Chapter Text
During the time Wayne spent recovering in the confines of the Batcave's medical facility, now nearing twenty-four hours, the only logical step was to sift through all the night's scattered clues and piece together a timeline of events. Not only to gather the hows and whys, but to understand who Wayne really is, and what led him to cut Penguin's hand off at his first-ever confrontation.
Only after the sun went down did Jason show up, riding on his custom motorcycle with a leather jacket and not a care in the world. The timing was notable, for he hadn't answered the many calls and messages thrown his way during the daylight hours, only appearing when he decided to.
Nothing about Jason's behavior could be perceived as particularly surprising. That is simply how he always acted. Yet now, whether he meant his presence to be an invite to a hefty shouting match or not, did not matter. It had been like that for a while; attempts at conversation and camaraderie turning into arguments and fights. It wasn't as if either party sought out the conflict, especially now, when his input in the Wayne case was so valuable.
Another attempt at peace was made, as despite how they felt about Jason's handling of introducing them to Wayne, the right thing to do was to keep Jason informed. A cordial attitude was important to maintain, no matter how easy it could be to just pin the blame on him. But no, they'll play nice.
Upon Jason's arrival and explaining what happened after Wayne jumped out the window, Dick braced himself for what he assumed would be the mockery of his life. That Jason would laugh at him, at Tim, and probably at Wayne for handling the whole thing so poorly. Dick expected all of that and more, which is why, to everybody present's astonishment, that reaction never came. Not at all. Not even a little.
Instead, Jason's response was one of genuine anger.
"–But I'm considered the 'angry' and the 'reckless' one. All bullshit clearly because I am not the one who put the guy in a coma. Instead, it's you all that—!"
"–As if you are any better!" Dick interjected with a laugh, that horrid, mocking sound that his brothers genuinely despised hearing from him. It echoed in the cold, hard walls of the cave. "You left him with us! You were there during most of it, but then you just! Left!"
Their arguing reverberated everywhere, displeasing not only the bats roosted above them, but their sibling just one hallway and door away. Those siblings, who were used to such shouting by now, focused on tending the unconscious, knocked-out figure of Wayne.
Cassandra, with her brows furrowed in concentration, let the shouting enter one ear and leave through the other. "You think he can hear us?" She asked about Wayne as she changed his TPN bag.
While slightly irritated at everyone yet nothing in particular, Cassandra knew the best thing to do was to focus on her task and attend to the asleep figure lying before her. One who emanated worrying signs, even asleep.
"The scans don't show any fluctuations," Damian replied, looking back from where he'd been glaring at the door, where all the shouting came from. By all means, the boy should be in bed by now, being a weekday and all, but with Bruce yet to arrive from League business, it was not as if his siblings had any desire to take on babysitting duties. "And considering that this is... father, then we can assume this is the bestest, deepest sleep he's had in a while."
His words, no matter how logical, did not soothe either of them. Wayne's rest was visibly poor, for he kept turning and murmuring under his breath, as if experiencing a nightmare.
But not much could be done about that. All they could do was mend any exterior injuries. And after taking his measurements the day prior, they could finally arrange a well-fitting fit ready for him when he woke up. For now, they fixed him a hospital gown and the pair of woolly socks Damian chose for him, now tucked beneath the thick pink blanket and Cass' Guanlong-themed one, which she brought back from the Clock Tower.
"But he's been making all sorts of expressions," Cass frowned, glancing at Damian, who, while frowning also, could only shrug in response.
Their father usually lay so still when he slept, even through the nightmares they both knew he went through more often than not.
"–So you just show up? Out of the goodness of your heart? You expect me to believe that?"
"Well, he was my fucking friend before your murder attempt, so yeah! I'm showing up! For him!"
"He's not your friend! You're just trying to—!"
"–Yes, he is!"
"You knew him for like a week!"
"As if you'd understand shit about Crime Alley brotherhood!"
"Oh! Brotherhood! Is that what you're calling it now!"
The two were now yelling over each other, loud enough that having a conversation grew impossible. Cass and Damian shared an irritated look before snorting.
"Brotherhood. TT," Damian repeats under his breath, making his sister snicker.
