He hardly ever left the hold. From the moment he was woken - often enough with a kick when he didn't sense his trainers coming - they put him through the training exercises endlessly and in mind-numbing repetitiveness. The purpose was certainly as much punishment as returning him to and keeping him in prime condition. Rarely Ducard himself oversaw those sessions, and when he did so he was twice as demanding as before. He usually added a twist to a familiar lesson, increasing its difficulty from practiced to immensely hard. Bruce found himself struggling and falling short of Ducard's expectations. He felt as clumsy and blundering as he had during his first weeks in the monastery.
Bruce hungered for a nod of approval or a word of praise but all that appeared far out of reach for him. He knew that he was in disgrace, that he had to prove himself again. But this realization did nothing to combat the increasing frustration. He was stuck in limbo and he would do almost anything to get out before the uncertainty turned into a real fear of not-belonging. Bruce had considered himself past the stage of falling prey to his own fears and therefore he liked the current situation less every day.
Bruce knew that on some level he was experiencing a form of Stockholm syndrome, that his basic need for human contact was being used against him. But he couldn't bring himself to care about this. He wanted his fellow Shadows' forgiveness, he wanted the return of that closeness a shared purpose offered and he wanted Ducard's approval.
What else was there for him to attain? Even if there was an opportunity to leave, the memory of that row of graves barred his return to the normalcy of his former life as effectively as his cage had.
-----
Bruce thought he might have been on the ship for a week when one day Ducard had called him into his cabin for his training session. While Ducard worked on his desk, browsing through files and papers Bruce was moving through his katas. He struggled to perform them in perfection. The swaying of the ship and the lack of space forced him to constantly adapt his movements, a shortening of a step here or an additional twist during a kick there, to avoid bumping into walls or furniture. Ducard seemed to be immersed into his research but he caught every stumble and mistake and commented on it with a sharp glance or even a biting remark.
There were no sounds other than the faint rustle of the papers and the thud of Bruce's bare feet on the carpet. Bruce's harsh breathing was far too loud in his own ears but surely Ducard would have reprimanded him if... A sharp rap on the door broke into his concentration.
Ducard gestured sharply and Bruce moved to one side and relaxed into alertness, eyes facing straight ahead to the desk and his teacher, away from the door. He heard approaching steps behind them and identified them automatically, three persons: one stepped lightly, another was far heavier, and the third hung back.
Ducard put the paperwork away and inclined his head but didn't stand. "Welcome, gentlemen. I trust the flight was pleasant enough?"
The polite reply of a soft-spoken voice was drowned beneath a loud, irritated one. One that grated on Bruce's nerves and caused instant, angry recognition. "Can we cut the small talk and move to business? It wasn't pleasant to be shoved into a chopper at short notice and then brought to this dirty pot. What was so important that you had to call us here, Mr. Allgool?"
Al Ghul? Falcone thinks that Ducard is al Ghul? And what is that slime doing here! Bruce's thoughts were in unrest but training and obedience kept him unmoving.
Ducard was unperturbed. "Reports of a growing dissatisfaction of yours with our arrangement have reached me, Mr. Falcone. I considered them important enough to deal with your concerns myself."
"Well, yeah." Falcone sounded mollified. "To make it short: I've been smuggling your stuff in for months, so whatever you've got planned - I want in, 'cause it's big."
"We paid you well, Mr.Falcone. You have no reason to complain."
"Why should I make do with scraps when I can have a share?"
A trace of threat entered Ducard's voice. "You are making a nuisance out of yourself, Mr. Falcone. You are not irreplaceable."
The answer was cocky. "You can't touch me and you need me. Gotham is my town. I own the muscle; I know the judges and the police look the other way when I do business. The rest fear me."
Ducard regarded him for a long moment. Then he commanded Bruce softly. "Turn!"
Bruce obeyed. Keeping his face expressionless was a challenge. He refused to look at Falcone, focused his eyes instead over the mob boss' shoulder at the other guest. The fairly young, soft looking man had backed off to the cabin wall and observed the word exchange with interest.
Falcone gaped some long moments before a big grin split his face. "Bruce Wayne. Now, that I call a catch." He snapped his fingers before Bruce's eyes. "Did you drug him? Is it this what our dear doctor here is experimenting with?" He faced Ducard again. "No matter. Even if you establish him as your puppet, you are wasting time before he has enough influence with the right people. And some connections a billionaire playboy like him simply can't forge. You still need me."
