Have to keep going.
I smash my fist into the thief's face, knocking him out with one punch. I feel anger, self-pity making me stronger than I'd normally be.
Sometimes anger helps in this line of work. Other times it clouds your judgment.
But it's always a good way to release it.
Out here you have to ignore your personal life. You have to forget that you have a personal life.
And even though Wayne's primary rule was that you shouldn't even have a personal life, I still have one. I could never agree with him on that issue. He was the prime example of what would happen to me if I did forsake everything in my life for Batman.
I respected the hell out of Wayne, but I don't want to end up a recluse in a cave.
I want to go home. I want to get out of this cold November weather, get away from the pounding and the beating.
I hear a scream from an alleyway.
Unfortunately, Gotham City has decided that now is the time for a wild crime spree. It's like they know every pivotal moment of my life, know when I don't want to be out here, and plan their crimes accordingly.
Never a problem for Wayne. He never put anything or anyone above being out here.
Of course, it never really was a problem for me either. Until I started getting that guilty, nagging feeling every time I drag myself out here, force myself to fight, do it all half-heartedly.
Have to forget that Lydia's dying. Have to forget that one day I'll have to come home, take off the mask, stumble back up the stairs to reality and not have Lydia standing there, with a ready smirk and her usual dry wit.
Have to keep going.
I finally make it home around 3:00 am. It seems like I'm out later and later the older and more tired I get.
Eh. Maybe it's just my imagination.
I crawl into bed. Lydia immediately opens her eyes. The later I'm out, the later she's up.
"You're going to drive me crazy, McGinnis. I'd like to get to sleep at a reasonable hour." She murmurs. I sigh, closing my eyes.
"Believe me, so would I." I should be here. Where I am now. But I should not be ending up here at 3 in the morning.
"How are you?" I say, leaning over her. Lydia wipes a drop of my sweat off her arm.
"Good thing I can't smell anything anymore or I'd make you go back into that cave." Small goose bumps run up and down my arms.
"You can't?" She smiles.
"Don't look so devastated. It's not that large of a loss." If anger fails to keep Lydia from any kind of weakness, Lydia uses indifferent humor.
I want to say that that may not be a large loss, but the loss of her will be unimaginably horrible. That I'll miss her more than anything in the world. That I miss her already despite the fact that I'm still with her.
You can't say that to Lydia, who respects nothing but self-sufficient support of others, which makes no sense. Then again, neither does a lot of things that happen to her.
"I'm sorry." I say, trying to sound sincere.
'I'm sorry' never sounds sincere though. It's used so casually and so impersonally nowadays that it loses all meaning. It becomes a stock answer, something you say to fill the silence when you don't know what else to say.
"I need to go back to Italy." Lydia murmurs, starting the story like she usually does: without any warning or apparent relevance.
"You miss it?" She scoffs.
"I'd kill- well, maybe not kill. I'd horribly maim to go back there." Lydia hasn't spoken of Italy since high school.
"So let's go. It's not like we're short on money." Maybe short on time, energy, life expectancy.
"No. You don't do that to your family. You don't come back after so long just to tell them that you're going to die." She shudders for a moment, but whether it's from the draft in the old manor or the thought that she's never going back to Italy I don't know.
"What did you mean the other day when you said you didn't know if you loved it anymore?" I close my eyes. I'd hoped she'd forget. Hell I hoped I'd forget. But neither of us did.
"Loved what?" Lydia laughs.
"You know what I mean. Getting the hell beaten out of you. Being out very late every night. Why wouldn't anybody love that?" I shift away from her uncomfortably.
"It's too late Lyd. I need sleep."
"You can sleep when you're dead, McGinnis." She replies softly.
Or rather I could sleep when she's dead.
"Fine. I'll talk about it."
"Fine. Then answer my question. Why do you think you don't love this anymore?" I shove myself up against the headboard, feeling my elbows shake from the sudden action.
"I'm getting old." She rolls her eyes.
"No kidding. You're lying if you're going to tell me that's the reason."
"It's getting old too."
After a while, everything becomes routine.
"I know you're bored with fighting kids, but you've done your job too well. There are no better criminals out there. You've got no one to blame but yourself." She replies.
"Lydia, I don't mean that I'm sick of the standard cracker-jack purse snatchers. Just the whole thing, the whole idea of it. It feels like I've been fooling myself all these years into believing that I loved it, because Wayne loved it." I don't even know. I hear myself giving her the answers, and each sentence sounds more ludicrous than the last.
I'm supposed to love it. I'm supposed to be Batman, defender of cities, protector of thousands. I'm supposed to feel the rush of the fight and savor the witty comebacks. I'm supposed to be Bruce Wayne's heir, calm, cool, collected and a shining testament to everything he was.
And every moment that I don't I feel like a completely different person, like I stole all this from the real Terry McGinnis and I'm constantly acting like he would without the true emotion that he would have.
"Forget it. I don't want to talk about it anymore." Lydia stares at me for a moment, something in her eyes that I would classify as hurt on anyone but her.
"Forget Batman, Lyd. I'm Terry."
Batman and Lydia never got along very well anyways.
