

There is a good chance that she will learn my real identity one day. Too many people on the island know, or have known before I even managed to set foot there. Provided she talks to these individuals and the topic comes up— and I know that she's a social person, at that— the name will arise. And perhaps her trust will be shattered. Perhaps it should be.

But that still doesn't make it anything but the truth. She hasn't met Batman before this, and I'm another person entirely while wearing the suit.

"I should take my leave," I agree, glancing to the side. "Sorry for having disturbed you."

"No, it wasn't - you didn't - " Ellen insists, but it would appear there's no steering herself out of this particular conversation, and she can't explain why she feels so at a loss for leaving things dangling, but she inevitably presses her lips together in a firm line, nods once, and moves to make her exit.

The question that springs up only does so after she's turned her back, and she whirls back around slowly.

"So, do I get a name, or am I going to have to make something up?"

There are some people who find themselves attracted to the mask. Or perhaps more intrigued by the mystery; I've never been able to quite decide. For a second, I wonder if she's even truly about to leave, or if she plans on pulling another topic out of thin air. Traitorously, a part of me almost wants her to stay.

When she turns around to ask of all things for a name, I almost laugh. This name is one I'm supposed to give to people I intimidate. I'm guessing she doesn't really fall into that group yet.

"Batman," I tell her. "Call me Batman."

For a long beat, she just looks at him, as if she's waiting for the other ball to drop, the punchline to the joke, her mouth moving to form a syllable that never quite leads to a word, and she winds up pushing out a breath instead, sighing. She hasn't been able to see them in the darkness, but they're more visible now, the ears above the mask, and despite her reservations, she finds herself trying to resist a smile.

"Right. Of course," she replies, and then motions to herself after an awkward beat. "Ellen. Okay. Glad we got that established."

There's no impact to the name. I understand that the weight of the uniform is largely a result of an earned reputation, as much as there is in the clothing itself. I feared bats as a child, but some fear spiders, the dark, shadows, any number of things. The Joker himself scares as many people as I might, and I am not trying to scare Ellen here, which is yet another setback to my name.

If nothing else, I take that moment of distraction, using it to slip away into the darkness before she can follow.

I need to be more careful next time. Something tells me, with my luck, I'll see her again while wearing the cowl.

And the next time, it won't be half as relaxed.

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