"Your influence doesn't appear as all-embracing as you would have us believe. I hear that someone from the DA's office is not afraid of you. Someone you cannot bribe."
"You mean the woman, Dawes. She won't be a problem any longer." He means Rachel! What does he...
"Oh?" Ducard's voice expressed mild disbelief.
"People get mugged in Gotham any day. Pity, sometimes it ends badly."
No! Hot anger flooded Bruce and despite his efforts to maintain passive awareness his muscles tensed. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smirk off Falcone's face. He wanted to...
"Kill him!" Bruce couldn't say if it was command or leave. He just acted without thinking.
Falcone had worked his way up from the streets and was no stranger to violence. But he had no chance. Bruce batted his rising fists away and aimed a powerful jab against Falcone's thick throat. The next instant he spun around to face the third visitor, Falcone's henchman, who was just trying to draw his pistol. Both bodies dropped almost simultaneously.
When Bruce fell back into his readiness stance he saw that Falcone wasn't dead yet. Eyes wide open and rolling in terror, the mobster tried to draw breath through his crushed throat. Nobody moved while they watched him suffocating. The second visitor seemed to be especially fascinated. He studied every twitch and change in Falcone's facial expression with obvious fascination.
"It is curious, isn't it?" the young man commented. His voice cut through the silence. "Falcone thought he had nothing to fear but now he is reduced to the most primal of human fears."
Bruce shot him a glance. He didn't think that this man belonged to the League. He appeared almost obsessive in his intensity while he studied Falcone's last moments.
Ducard got up and moved around the desk. He leaned heavily on his cane while doing so, a deception, as Bruce knew.
"I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasantness, Doctor. However, it was necessary to resolve this situation before Falcone thought of exploiting his perceived knowledge. We will dispose of the bodies." Ducard led the doctor who seemed reluctant to part from the sight, firmly out of the cabin. "All pieces are in position and we are ready to move now."
Bruce kept his eyes on the corpse, unmoving. The exhilaration of the short fight and the grim satisfaction at Falcone's demise had already faded. Ducard returned, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Well done!"
Bruce turned to face him and Ducard must have read in his face his growing confusion and doubt.
"He deserved death, many times over and over. Do not doubt yourself, Bruce, you did the right thing." Ducard regarded him for long moments before he asked with an odd trace of compassion in his voice. "It was the first time that you killed someone, wasn't it?"
Bruce didn't trust himself to speak, he simply nodded. His eyes were drawn to the two corpses again. A hand gripped his chin, forced him to look at Ducard.
"What gave you the strength to do it? Why today and not two weeks ago? What was different this time, Bruce?"
So it is to be a lesson again? Bruce gritted his teeth. I did it because you manipulated him and me, because you knew that if there was something I hated more than Joe Chill it was the rot that poisons Gotham and Falcone was its main source. Anger bubbled up and died down to a simmer. I let something free that should have been kept chained.
Ducard's grip tightened, demanding an answer. Bruce's right hand shot up and closed around the wrist. He glared at Ducard. It had no effect on his teacher. Ducard waited.
"Because it was personal," Bruce finally rasped. "Because I hated him."
"So, if the victim of your peasant had been someone you had known and cared for, would you have executed him?"
You already know the damn answer, Bruce wanted to scream. But the script would play out until the end. So that this lesson was never denied nor forgotten. "Yes."
"Is that justice, Bruce?" Ducard's voice was so soft and gentle. But there was steel behind the words.
"No." Words spoken years ago came back to haunt Bruce. "It was about making me feel better. It was revenge." Admitting this hurt. As Ducard had already told him, he could not claim moral superiority.
"Do you feel better now?"
"Not anymore."
"Revenge is often like ash in our mouths, after the deed is done." Ducard mused half to himself. "Maybe because we feel the hypocrisy in that particular motivation. To right the wrong in a lasting way we need something more impartial. Justice, Bruce, justice is balance."
It was frightening how closely his words matched Rachel's convictions. But Ducard's conclusions were different ones. I'm sorry, Rachel. But if after nearly seven years Falcone still walked free - and I know you would have done everything in your might - then your system of justice is truly broken. His might work.
Bruce locked eyes with Ducard. And admitted his defeat. "So it is."