Entry tags:
vespertillo
I wish I could say that it feels like coming home. I'm aware of it before my cheek hits the pillow, even though every last muscle in my body feels rested, some strange facsimile and one that can't be real. It's not the same as before, no deep and unyielding pull down a predetermined path, but the walls constructed in this world are nearly identical in their perfection. Every last detail is in place, because they are all taken from my memory, a conglomeration of an infinite number of points. I take the wooden grain from two years ago; I take the polished mirror from six months. My hand runs over the sheets, and they're cool to the touch, the only time I ever commit them to memory.
Yes, everything is perfect. And therein lies the problem.
So why am I here? It's not as simple as a dream; I'd be able to wake myself up. The island, I'm assuming. I've done my research, I know that people return home on occasion, but that there's nothing that dictates or guarantees that there's any accuracy in the trip. I'm aware that people can find themselves in a never-ending loop, but always one with a finish line. What's that for me?
"Master Bruce?"
Alfred.
I guess, as long as I'm here, I could use the advice. Self-fabricated or not.
Yes, everything is perfect. And therein lies the problem.
So why am I here? It's not as simple as a dream; I'd be able to wake myself up. The island, I'm assuming. I've done my research, I know that people return home on occasion, but that there's nothing that dictates or guarantees that there's any accuracy in the trip. I'm aware that people can find themselves in a never-ending loop, but always one with a finish line. What's that for me?
"Master Bruce?"
Alfred.
I guess, as long as I'm here, I could use the advice. Self-fabricated or not.
Entry tags:
useless issues
Every now and again, I try my luck with the bookshelf. I know that the only way Lex Luthor has been able to look my way with such knowing is because he's sought out answers from that bookshelf, finding more of them than I personally feel comfortable with. My hope is that persistence will land. That I will have some way of knowing, or at least guessing, how the future plays out. What lies in store for Damian, for Jason, for Cassandra and Stephanie. But as I return to the Compound late at night, a quick sweep of Rapture having landed very little of worth, the bookshelf continue to deny me any news at all.
Feels typical.
It does, however, deign to give me a thick copy of the Sunday issue of the New York Times. Politics seems to be the main topic, all news about the Republican nomination, the few who still struggle to make the ballot. It's far from the news that I want, but at least it's interesting, and I'm invested enough in Obama's reelection that when I flip through the pages, it isn't all for show.
If nothing else, all of this is far more interesting to me than the Council elections were. I stab at a piece of pineapple, wincing at how tart the fruit proves to be.
Feels typical.
It does, however, deign to give me a thick copy of the Sunday issue of the New York Times. Politics seems to be the main topic, all news about the Republican nomination, the few who still struggle to make the ballot. It's far from the news that I want, but at least it's interesting, and I'm invested enough in Obama's reelection that when I flip through the pages, it isn't all for show.
If nothing else, all of this is far more interesting to me than the Council elections were. I stab at a piece of pineapple, wincing at how tart the fruit proves to be.
Entry tags:
about sunrise
Considering how closely knit the people of this island are, I'm surprised Monday's explosion didn't cause more panic. In the short amount of time I've spent on Tabula Rasa, it's quickly become clear that trouble seems to attract the same few individuals— or, conversely, perhaps it's the people who draw trouble to them, inviting it to their doorstep. I haven't distinguished correlation from causation yet, but the former is widespread knowledge.
I do start to wonder if I should be endearing myself to that inner circle, as it were. I don't expect to be welcomed, either as Bruce or as Batman, by the majority of their number. And frankly, I don't need widespread approval. I need a single contact, someone I can trust, someone who can set aside differences and realize that someone such as myself could prove to be of aid in certain situations.
Coupled with the other conversations I'm sure we ought to have at some point, only one man stands out as the right choice.
I find him, one Wednesday morning, having a late breakfast in the kitchen. It's meals that seem to be the most practical time to seek the man out. With the crowd buzzing around us, and with the chef of the day actually being someone whose food I trust, there's plenty of reason for both of us to be there, and plenty of distractions to keep us from drawing too much attention. Spotting an open seat across from him, I grab a plate of eggs and toast and round the table.
"This spot free?" I ask, making sure to smile.
I do start to wonder if I should be endearing myself to that inner circle, as it were. I don't expect to be welcomed, either as Bruce or as Batman, by the majority of their number. And frankly, I don't need widespread approval. I need a single contact, someone I can trust, someone who can set aside differences and realize that someone such as myself could prove to be of aid in certain situations.
Coupled with the other conversations I'm sure we ought to have at some point, only one man stands out as the right choice.