With Bruce away for a few hours, the vigilantes of Gotham found themselves assigned a series of tasks meant to burn up time until his return. According to Bruce, the most important part of this mystery could be resolved if his hypothesis about how Wayne arrived in their dimension proved correct, which he needed to verify at the Watchtower.
Cass and Damian took on the responsibility of caring for Wayne, ensuring that if he woke up today, it would not be in pain, alone, cold, and confused. God, did they all know how awful a feeling that was.
Meanwhile, in another part of the cave, Duke and Tim continued their inspection of Wayne's batsuit, trying to map out a picture of how this other Batman operated and the threats he faced.
In the meantime, Dick, left with watch duty, should have been keeping an eye on the monitors. Instead, he got busy arguing.
"And what could have been so important that you just left! He asked for you, you know!"
Jason gasped dramatically, hand in chest as if actually offended. "You're blaming the trust I placed on all of you to handle quite the simple situation? He's not my twenty-four-seven responsability, especially not in a manor I'm not even welcomed in!"
"You're obviously welcomed here! If you answered any of our calls you'd know that."
Simply blaming Jason for the loud argument would be unjust. After all, before his arrival, Dick had already been restless, doing tricks on the recliner rather than just sitting down and staring at the monitors. The screen fatigue clearly got to him, and any sort of outlet would have gotten him up and pacing like he was doing now.
But no punches had been thrown yet, so the situation could still be salvaged.
"Selina," Cass suddenly spoke up the moment there was a second of silence. Both Dick and Jason whipped their heads to look at her, fuming in their own way. She stood in the hallway, having emerged from the now-open medbay door. "Selina asked Babs for an update on Wayne. She said she asked you first, but that you were taking too long to answer."
The next moment of silence stretched out for longer, enough that the aggravated bats above started to calm down.
Eventually, Jason let out a grumble, pulling up his phone to check on the texts previously ignored. By his expression, there must have been quite a lot.
"Okay, yeah, she.. did ask me to do that," Jason rubbed his eyebrow, reading the texts over before putting down his phone. He expertly avoided Dick's incredulous expression and twitching eye. "She's aware he exists. And like, keeps up with what the working girls say about him and all. Apparently, he promised to look into a water leak in one of their dressing rooms, and since he didn't show up, some girl went to ask Selina. Whooo asked me."
"Well, Babs answered for you," Cass stated.
"Yeah, I got that," Jason said with a roll of his eyes, "but I'm not here for that; I really did want to check up on him."
At the silence that followed, and the stares they were giving him, Dick and Cass were clearly not on his side. Finally, Jason gave in with a loud, long-suffering groan that yet again aggravated the bats above. He raised his hands as if in surrender.
"God, fine! I am here for Selina, but big guy's still my friend. I don't need to come here physically to check up on him when your gossip through the comms keeps me in the loop."
"You do listen in on us!" Damian gasped from all the way inside the medbay.
"And from what I heard, I thought the whole 'I electrocuted the big guy' was some big exaggeration! But you really did do it!"
Just as Dick was about to yell too, with the bats above tensing up for the oncoming argument, Cass' little "aw," interrupted them both. Again, simultaneously, they turned to look at her, who was giving a bright but teasing grin.
"You're so shy about showing concern for your friend."
Gears turned in everyone's heads. For a moment, silent.
"Your best friend," Cass continued, drinking in Jason's growingly recoiled expression with obvious glee, "your bestest friend you've ever friended."
"He found one person that can stand him. That's impressive." Damian added, still inside the other room, loud enough Jason could hear the ridicule.
Jason's eye twitched. "Okay now. Don't be ridiculous." His face was red, practically steaming. "It's not like Big guy has any friends either. Alley Crime pride and all that, I'm just being polite visiting."
"Oh, don't switch up your story now," Dick tutted, back to that aggravating grin, "don't you want to step inside and say hello to your bestest friend of all time? Your 'BFF' of a week?"
"Roy's not in that room," Jason deadpanned.
"Roy's not your best friend, he's my-" Dick started up, before taking a deep breath to not start another fight. "Just. Get inside."
With a roll of the eyes, and now oddly quiet after the teasing, Jason walked down the hallway and into the medbay. Cass stepped aside to let him in, utterly satisfied.
Nothing had changed. Wayne remained unconscious, the electric burn marks now properly treated. While Jason passed a glance over his face, he turned to focus on the neatly stacked files on the deskboard. They stood out like the only interactable objects in an otherwise static room.
