Disclaimers: First chapter still holds the essentials.

Summary: A bombshell is dropped on the extended family, and Bruce gives Dick a good talking-to...

A/Note: The quote given here was first seen in a story by Syl, and it just kinda stuck in my mind. Also, in this chapter, Bruce remembers the Crisis. I'm told that no one really remembers it in canon...but this is my story, and he is still the Bat. Of course he'll remember...if only because he shouldn't. Go figure. ;-)

Thanks again to Charlene, for all the hints and general shoves to get me heading in the right direction, as well as for the scene suggestion. The opening scene in the waiting room is all her idea...

CALL OF DUTY
High Noon

Part Seven
Hope To Cling To

I think that life has spared those mortals much
- and cheated them of more -
who have not kept a breathless vigil
by the little bed of some beloved child.

Faith Baldwin

"They want to what!"

That minature explosion was Roy Harper. At least, it sounded particularly loud in the waiting area, where the other members of Dick's extended "family" – as Alfred called them in his mind – stood in silence as the archer's rage washed over them and through them.

After a moment's silence, Alfred sighed and repeated what he'd been told by an irate Bruce barely a minute earlier. "The Blüdhaven doctors want to turn off the young Master's life support," he answered quietly, even though he was fairly sure the archer's words hadn't been to obtain that answer.

"You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding," Roy bit out, his voice tight and rough with the strength of his rage. His hands clenched quickly into fists by his side, because otherwise he'd start hunting for a projectile of some kind and that really wasn't good conduct in a hospital. Didn't mean he'd stop speaking his mind. "No way in hell are they getting anywhere near him!"

Alfred raised only one eyebrow and let the momentary blasphemy pass. "And if he never wakes up and stays tied to that bed? Or if he does wake up and isn't...isn't himself anymore?" he replied, a hidden edge in his voice – only discernible to those that knew him well – as the only indication of how much effort it took to continue being the brutal voice of reason. "Could we really let him live his days out that way? Do you really think he would want that?"

Garth shook his head slowly. "But...I don't understand," he half-whispered, such a contrast to his fellow Titan that his words cut right through the gathering tension. "How...how could they suggest this? I thought he was on the road to healing..."

"It's the level of injuries," Babs supplied, her voice holding a strained quality to it, as if she was holding everything together by only the strength her will and her stubborn-ness – which she was. "It's not just the fact that he stopped breathing for a while at the scene, guys. It's the four times he crashed before they got him stable," she told them, her voice getting rougher with every word she uttered. "It's the lung wound that might've done more damage than the scans showed. It's the fact that he's pretty much in a coma right now, and they've got no idea why, let alone when...if ever he'll wake up again." A beat. "It's...it's everything," she finished in a hoarse whisper, unable to continue even if she wanted to as she clenched her eyes shut and struggled to regain her fragile control.

Alfred smiled sadly, sending Barbara a thankful glance for attempting to share the load of explaining what still seemed unthinkable.

"Look, I know he's in a bad way..." Tim protested weakly, still shaken and trying to wrap his mind around this latest development, "...but to want us to pull the plug? That's just...wrong!" He shook his head repeatedly to deny it, but could do nothing to stop the tears that traitorously gathered.

Alfred quickly crossed the room to stand before the young hero, placing gentle hands on the youth's silently shaking shoulders. "I know, young one," he whispered. "But believe me, my Timothy, the doctors here would not suggest this lightly. And I know it comes as a surprise," the elderly gentleman continued in his soothing British tones, gently squeezing his grandson's shoulders, "but that's...that's the way it it is, right now. I'm afraid Dick's...the young master's been on borrowed time since he collapsed at the scene. The doctors...no doubt feel it would be kinder to let nature take its course, considering the level of injuries he received."

"But they don't know him!" Tim abruptly exploded as he pushed away from Alfred, a drop of salty tear trickling down his cheek to betray the fury on his face. "They don't know how much he's already fighting! They're just doctors, not his family. They're wrong!"

Unable to bear this any longer, Tim turned then and fled – or tried to.

He didn't get far before Barbara stopped his flight with her chair and with the hand she gently placed on his arm. "Be that as it may, Tim," she told him, her own voice sounding strangled, "we still have to decide what we're going to do."