I find him, one Wednesday morning, having a late breakfast in the kitchen. It's meals that seem to be the most practical time to seek the man out. With the crowd buzzing around us, and with the chef of the day actually being someone whose food I trust, there's plenty of reason for both of us to be there, and plenty of distractions to keep us from drawing too much attention. Spotting an open seat across from him, I grab a plate of eggs and toast and round the table.
"This spot free?" I ask, making sure to smile.
Entry tags:
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.
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.
Entry tags:
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.
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.
Entry tags:
unease lingers underneath
[ continued from here ]
"Yyyup," I say. "Popping out like gremlins." Weirdest experience ever, although not as weird and kind of horrifying as at the end of the weekend, when they all just collapsed back into me. I still get random flashes of whatever they were doing. I thought having someone else's memories was weird -- and it still is -- but remembering being in several places at once is... also weird.
"As someone whose only experience of superpowers is seeing them on the news, I have to say it... wasn't actually very super."
"It comes with its own sort of burden, doesn't it?" I nod somberly, lips pursed in thought. Not that someone in my position would have much of an idea— and that goes beyond speaking for Bruce Wayne. I don't like magic, I don't like the idea of having abilities beyond my control and understanding. I don't like that it automatically comes with a relaxing of one's own standards for training. It's a crutch.
Look at all of the times Clark's been bereft of his powers, then look me in the eye and tell me that it doesn't have its downfalls.
"People might judge you if you don't make the best use of it. Superman, for instance, if you've ever heard of him. He definitely wouldn't be so popular if he weren't doing half of what he does for Metropolis."
"Yyyup," I say. "Popping out like gremlins." Weirdest experience ever, although not as weird and kind of horrifying as at the end of the weekend, when they all just collapsed back into me. I still get random flashes of whatever they were doing. I thought having someone else's memories was weird -- and it still is -- but remembering being in several places at once is... also weird.
"As someone whose only experience of superpowers is seeing them on the news, I have to say it... wasn't actually very super."
"It comes with its own sort of burden, doesn't it?" I nod somberly, lips pursed in thought. Not that someone in my position would have much of an idea— and that goes beyond speaking for Bruce Wayne. I don't like magic, I don't like the idea of having abilities beyond my control and understanding. I don't like that it automatically comes with a relaxing of one's own standards for training. It's a crutch.
Look at all of the times Clark's been bereft of his powers, then look me in the eye and tell me that it doesn't have its downfalls.
"People might judge you if you don't make the best use of it. Superman, for instance, if you've ever heard of him. He definitely wouldn't be so popular if he weren't doing half of what he does for Metropolis."
Entry tags:
semblance of speed
[ continued from here ]
Were Damian older, he might be able to see the logic in his father's words, but youth blinds him to everything but the rebuke. He barely registers the question that follows, too focused on containing the sudden rush of blinding anger to give any more eloquent a response than: "Tt."
"I'll take that as a yes," I remark, not unaware of the fury that has suddenly taken him over, a rush of hot and cold anger alike that leaves everything a storm in his wake. And while I have no particular desire to incite that in Damian, he also needs to learn how to control his temper, otherwise this partnership won't work. I need a Robin I can trust on patrol.
And I have the feeling that none of them fit that description right now.
"There are tailors in the city. It wouldn't take long to have your clothes altered."
Were Damian older, he might be able to see the logic in his father's words, but youth blinds him to everything but the rebuke. He barely registers the question that follows, too focused on containing the sudden rush of blinding anger to give any more eloquent a response than: "Tt."
"I'll take that as a yes," I remark, not unaware of the fury that has suddenly taken him over, a rush of hot and cold anger alike that leaves everything a storm in his wake. And while I have no particular desire to incite that in Damian, he also needs to learn how to control his temper, otherwise this partnership won't work. I need a Robin I can trust on patrol.
And I have the feeling that none of them fit that description right now.
"There are tailors in the city. It wouldn't take long to have your clothes altered."
Entry tags:
black ice waiting
After three days of heavy snow, it feels like the clouds are about to pass us by at last. The look that snow brings to this city isn't unlike the appearance of Gotham in winter. Ornate whorls and jagged lines of brick alike become nothing more than white as snow falls to blanket it all, the early morning leaving the surroundings looking pristine and untouched. Those who have to walk the streets know that the layer of white, however pleasing to the eye, is nothing more than its own death trap, black ice waiting underneath, mixed with broken glass from a drunk's late night crawl for home. In the evening, I watch as heavy flakes fall, perched on rooftops and swinging from building to building. Although the materials of my suit are no longer the same as they were before, functionally, I still have enough to help me soar through the air, and so it is enough. As long as I can head home without my feet having to touch the street, it is enough. Fast. Reliable.