"What's this?" He asked despite knowing the answer. Each page contained photos of the scars on Wayne's body, along with a detailed report clipped to it.
"Steph and I organized it. It contains his current health status, theoretical diagnostics, and possible treatment plans." Damian responded, arms crossed where he stood, all doom and gloom on the other side of the room. All that shouting had properly irritated him.
"Theoretical?" Jason questioned, putting the papers down when it started feeling too invasive to continue, "Seems to me you can come up with solid answers out of all of this."
"The problem is we don't know how he got them. They're all quite recent, and inflicted during a close period of time."
"Torture, most likely," Cass filled in where she remained against the door.
"Bane, most likely," Jason huffed with raised brows, "how is that not obvious?"
Damian responded with a deeper frown, "Possible, but we can't just say it for certain. Father did not encounter Bane until several years into his career, after your death."
Electing to ignore that last comment, Jason grabbed the files again. "Why would it matter if the timelines matched or not? It's more about intent. Bane wanted to prove he was some macho alpha bullshit, so he went against B and- yeah, you know."
That topic was barely breached, seldom brought up unless it could be useful in a current case. But so much had happened during the time Jason spent buried within the confines of his child-sized coffin, and the subsequent years with the League.
So much happened.
So much underwent in his beloved city that he was not there to witness.
So much that he simply did not know about. Stories, and events, and happenings never disclosed to him. Details he could not understand because he was not there to witness their origin. All of these little things taken for granted that just made him feel even more like an outsider.
Not that he'd ever ask. His time gone was a bit of the past he preferred not to confront, but that always lurked in the corner of his mind, waiting for him to acknowledge the years without him.
"Besides," Jason continued with a drawl, "why does documenting any of this matter? Hello? Giant breach of privacy? Incredibly invasive?" He lifted his hands like an exasperated parent, "Does my advice mean nothing to you? Just straight-up ditching the idea of gaining his trust?"
"And what? Let him stay in pain?" Cass argued back.
"He clearly needs the medical attention." Damian answered Jason with a sneer, "There was no permanent damage done to his heart muscles, alhamdulillah, which we can only attribute to the minimal dosage of Venom. Otherwise, he'd be at a very high risk of suffering through another cardiac arrest."
"Did Leslie teach you all of that?"
"I've been reading up on my free time," Damian answered with his head lifted high, regarding Wayne with a curious look. "His scarring is surgical and precise, but I can't say if the extent of the nerve damage is causing him pain in the long run." His eyes shifted back up to Jason, who was also looking at Wayne. "Did you note anything during your time with him?"
"I don't think it's my place to tell."
"And I don't care about that." Damian frowned. "You said it yourself, nothing about what we are doing is very ethical, so don't try to get the moral high ground and waste our time."
Like any proper, mature adult with proper, mature adult responses, Jason rolled his eyes and turned back to the detailed documents. Again, he skimmed over them.
"He did tell me about this," Jason eventually shared, "in his own... Bruce-like way. I couldn't exactly make an assesment."
Damian stared at him incredulously. So did Cass.
Then he raised one finger, "But," Jason continued, "he moves with no pain. He wouldn't have pulled half the shit he had that night if he did."
"Dad is in pain a lot," Cass countered, "but that's no inhibitor."
"Yeah, but there's a difference," Jason insisted. Such a stupid, stubborn conversation should not aggravate him as much as it was, yet his tone grew sharp. They talked to him as if he did not know Bruce, or Wayne for that matter. "None of you were there to see how Bruce moved before my death."
Regardless of whether provoking Batman fanatic #1 and #2 was a good idea or not, Jason could hardly contain himself from saying it. He watched their expressions flicker, both with irritation but listening nonetheless.
"And how Wayne moves mirrors how Bruce once did. Perhaps not as polished and a tad more aggressive," he continued, arms flailing as if the more dramatic he moves, the stronger his point will be conveyed, "but there are no lingering injuries dragging his form down, no pain that slows him down, no debility to compensate for. Or can you prove me otherwise?"
The challenge of his question was unmistakable. A deliberate attempt to rile them up. It made Cass bite her lower lip, torn on how to convey what she saw in words, glancing back and forth between the sleeping man and the waiting Jason. "It's more complicated than that." She murmured.