"What do you mean!" This came from Roy again. "You're not seriously considering this...this monstrosity, are you?" His tone was nothing less then accusing of betrayal and all the sins under the heavens, nothing short of furious for what they were suggesting.

And it was once again left to Alfred to be the voice of reason. "Yes," he said simply, swallowing hard and thankful his gentle accent covered his own emotions. "As much as we might want otherwise, my young friend, we just have to accept that we...might soon need to say goodbye to our dear friend and brother." And my grandson, he silently added to himself, but everyone still heard his unspoken words. Despite his outward calm, it was just as hard for him as it was for them.

Tim pushed his hands over his eyes, drawing on the much-needed strength in Barbara's stable hand on his arm and futilely trying to force away the tears. He sniffled and looked at the floor, suddenly ashamed of his attempted flight. "I'm sorry Alfred," he apologised softly, "I'm sorry I got angry at you. I just..." he trailed off and rubbed his wet face again, feeling far older than his years. "It's just not fair," he mumbled numbly. "I can't..."

"Life's rarely fair, young Timothy," gently replied Donna, the heart of the Titans team, as she approached him. "But at least we have each other to help us through these moments." The empathetic hero then wrapped the trembling youth in her warm embrace and held him close.

Donna closed her eyes and stood there with him, only holding him as he bravely struggled not to break down, and then supporting Tim when he finally surrendered to the tears and as he gripped onto her for dear life. And there was no one there, from friends and family to hospital workers alike, that was not touched by the emotional collapse of the young teen, that did not share in the tears for the part of their life that they were losing, the part of all their hearts that was slowly breaking as they struggled to accept the truth presented to them.

"So that's it?" Roy finally murmured, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears as he brushed away a few traitorous droplets of his own. "We just say goodbye...and that's it? They pull him off life support and we just...walk away?"

It took a long moment for Alfred to compose himself enough to respond, his shining eyes fixed on young Timothy, heart aching as he saw how tightly he held onto Donna as his lifeline to sanity. "Yes," he finally responded. "We walk away...and while we grieve for what we've lost, we also rejoice in the life he shared with us." He turned to meet Roy's gaze, for the first time allowing his own emotions to show in his eyes. "The young master would want no less," he finished softly.

Barbara nodded, managing a smile through the unbidden tears that fell. "That's Dick, alright," she agreed softly, her gaze looking down the hall towards where the love of her life lay. "I think that's why he always believed in living his life to the max." She sniffled and rubbed her cheek, her sad smile turning wistful. "He told me once he was glad his parents' death was quick, that they didn't linger between death and life. He wouldn't..." she swallowed hard, forced the words out, "wouldn't want this anymore than we want to face it."

"So when can we see him?" interrupted Garth, speaking up before he could lose his own control after Barbara's words. "To say goodbye?"

"I'm afraid you can't, dear Garth," Alfred replied gently. "Bruce...is with him now. We have to give them the time they need."

"You mean to tell me," Roy began stonily, hands clenching into angry fists but his voice eerily tight and controlled, "that not only do the docs want to do something they have no right to ask us to do, but now Bruce is monopolizing Dick!" He swore and slammed his fist onto the nearby table, but obviously wished he could've hit something more and that they weren't in a hospital. He badly needed to thump something – and someone – big, black, and bat-shaped right now.

"Easy, Roy," Wally remonstrated, suddenly appearing by his friend and grabbing hold of the fists sent his way. "Lashing out ain't gonna help anything. Besides, what if it was Lian in there?"

Roy leaned into Wally's space and snarled harshly, "I don't think that really matters when—"

"Yes, Roy," Wally interrupted firmly. "It does matter. What if it was Lian in there?" He tightened his grip on the hero's fists to emphasize his point. "Wouldn't you need time to say goodbye...to allow your child to die?"

Roy stilled, the words finally hitting home. His eyes closed and a look of absolute pain flashed across his worn features. Lian... She was his pride and joy, ever since she had entered his world. Nothing like the cold assassain that had borne her, his little girl was the centre of his world and his heart. She was why he still fought the good fight as Arsenal, to make the world a better place, to ensure her future, to make sure she'd never need to fight the battles he'd fought with drugs. Her smile in the morning made his nightly battles worth every heartache, every risk he took and every injury he nursed.

But if he lost her...if he lost his girl, his angel...