No reason to complain at all.
But in the daytime, snow and slush alike become a burden I'm none too happy to shoulder, an umbrella in my hand protecting me against precipitation and eyes keenly glancing over my surroundings. In another couple of hours, the sun will set. By the looks of the clouds, the snow may abate by this evening as well. With a sack of baked potatoes under one arm, I heft the weight further up my hip and start along my way, before I see someone familiar walking in my direction. A part of me would rather have found the path clear all the way home— a part of me is glad for the company.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Parsons," I smile, raising my umbrella in greeting, a gust of wind sending a chill through my woolen overcoat; my shoulders raise instinctively. "A bit chilly for a simple walk through town, isn't it?"
No reason to complain at all.
But in the daytime, snow and slush alike become a burden I'm none too happy to shoulder, an umbrella in my hand protecting me against precipitation and eyes keenly glancing over my surroundings. In another couple of hours, the sun will set. By the looks of the clouds, the snow may abate by this evening as well. With a sack of baked potatoes under one arm, I heft the weight further up my hip and start along my way, before I see someone familiar walking in my direction. A part of me would rather have found the path clear all the way home— a part of me is glad for the company.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Parsons," I smile, raising my umbrella in greeting, a gust of wind sending a chill through my woolen overcoat; my shoulders raise instinctively. "A bit chilly for a simple walk through town, isn't it?"
Entry tags:
upon brushing with death
It's raining again. Just like that night. I can hear it come down around me, joining earth and sky, and feel it cool against lips that dare not speak. There are some memories that are filed away in an instant, a photograph whose colors fade and change with age. Others are etched between the lines, a cautionary tale left in the leaves of a book, a lesson learned at the end of the day, when worries are meant to be released in favor of sleep. The rain is... none of these things. Not the familiarity of night, nor the safety of a streetlight at the corner of an intersection as it draws the path of least resistance. The rain is none of these things, promising no more than to blur a memory and narrow it down to sense alone. I recall fear. I remember hatred.
I feel grief.
—
"Sir, if I may. While I don't mean to speak for Master Jason—"
"So don't."
"—I cannot help but feel that you are taking this a bit far, Master Bruce."
"A crime doesn't end at death, Alfred."
"That was not what I—"
"The very moment we bury him, the moment anyone learns that Robin lies six feet below where we stand, do you know what they'll do to him, Alfred?"
"..."
"Can you even conceive of what their twisted minds are capable of?"
"Master Bruce—"
"We're moving him."
"Master Bruce, I have loved that boy every bit as much as you have. I have clothed him, I have fed him, I have driven him to school, watched his successes, comforted him in his failures, and though I may never have been scaling the buildings while bearing cape and cowl, I have also lost a boy of my own."
"..."
"And if I, for all the warnings I have given over the years, cannot find it in myself to blame you for what has happened, I am sure that Master Jason would not either."
—
There are those who claim, upon brushing with death, to have witnessed wings unfolding. I am no God-fearing man. Nor am I a man of faith. But I have also seen the brush of wings in the corner of an eye, black cutting across my gaze, a light that flickers like a dying flame. In these, I now see only madness. Hear only the voice of a childhood friend, revealed to be nothing more than a lie. Shadows skirt across my vision as I walk through the rain, and even from a distance, I know that they are familiar. I know that I have seen them before. I step across earth not made sacred not by the hand of God, but instead by the legacy left there, of loved ones gone but not forgotten.
Here lies Jason Todd.
Lied, once.
And though I know he walks this island, still, I drop to my knees. They can try to absolve me all they like. They can offer a path to forgiveness or a chance at redemption.
It doesn't change a thing.
I feel grief.
"Sir, if I may. While I don't mean to speak for Master Jason—"
"So don't."
"—I cannot help but feel that you are taking this a bit far, Master Bruce."
"A crime doesn't end at death, Alfred."
"That was not what I—"
"The very moment we bury him, the moment anyone learns that Robin lies six feet below where we stand, do you know what they'll do to him, Alfred?"
"..."
"Can you even conceive of what their twisted minds are capable of?"
"Master Bruce—"
"We're moving him."
"Master Bruce, I have loved that boy every bit as much as you have. I have clothed him, I have fed him, I have driven him to school, watched his successes, comforted him in his failures, and though I may never have been scaling the buildings while bearing cape and cowl, I have also lost a boy of my own."
"..."
"And if I, for all the warnings I have given over the years, cannot find it in myself to blame you for what has happened, I am sure that Master Jason would not either."
