"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.