He didn't know what he'd do. He couldn't comprehend it. He didn't want to comprehend the pain, the loss, the despair he would feel. And it would only be worse still if he'd had to deliberately let her go. An accidental death, dying out in the field, even (perish the thought) as a vigilante...that he knew he could (somehow) cope with...and even kind of accept, in a twisted kind of way. But this...to "pull the plug" on his only daughter...to allow her life to slip out of his fingers when every instinct in him was screaming at him to hold onto it tighter to protect his own flesh and blood...

His shoulders slumped and his body lost its tension as the father in him realised the painful truth, the awful truth that he'd never have the guts to do what Bruce was going to do.

Alfred spoke up behind them, his keen instincts telling him that it was now alright to continue the conversation. "Besides," the elderly man admitted sadly, "we've all seen him since he came here, even if we did not know it was to say goodbye."

"I know," Tim replied softly, casting a wary glance at where Roy still stood woodenly with his back to them all. "It still hurts, though," the young hero admitted quietly.

Roy swallowed and turned around, his face pale and ashen. "I don't like to say this, Tim, but he's right. Dick...is still Bruce's child, no matter how the big lug acts at times. He has the right to be there with Dick at the end." He mustered up a lopsided smile that didn't reach his eyes and admitted quietly, "And if it was Lian in there instead of Dick...even if I knew it was exactly what she wanted me to do...I'd want to be alone when I said goodbye."

Even knowing that this was exactly what Dick would've wanted them to do wasn't going to make it easier for Bruce...for any of them. But that was all they had to tell themselves in the cold of the night, when this was over, to soothe their consciences, when they missed Dick the most.

And, somehow, that would have to be enough.

The hours slipped by, and time marched onwards towards the end. Ever onwards, never stopping, never pausing, and always moving at the same damn pace. Maybe that was why Bruce Wayne no longer knew what the time was. Since he'd entered into this room, he found he'd lost track of the seconds, stopped counting the minutes...how long ago? Long enough that it was all blurring together. Morning, afternoon, night, it was all the same, and it all felt the same to him. It all felt...empty, anyway, without his...his son to make him smile, to annoy him...and to simply be there because, for some strange, unfathomable reason, Dick loved him.

Fists clenched into fists by his side, and he had to stamp down the sudden urge to throttle someone. He'd already done that enough today – but that didn't mean he couldn't want to do it again and again and again until he got rid of this tension, of this ache in his chest that was probably because his heart had stopped beating yesterday – because it was still the day after it happened, wasn't it? – long before the news came to him through the official channels.

The grapevine had nothing, it seemed, over a father's intuition.

He'd known that something was wrong, that someone or something had tilted his world and thrown his entire life out of kilter, long before the actual call came through. He hadn't accomplished anything for at least an hour prior to the call from the hospital, and he couldn't even plead a late lunch-break as the cause, because he vaguely recalled having eaten a few hours earlier. He also recalled after a fashion that he'd been avidly working on some takeover deal that had the potential to double WayneTech profits yet again, something Lucius claimed would be 'the deal of the century' if he ever managed to pull it off...but now...

Now, nothing like that mattered. He was fairly sure he wouldn't care if the entire country slid into a recession the world had never before seen that caused him to lose every business and every possession and every coin he had ever inherited or acquired in his long life. Not when his heart hadn't started beating yet, when his entire life was lying on this hospital bed in front of him waiting...waiting for him to make the impossible decision.

Don't ask me to make this choice, he heard himself in his head, begging someone or something to spare him from this torment. Don't ask me to choose.

Because I can't.

He couldn't choose. Not when the life Dick had right now was so close to death anyway. Not when there was a still chance in his mind that Dick might soon awaken, that he'd open those clear, expressive eyes and ask what the hell was Bruce doing to look like he did. Not when there was still a glimmer of hope, even if it only seemed to be in his mind.

He couldn't choose.

None of his plans, none of his meticulously-plotted out designs on the future, ever included something like this. He had reason to curse that now, now that he was faced with the incomprehensible and found it to be just as confusing as he'd feared.

Then again, it wasn't like he exactly got an instruction book on letting go of his kid when parenthood came upon him. Hell, Dick didn't come with an instruction book, period. That was probably why he made such a mess of raising the kid. And all his mistakes, all his errors and fumblings, culminated in this moment, in this interminable, damnable wait.