"Uncomplicate it." Jason frowned, crossing his arms. Cass was not one of the usual people he talked with within the family.
"It's like..." She started, looking at Jason, glancing at Wayne, turning to Damian. Then she looked back to the door, where Dick was somewhere on the other side. "Like a backpack...?"
He carries a weight with him that's not his own. And- and you can get used to the backpack, but... it affects your posture? Only after you put it down do you notice how sore your shoulders are."
It was hard to argue with Cass about things such as these. She walked over to Jason, looking at the same document he had.
"Also, you're lying." Cass challenged, turning the pages until she reached the clear picture of the scars across Wayne's back.
It was a nasty scar. Or several, interconnected ones, depending on how you looked at it.
"Is that supposed to be an 'M,' or a giant bat?" Jason asked, aware that his face was making a sour expression. Better that than acknowledge Cass' intentionally provocative statement.
"Does it matter?" Damian asked back.
"Exactly. Does it matter? Does any of this shit matter?" Jason snatched those damn documents. "Yeah, I was lying, Cass, because you're all too damn noisy."
"Oh, so you are going the high horse route, acting like you know so much better than us?"
"It's a damn invasion of privacy what you're doing, so yes. You read how he acted," Jason turned to accuse Cass, "you saw his fucking shame over these scars. You don't even need your creepy ability to do so. Can you imagine just waking up after what you all forced him through, and find out your body has been inspected like a mystery to solve? This is by far the worst possible introduction you could have given the guy!"
A rush of satisfaction ran through Jason when he realized through Cass' expression that his concerns were heard. That, for once, he was not just screaming into the void. Damian did not look so convinced, however.
"Intrusions on physical modesty are often unavoidable, and in this case, there was no way around it if we wanted to perform the life-saving interventions necessary." Damian spoke slowly, the ever-present frown in his face softening enough that for once he looked his age. "I'll argue with you that losing his trust in exchange to saving him was necesary."
But Jason just waved the documents. "And is all this... speculation, necessary too?"
At that, Damian merely shrugged. "It is curious. I mean, aren't you interested in knowing what happened?"
Jason's eye twitched. Of course he was.
On a lower level of the Bat-Cave, the inspection of Wayne's batsuit continued. The two vigilantes tasked could attest with certainty that every discovery was received with sheer delight.
In many respects, the getup seemed to draw on elements from Batman's earlier years, though it leaned towards a rougher, more violent style.
The shoulder pads, although light, were akin to body armor and adorned with an array of spikes in different sizes. Most spikes were for show (hopefully), but damn, there were a lot of them, both retractable and extendable.
Between the two of them, Tim kept having a delightful time uncovering the parts of the suit that either concealed hidden blades or could be used as one. His favorite so far was when Duke uncovered that, holy shit, yes, even the bat-ears could be used to stab someone. That, depending on the force used to turn his head, Wayne could wrench the bat-ears forward, mimicking the shape of a raging bull's horns.
"Now I want some sick bat-ears to stab someone with," Duke sighed, testing the mechanism and the force needed to stab through a silicone flesh pad. Not much force at all. Those things were sharp.
"Who do you plan to stab?" Tim asked, his attention now on the cape.
Oh, the cape. That had been what initially caught Tim's attention. The design, he could admit, was nothing short of ingenious, and the last piece of evidence he needed to confirm to himself that, yes, this was created by a Bruce from an alternative universe.
"Well, that's a whole list of names," Duke replied, before turning to check what Tim was inspecting. He quickly saw what was so interesting. "That's... very innovative, actually," he murmured, watching Tim test the elasticity of one of the tendrils unfurling from the cape.
They already wrote down a bunch of notes, about how it wasn't just the lightweight material that stood out, but its design and the implementation of tightly woven, high-tensile wire that could support over 200 pounds without even a hint of strain.
Rather than a full cape, it stripped down into thinner sections, each with a tendril beneath it that ended in a hook. They hadn't had time to test it in practice, but it could be inferred that the design was intended to improve mobility: Wayne could grab and wrap his arms around different sections to attack, then grab and toss.
