List of things I own: Plot, the stupid stuff I made up in my screwed-up imagination
List of things I don't own: Characters involved, Batman, Bruce Wayne, Gotham City, and anything else copyrighted to and/or owned by DC Comics
Rating: T for violence, some language
"You have to answer me…c'mon, Bruce, I know you're there."
Stephanie's transmission comes through the radio, but I don't answer her. I can't afford to drag her or any of the others into this. This was my decision, my mistake…my fault. I won't have them pay the price for it, too. It's just not in my nature to make the innocent suffer for the guilty.
"Bruce…please, Bruce, just…just pick up, okay? We need you!"
That's Dick's heartfelt plea that reaches my ears. He's my oldest, my first child, the one that I always looked at and said, "Someday, that kid's going to be the greatest hero since Superman." And I always believed it. But now, I can sense that his strength is failing. For all his talents, he's always needed guidance to feel secure. I've always been there to help him. But now, with Alfred gone and me off the grid, he's got nobody to turn to. He has to provide the support and guidance that I know, but he is unsure, that he can give, and it's rattling him to the bone. He's not happy. He wants me to come home, I can tell. But I can't come home. Not now, not never, and especially not after what I've done.
"Tim's saying that he's sorry…he doesn't know what he did wrong…he just wants you to come back, whatever it was…please, if for nothing else, don't make him suffer like this…"
Now, Dick is translating for Tim, my third son. So, now, I know I can't come home, because I can't face him after what I did to him, the last mission we were on together. He was my little boy for so long, I'd been so protective of him, so hovering, and then…then, on his eighteenth birthday, for crying out loud, I had to cut his throat.
No. Not "had to"—I wanted to.
"Bruce, I can't believe this! You just came back for, like, the fiftieth time, and you're already gone again? PLEASE, Bruce, just—just get a frickin' grip already! You know what we're like without you! We forgive you, okay, so, just—just come home! Please…"
Cassandra practically screeches into the radio, and I'm surprised she has enough energy left in her to say anything at all beyond a few grunts. In fact, I'm surprised she's even forgiven me, or claimed to, anyway, after what I did to her, too. After what I did to all of them, you'd think that they'd hate me, but, no, here they are, begging me to come back to them. Why do they forgive me when they should be hunting me down to get their revenge, to inflict upon me the same horrors I made them endure?
"You're not thinking logically—yet again. If you think running away is going to solve our problems, well, news flash: it won't. The only thing that'll make it all better is if you come back to the bunker and help us straighten out this hell we're living in before somebody gets seriously hurt. Well…more seriously hurt than they've already been, anyway."
Somehow, it surprises me that Barbara keeps the score. She was never like this, not even after the Joker shot her. She should've been crying for his blood then, but she turned her back on that primal desire and instead focused on fighting crime in any way she could. And now, she's dragging up all that baggage for me again, because she's just about had it with me.
"Father, I don't care what's happened. I just want you here. Please…Father, please, come back to us soon."
The tearful voice is Damian's, and I don't think I've ever heard my youngest sound like that. He sounds so plaintive, so broken, like a little child who's just had everything ripped away from him.
Like the little child I used to be.
I flick off the radio, shaking my head mournfully. "No," I mutter, even though they'll never hear it. "No, I can't come back. I'm sorry. I just…I don't deserve to call you family now. Not after all I've done to you…"
The memories flow freely through my mind, sickening and horrifyingly vivid. And I think to myself: Why are you still alive? After everything you've done to your children, your friends and family, why are you still alive? The memories of all the vile, awful crimes I've committed against them torment me anew, cutting through flesh and blood and bone right down to the quick of my soul, the very fiber of my being. And they tear at my spirit, demanding to know why I did it, why I hurt them all so much.
I shot Cassandra, right in the chest. She survived, but she's so weak now. She's not recovering well, and they don't know why. But I do. I used a special, toxic bullet. She's poisoned now. And she may not be able to combat this one.
I cut Tim's throat. Not lethally, of course, but enough to damage his vocal chords beyond repair, not unlike what happened to Dick's friend Jericho all those years ago. He can't speak now. He has to use sign language to communicate. And now he's sick, too. I took his damn voice away, I poisoned him, and he still wants me there with him, to comfort him while he's in so much pain.
I used the same toxin for them both. I have the antidote. But I can't bring myself to deliver it, and I don't know why. Maybe it's just because I'm afraid of what the punishment would be to return now, to make them better.