Because the waiting was always the hard part.

But what was he waiting for? What kept him here, at the foot of the bed, staring at the unmoving body of his...of his son, looking so fragile and vulnerable hooked up to so many machines and IVs? What kept the hours slipping through the fingers of his consciousness? Why did he feel as if moving or diverting his focus for even a second meant he would miss that crucial something that would make all the difference in the world?

He didn't know. He didn't know the answers, and he didn't know how to handle that.

Bruce Wayne, and even his alter ego called Batman, knew how to handle tension, anxiousness, and despair, for these were things he faced every night when he pulled on the mask and cowl... Or maybe it was when he took the Wayne mask off? He mentally shrugged and decided the order didn't really matter. Either way, he knew how to handle stress.

As a matter of fact, he already had handled it, and that was why he was so late getting back after his "discussion" with the Blüdhaven doctors. That was also why certain cops would soon be finding a blubbering heap called Diablo in his hospital room who'd be suddenly more than willing to confess...to everything, even to things the police had known nothing about. He smirked at the thought, knowing that the Blüdhaven PD wouldn't know what had hit them with the goldmine that would be dumped in their laps.

Still, he wished he could've punched out Diablo's lights like he'd wanted to do since the moment the phone call came for Dick's next-of-kin, wished he could've exorcised some of this tense ache in his chest. He'd come very close to the point of no return as he'd stood there in the hospital room, staring down at the cause of it all. The only thing that had kept him back was the memory of a certain set of clear blue eyes, staring at him in disappointment. So he'd made sure he hadn't left any bruises that couldn't be explained...as well as using a few more "inventive" methods of getting what he wanted while leaving behind a minimum of debris.

So couldn't waiting be that simple? Why couldn't he just hit something and stop this awful suspension of time? Why did he hate waiting so badly?

He knew the answer to that too, at least intellectually. If he was waiting, he had no easy targets, nothing at which he could strike back and somehow vent the frustrated turmoil within him. His only enemy was Time, the nameless and undefinable entity that only a few had been able to conquer with time travel...and he'd read their stories and had even seen the dire consequences of that too many times to even consider trying it himself...no matter how much he wanted to. The events he privately referred to as the Crisis had been a case in point, as that was when multiple alternate dimensions had joined into one. The chaos that had created was indelibly seared into his memories – and his nightmares.

It was ironic, really. He was the only one that seemed to remember Crisis, and he couldn't get himself to forget it no matter how hard he tried.

This earth, this reality, had been the one left standing when all the cosmic dust settled, and he sometimes wondered if they'd be better off if things had happened slightly differently, if another path had been chosen. Certainly it might've turned out better for Dick, his son in all ways that he knew – except in voice, and having never really told Dick what he felt was now weighing heavily on him. Especially now. Would his son still be lying there, looking so vulnerable and fragile on the hospital bed, if he'd done things just a little differently? If he'd admitted his emotions instead of pushing them – and Dick – away for so long? If he'd given Dick more time to adjust after his parents' death before giving him the Robin mantle...or maybe even not allowing Dick to become Robin at all? But wouldn't that be depriving his son of something that completed him, that made Dick whole? And wouldn't it be like playing God, as he'd sworn never to do after seeing—

Bruce growled at himself and pushed the questions and doubts away, rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose. He could feel a monster headache coming on from all this philosophical thinking, and that had to be why he so hated waiting. It made him think about all kinds of things that he normally would simply accept and move on from, things he'd never normally stop to think about. It gave him and his mind too much time, too much free reign in which to run amok. And that, as he'd learned so often in the past, was never a really good idea because it invariably led to him questioning his beliefs.

But maybe that was the reason he was still here. He believed.

Yes, he believed...but in what?

The answer to that one came to him immediately: He believed in Dick, and that was really all that mattered. He believed because he knew Dick Grayson and he knew the man he had raised his son to be. Or rather, he amended with a flash of bitterness, I know the man he became despite my bungling and interference. Despite his clumsy and fumbling attempts at parenthood, his son had indeed turned out to be a fine man, a man any father would be proud to call his own. Oh, how he was proud of him, so much so that at times he felt sure his chest would burst apart at the pressure of his pride in his son, in the personality that light up his life and most of all in Dick's unflagging spirit. His Dick had never been one to give up without a fight, or at least not without a grin and a bad joke to cover up his surrender. He knew that – and he knew it through and through, bones to bones.