There are those who claim, upon brushing with death, to have witnessed wings unfolding. I am no God-fearing man. Nor am I a man of faith. But I have also seen the brush of wings in the corner of an eye, black cutting across my gaze, a light that flickers like a dying flame. In these, I now see only madness. Hear only the voice of a childhood friend, revealed to be nothing more than a lie. Shadows skirt across my vision as I walk through the rain, and even from a distance, I know that they are familiar. I know that I have seen them before. I step across earth not made sacred not by the hand of God, but instead by the legacy left there, of loved ones gone but not forgotten.
Here lies Jason Todd.
Lied, once.
And though I know he walks this island, still, I drop to my knees. They can try to absolve me all they like. They can offer a path to forgiveness or a chance at redemption.
It doesn't change a thing.
Entry tags:
the young and rich
I can't sleep.
While the sun has yet to dip below the horizon, it's been days since I had any semblance of rest. Pain and fatigue have worn mostly down, only a light thrum remaining in the air, pressing against my temples and forcing every thought to a roadblock. Every action is stilled by a need not to interrupt that steady ebb and crash of water that sounds. I can't decide if it's my imagination filling the silence, or if the beach is truly so close. I lie on the sofa, a T-shirt several times too large loose over my shoulders, the first serviceable item of clothing retrieved from the box. I should check on my suit. Make sure everything is in working order, and every weapon accounted for.
Instead, I'm waiting until Damian gets home, thinking more carefully through Stephanie's words. At least when it comes to this, it's likely that she knows better than I do. She's spent more hours with him and can see through the quick tongue that he uses to lash out at everything that isn't to his satisfaction. And, if nothing else, discovering the fact that I've been missing to him for months, dead for months, better shapes my perspective.
Here is an opportunity to make an effort I've owed for some time.
While the sun has yet to dip below the horizon, it's been days since I had any semblance of rest. Pain and fatigue have worn mostly down, only a light thrum remaining in the air, pressing against my temples and forcing every thought to a roadblock. Every action is stilled by a need not to interrupt that steady ebb and crash of water that sounds. I can't decide if it's my imagination filling the silence, or if the beach is truly so close. I lie on the sofa, a T-shirt several times too large loose over my shoulders, the first serviceable item of clothing retrieved from the box. I should check on my suit. Make sure everything is in working order, and every weapon accounted for.
Instead, I'm waiting until Damian gets home, thinking more carefully through Stephanie's words. At least when it comes to this, it's likely that she knows better than I do. She's spent more hours with him and can see through the quick tongue that he uses to lash out at everything that isn't to his satisfaction. And, if nothing else, discovering the fact that I've been missing to him for months, dead for months, better shapes my perspective.
Here is an opportunity to make an effort I've owed for some time.
Entry tags:
lights behind the glass
I start to wonder at the voice that echoes through the pipes. The laughter, thin yet grandiose, wears at my nerves until my teeth grind, a click sounding through my aching jaw as I take heavy steps through the city. I have half a mind to stay underground, to make sure that Jason eventually takes the bathysphere to the surface. A brief sweep of the area has already unearthed stores of food, sources of drinkable water, and although I don't cherish the thought of leaving Damian and Cassandra to their own devices, I know that they're more than capable of handling themselves on an island like this. Provided Jason doesn't find them. Provided his friends...
No. It may take a second fight, one as violent as the first, but again I am left with no other choice. Seconds seem less crucial now, but still I steadily walk along the shadows, eyes open and following every fleeting dot of red in my surroundings. Wondering. People must have built these walls, laid out the ground below my feet. The arch of a rainbow stretches to one side, the lights behind the glass dimmed, sparking.
"—think you can take my stage—"
I'm hearing things.
"—what good are you? Broken, shattered, remnants of a soul—"
Alfred's voice doesn't linger by the shell of my ear, but his thoughts breach regardless. Entreaties. Wondering if I can't afford a moment's rest.
No. It may take a second fight, one as violent as the first, but again I am left with no other choice. Seconds seem less crucial now, but still I steadily walk along the shadows, eyes open and following every fleeting dot of red in my surroundings. Wondering. People must have built these walls, laid out the ground below my feet. The arch of a rainbow stretches to one side, the lights behind the glass dimmed, sparking.
"—think you can take my stage—"
I'm hearing things.
"—what good are you? Broken, shattered, remnants of a soul—"
Alfred's voice doesn't linger by the shell of my ear, but his thoughts breach regardless. Entreaties. Wondering if I can't afford a moment's rest.
Entry tags:
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.
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.
Entry tags:
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.
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.
Entry tags:
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.
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.
Entry tags:
what do you deserve?
"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.
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.