I broke Damian's arm. It was quick, just a sharp twist backward and a loud crack, but that was probably the hardest moment of my life. I had to feel my baby bird's bones snap beneath my hands, had to listen to him bawl his poor eyes out. But then I had to leave him behind, leave him there with his injured brothers, helpless, powerless to do anything at all for them.
I beat Dick within an inch of his life. He'd always said, "Bruce, if you wanted to, you could probably kill me in five seconds, flat." He'd meant it jokingly, of course, but there'd always been an edge of seriousness to his tone. As if he knew that, despite the teasing way he'd said it, it was probably true. I've proven that to him, now. I could have—most likely would have—killed him, if the others hadn't been there to preoccupy me. If Damian and Tim hadn't dragged me off of him, if Cassandra and Stephanie hadn't shown up, Dick wouldn't be calling me now, begging for me to come back to the family.
I slammed Stephanie through a safety-glass window. I didn't even know that was possible until I'd done it. She was unconscious for seven hours from that, while they worked to patch her up. I gave her the run of her life, chasing her over fire escapes and rooftops before finally getting to her. She's not technically one of my kids, but she's still like a daughter to me, reckless and rebellious though she may be. And I'll never forget the look of fear on her face when she saw me coming at her.
And then, after all of that, I…heaven help me, I set the manor on fire with Alfred still inside. The ones who could make it, the ones I hadn't been sent after yet, they rushed to the scene as fast as they could. But…they didn't make it in time.
Sitting at this little desk in my makeshift safe house, I bury my face in my hands when I think of what they've forced me to do to my family. No, not forced—suggested, and I went along with it. I thought I was doing the right thing, agreeing to this. I thought that I could make it out with little to no casualties, still relatively in the clear, and we'd all be safe, once and for all. I didn't want my kids to have to live their entire lives the same way I did, going through that torture night after night. Five or six years, not to mention the decade Dick's been at it, that's long enough. They're still young; they need to enjoy life, not worry about losing it. Reflecting on it now, I remember the circumstances under which I'd agreed to the offer, Dick and Tim recuperating from field injuries and the others just barely scraping by. I'd done all of this for them, so…how did I lose myself so quickly? That's not the only question burning at my mind, though, because the other, much more prominent one is: What the hell kind of friend—what the hell kind of father—puts the people he cares about through this?
I wouldn't blame them if they were tracking me down, hunting me like an animal. I deserve it, more than anybody else I can think of, because not even psychopaths like the Joker and Two-Face killed people they loved and cared for. And the worst part of it all is that I can't bring myself to find the words.
I can't find the words to tell them how much I need them…
…how much I miss them…
…how lonely I am without them…
…how I never meant for them to get so hurt…
…how I wish I could take it all back…
…how it's too late now…
…how I want to apologize…
But I can't.
I can't find the words to tell them that I'm sorry, because a simple "I'm sorry" doesn't make up for all I've done.
The little blue disposable cell phone, the one they've used every day since I made the agreement, sitting on the table next to my right elbow, buzzes. I growl a curse or three under my breath. They're probably calling to tell me that they're proud of all I've done, that they never thought I'd make such progress. Isn't that what they said last time? I shake my head at myself, letting the cell phone vibrate on and on, wondering when I got this desperate. I've trapped myself in the most terrible world I can imagine, and I've created it myself, but it's only in existence because I couldn't resist his offer. And now, now that I've given in, I have no choice but to push forward for all it's worth. Get this over. Go back home and hope I haven't killed my kids yet.
I sigh, flip open the phone, and set it up to my ear. "What do you want?" I snarl.
"I have another assignment for you, Bruce," Ra's al Ghul's voice purrs silkily. He's enjoying this, I think. He's enjoying watching me destroy everything I built for myself, my legacy, my image…my reputation…my family. He likes seeing me operate like this, compromising everything I ever cared about just because I can't break a promise. And he knows I know, doesn't he?
I swallow. No point in trying to fight back now. They wouldn't take me back, anyway. I couldn't make myself go back to them, because he'll just make me kill them this time. Better to just listen and do as I'm told. Better to just rock the boat as little as possible.
What the hell are you doing, Bruce? I ask myself. Why are you letting him push you around like this?
I know the answer, but that doesn't make me like it any more. Because if I don't, he'll just make us all suffer slowly.
"I'm listening," I tell him, and wait to hear the newest horror he's got in store for me.
No choice.
No hope.
No freedom.
No forgiveness.
No mercy.
But I'll show him someday. I'll show him the price of messing with my family.
Don't make me have to give you the same treatment, Ra's. Because I'll make it hurt that much more for you.
~ The End ~