Which was why he needed to do something other than this damn waiting for something to happen. Yet exactly what was supposed to happen he wasn't quite certain, but he knew he was waiting, and he knew that what he was waiting for would come. It had to, even if he was the only one that seemed able to believe it. It was coming. He believed in that too.

"Fight it Dick, dammit."

He paused a moment and froze. Did that really just come from him? But it had to, it was the only logical answer, unless the walls had suddenly developed a voice. He was, after all, the only one left in the room. He'd chased everyone out hours ago on the excuse of needing some private time, on doctors' orders to start saying his goodbyes...and yet he'd found himself waiting instead, grimly holding onto his hops and his beliefs despite all that they had told him.

He found himself walking round the bed to stroke his hand gently down the stubble-covered jaw he knew so well. "You hear that, Dick?" he heard himself whisper. "The doctors have given up hope."

Hnh. He was speaking again, albeit softly and with an edge in his voice that betrayed more of his emotions than he liked. Revealing his emotions was exposing himself to vulnerability, but he gave a mental shrug and decided to allow it to continue. It couldn't harm anyone if he spoke without thinking about his words. He was alone, and he doubted Dick could hear him anyway. Besides, it was either speak his mind or go back to silently losing his mind as he waited, and having done that so recently he wasn't about to do it again.

"They don't think you'll wake up again...that it took too long for the paramedics to come and get you breathing again." Pause. Breathe. "They think you went too long without air for you to be Dick again even if you did wake up."

He paused and looked up, a thought coming to him. "And if I find that's the case," he added, his voice darkening as the Bat in him promised, "I'll make sure that everyone in that damn PD gets a few first aid lessons the hard way."

Bruce abruptly sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "But that's for later, I suppose," he continued in his normal voice, "and only if you prove me wrong." A beat. "Which you better not."

He blinked and looked away, letting his hand drop from Dick's cheek as he wondered why his eyes were stinging so badly. Forget it. Just keep talking. Get this off your chest once and for all, Wayne, he berated himself, too wrapped up in his thoughts to note the small change in pattern in the ECG. And even if he had seen it, he probably would've just kept talking anyway to ease these final few moments, in the hope that Dick would somehow hear these words he had always meant to say in life.

"You hear that?" he admitted gruffly, head still turned away and staring out to the side at nothing. "Your old man believes in you, even if he usually has a hard time admitting it." Finally composing himself, he turned back to the bed, sparing only a glance at the monitors to find that the readouts were apparently the same as before. He promptly paid them no heed, instead allowing a suspicious brightness to glisten in his steely-blue eyes as he kept talking softly, "I believe in you...because I know you, I know...my son. I know the stock you came from, not just in blood and in genes, but in spirit.

He blinked again, now to clear his strangely blurring vision. "You're a fighter, Dick," he continued fiercely, firmly, not letting himself think otherwise. "You're a fighter, not a quitter, and you're certainly not a coward. No son of mine was ever going to be a coward," he spat, the mention of the word distasteful on his lips and incomprehensible to his spirit.

He laughed then, laughed the small, hoarse laugh of the grieving. "Hell, I've seen you face down villains and monsters that were your double size and three times your strength, and you walked away in one piece with that infuriating grin intact every single damn time... So why can't you smile now, dammit?" His hands were clenched into fists so hard that his knuckles were beyond white, but that too he ignored. "'Cause it's ironic," he continued bitterly, "that you faced and conquered every thing else in your life to be taken down by some two bit hood." That, too, was incomprehensible.

Because Bruce knew why neither of them were smiling, why he was struggling and grappling with this impossible choice. That was why his cheeks were wet even through the anger burning bright within him. He hated saying goodbye.

And then he abruptly seemed to deflate, shoulders slumping and his posture slackening. He turned away from the bed again, needing the visual distance to let the tears go. "Dammit Dick," he mumbled hoarsely, "you've got me crying again." Every time he'd allowed the tears to fall like this, he'd been crying over losing those he considered family – his parents, Jason, and even Tim when he'd thought the boy was lost to the Clench plague – and each time he'd promised himself he'd never cry again.

That was another promise he'd broken. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, breaking promises.