I smash my fist into the thief's face, knocking him out with one punch. I feel anger, self-pity making me stronger than I'd normally be.
Sometimes anger helps in this line of work. Other times it clouds your judgment.
But it's always a good way to release it.
Out here you have to ignore your personal life. You have to forget that you have a personal life.
And even though Wayne's primary rule was that you shouldn't even have a personal life, I still have one. I could never agree with him on that issue. He was the prime example of what would happen to me if I did forsake everything in my life for Batman.
I respected the hell out of Wayne, but I don't want to end up a recluse in a cave.
I want to go home. I want to get out of this cold November weather, get away from the pounding and the beating.
I hear a scream from an alleyway.
Unfortunately, Gotham City has decided that now is the time for a wild crime spree. It's like they know every pivotal moment of my life, know when I don't want to be out here, and plan their crimes accordingly.
Never a problem for Wayne. He never put anything or anyone above being out here.
Of course, it never really was a problem for me either. Until I started getting that guilty, nagging feeling every time I drag myself out here, force myself to fight, do it all half-heartedly.
Have to forget that Lydia's dying. Have to forget that one day I'll have to come home, take off the mask, stumble back up the stairs to reality and not have Lydia standing there, with a ready smirk and her usual dry wit.
Have to keep going.
I finally make it home around 3:00 am. It seems like I'm out later and later the older and more tired I get.
Eh. Maybe it's just my imagination.
I crawl into bed. Lydia immediately opens her eyes. The later I'm out, the later she's up.
"You're going to drive me crazy, McGinnis. I'd like to get to sleep at a reasonable hour." She murmurs. I sigh, closing my eyes.
"Believe me, so would I." I should be here. Where I am now. But I should not be ending up here at 3 in the morning.
"How are you?" I say, leaning over her. Lydia wipes a drop of my sweat off her arm.
"Good thing I can't smell anything anymore or I'd make you go back into that cave." Small goose bumps run up and down my arms.
"You can't?" She smiles.
"Don't look so devastated. It's not that large of a loss." If anger fails to keep Lydia from any kind of weakness, Lydia uses indifferent humor.
I want to say that that may not be a large loss, but the loss of her will be unimaginably horrible. That I'll miss her more than anything in the world. That I miss her already despite the fact that I'm still with her.
You can't say that to Lydia, who respects nothing but self-sufficient support of others, which makes no sense. Then again, neither does a lot of things that happen to her.
"I'm sorry." I say, trying to sound sincere.
'I'm sorry' never sounds sincere though. It's used so casually and so impersonally nowadays that it loses all meaning. It becomes a stock answer, something you say to fill the silence when you don't know what else to say.
"I need to go back to Italy." Lydia murmurs, starting the story like she usually does: without any warning or apparent relevance.
"You miss it?" She scoffs.
"I'd kill- well, maybe not kill. I'd horribly maim to go back there." Lydia hasn't spoken of Italy since high school.
"So let's go. It's not like we're short on money." Maybe short on time, energy, life expectancy.
"No. You don't do that to your family. You don't come back after so long just to tell them that you're going to die." She shudders for a moment, but whether it's from the draft in the old manor or the thought that she's never going back to Italy I don't know.
"What did you mean the other day when you said you didn't know if you loved it anymore?" I close my eyes. I'd hoped she'd forget. Hell I hoped I'd forget. But neither of us did.
"Loved what?" Lydia laughs.
"You know what I mean. Getting the hell beaten out of you. Being out very late every night. Why wouldn't anybody love that?" I shift away from her uncomfortably.
"It's too late Lyd. I need sleep."
"You can sleep when you're dead, McGinnis." She replies softly.
Or rather I could sleep when she's dead.
"Fine. I'll talk about it."
"Fine. Then answer my question. Why do you think you don't love this anymore?" I shove myself up against the headboard, feeling my elbows shake from the sudden action.
"I'm getting old." She rolls her eyes.
"No kidding. You're lying if you're going to tell me that's the reason."
"It's getting old too."
After a while, everything becomes routine.
"I know you're bored with fighting kids, but you've done your job too well. There are no better criminals out there. You've got no one to blame but yourself." She replies.
"Lydia, I don't mean that I'm sick of the standard cracker-jack purse snatchers. Just the whole thing, the whole idea of it. It feels like I've been fooling myself all these years into believing that I loved it, because Wayne loved it." I don't even know. I hear myself giving her the answers, and each sentence sounds more ludicrous than the last.
I'm supposed to love it. I'm supposed to be Batman, defender of cities, protector of thousands. I'm supposed to feel the rush of the fight and savor the witty comebacks. I'm supposed to be Bruce Wayne's heir, calm, cool, collected and a shining testament to everything he was.
And every moment that I don't I feel like a completely different person, like I stole all this from the real Terry McGinnis and I'm constantly acting like he would without the true emotion that he would have.
"Forget it. I don't want to talk about it anymore." Lydia stares at me for a moment, something in her eyes that I would classify as hurt on anyone but her.
"Forget Batman, Lyd. I'm Terry."
Batman and Lydia never got along very well anyways.