"You know," he finally admitted softly as his voice grew increasingly gruff, "I once promised you that I'd do my best to keep you safe, that I'd never deliberately put you in front of a danger I thought you might not be able to handle. And somehow I think I broke that promise every night I let Robin out...and then you started breaking it all on your own. After that, after I fired you, this time I swore to myself that I'd always find a way to show that I still believed in you, that I'd never let you down again." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "And now they're all telling me that I have to—that I have to let—"

He broke himself off and clenched his fists tighter still, the anger inside tipping the balance once again. "But I'm not giving up on you, Dick," he swore fiercely. "I can't." He knew that now, too. And all of a sudden he was furious, blazingly furious, with himself more than anything, and suddenly snapped: "So work with me Dick!" He was almost shouting now. "And for pity's sake, stop being such a damn coward!"

He whirled around and strode for the door, his footsteps clipped and angry. A small part of his mind wondered fleetingly if the anger was at Dick for still being unconscious or at himself for running again. Some role model you are, Wayne. Always running from the pain. And then he pushed the thought away, shoved away with all his strength and flung it into the nether regions of his mind with a mental roar of frustration. That, at least, he could strike back at...and that was also why he was going to tell the doctors what he thought. He wasn't going to give them the okay they wanted to turn the machines off, but to tell them what he really thought of them and their opinions, and then where to shove it and precisely how many times to fold it to make it all fit! By the time he'd get through with them, they'll—

–bip–

Bruce froze in mid-stride, hand floating just above the doorknob. Was that...Did I hear that right? His hand dropped to his side and he turned around slowly, feeling as if he was moving through thick syrup. His heart was pounded in his throat and he hardly dared to breathe in case it happened again and he missed it, missed that flutter that might well herald the final end of his world. He walked on noiseless, silent feet back to the foot of the bed and resumed his previous stance once more...and simply waited.

Alfred had left the others talking quietly in the waiting area of the hospital some hours ago, utilising his age-old skills of blending into the background to help him get away. He'd drifted down the hall somewhat, technically still in the waiting area but now able to see precisely what happened in the hall outside Dick's room, awaiting the right moment to go and talk to the Master.

The sun moved up and across the sky, and he waited. Past noon, past the lunchtime crowds and the flurry of activities of the day, and still he waited. Now it was getting late, getting darker again, and the activity levels were quickly slowing as the sun touched the horizon, and Alfred still waited for that precise moment to—

Now! his instincts suddenly told him, but he'd barely moved two steps before he suddenly stopped and moved back to the wall. He'd seen Leslie Thompkins coming down the hallway and slipping inside Dick's room, and he knew that the kind Doctor was going to say goodbye in her own way, perhaps even talk to Bruce about the decision. And if he could trust those in his care with anyone, it was Leslie. That was, after all, one of the reasons (although there were many more) why he and the good lady doctor got along so well.

That was why he decided to wait. When Leslie was done, he would see Bruce – and Dick – himself for that final time.

He was still standing in the hall when Leslie suddenly came rushing out, a strange look on her face he couldn't decipher – and didn't really want to understand, truth be told. Alfred took an involuntary half-step forward, heart pounding in his chest, reaching out and mouthing Leslie's name to ask her what had happened, but no sound came out of his tortured throat and his hands clenched only air. Leslie had never been one to rush about. She was always calm and methodical as a doctor, except...except when patients were already too close to death for calmness to have any soothing effect...

Right on cue, as if summoned by his horrifying thought, Leslie came rushing back with two people, one of which he recognised as a doctor from earlier in the day and the other dressed as a nurse. It confirmed all his worst fears when all three rushed back into Dick's room, and he heard them calling out to other for a few moments until the door shut itself behind them. After all these years of caring and healing his family after the inevitable long, dangerous nights, he knew too much medical jargon to not understand the frantic conversation. Dear heart...it's time. It's time. We're finally losing him...

Heart numbed and his mind dazed, unaware of the sudden silence in the waiting room as the others turned and watched him, his feet took him to the door of Dick's private room, and his hand held the door open enough for him to see inside. And then he could only stand and watch anxiously, free hand pressed over his mouth to hold back his grief as much as it was to hold back his voice, telling himself it was lest he cause a distraction as events unfolded inside.

All he could do was watch, and wait for his world to end.

TBC... ;-)