Although it wasn't as durable as their own capes, this one had a rigidification ability, allowing the wearer to stand on the tendrils like makeshift stilts. It could even be used as some sort of whip function, so precise that there was no need to use a grapple gun, instead using the cape to pull oneself up a building. It's also capable of wrapping around the wearer, protecting the body from gunfire.
"No kidding. It's like, several functions all in one. No need to carry extra weight in gear when you have this cape," Tim grinned, bumping his shoulder against Duke, "Why didn't we think of that?"
As expected, the design piqued Duke's attention as well. He grabbed one of the tendrils, looking at it from different angles before asserting, "I don't think this is the sort of innovation we could ever achieve."
Tim turned to him, confused.
"This whole suit, from cowl to cape, it prioritizes... a need to adapt," Duke continued, putting down the tendril to grab the bataxe. "It's all built on compromises. So what need do we have for... immediate adaptability when we have the funds for more precise, perfected gadgets?"
Duke twirled the heavy axe, testing its weight. "But what do you think?" He turned the conversation onto Tim, who was still mulling over Duke's hypothesis.
The previously freer expression on Tim narrowed into something more serious. He gave the tendril in his hands another once-over.
Duke approached the examination from an angle Tim hadn't thought about. Not the 'how' of the prototype, or the possibilities of its usability, but for the core, for the idea that sparked its creation. "It's like a bat," Tim suggested, continuing Duke's idea, "the suit's motif."
Such a broad statement made Duke look at him expectantly, grin growing back in place. "A bat?" He asked, looking down at the suit they had laid out on the metallic examination table.
"Bats are some of the most adaptable animals, the second largest order of mammals, able to thrive across most biomes," Tim noted, "in the true nature of a bat, where their adaptability stems from their bodies' structure, Wayne's batsuit seems to operate on the same ideas."
The items previously held in the utility belt had already been lined out on a separate platter. "The gadgets he carries are then optional and situational, in theme with being a bat and all." Tim grabbed one of the pellets, took a sniff, and made a face. "Like this one, you throw this thing in the water, and nobody in there will want to stay for much longer."
Duke hummed, long and deep, while staring at the pellet with squinted eyes, "Acid?"
Tim took another sniff. "Close. It's made out of concentrated vinegar."
"For Ratcatcher, you think?" Duke asked, glancing at the rest of the small items.
"Eh, maybe. But most likely they are backup tools for when opportunities narrow."
Even with Tim's theory making somewhat sense, the amount of gadgets remained lackluster. Nothing as interesting as the suit itself.
"Seems likely, yeah. I think Wayne boy here prefers tools that enhance his own skills and body, rather than anything else." Duke continued, "The pellets are just quick shit to throw to, maybe, keep the fight fair."
"Crowd-control," Tim snapped his fingers, "fits also with what you said. He's built on compromises. So what does that tell us?"
The footage of the basement, captured by Nightwing's mask, played on a nearby screen, muted after Penguin's screeching grew incessant after looping a couple of times.
"Does it explain that?" Duke chuckled, haphazardly waving at the screen. He was clearly still miffed about the guy who started all this wreckage in his neighborhood. "The suit is one big gadget, sure, but his arsenal still consists mostly of blades. Isn't that... inherently lethal?" He crossed his arms, trying to cover as many angles as possible and fill in the missing puzzle pieces.
"Well," Tim thought about it, "batarangs are all blades too. It's just a matter of how to use them." He glanced at the cape once more, his eyes naturally drifting to it just to admire the design anew.
He simply found it so cool. It made him feel like a little kid discovering Batman and Robin all over again.
"His arsenal is generally primitive," Tim continued, "but it's leagues above what Bruce ever achieved during his first year in terms of creativity. Again, innovative."
"It doesn't strike you as paranoid?" Duke questioned, lifting the bat-axe again for another inspection. Tim shook his head before thinking it over.
'I wage war,' is what Wayne told him that night. Wasn't that enough of a revelation? What more investigation did they really need to do, when Tim felt like they knew enough?
It's all just so... Bruce. The most raw, undefined version of Bruce there could be.
He chastised them over Roman Sionis, even while freezing in those sewers. His first worry and the cause of his fears while stuck down there were not for himself, but at the idea of his city's threats coming back.
That in of itself gave enough of an answer to Wayne's experience level. The guy sounded aghast at the idea of past threats returning. It almost made Tim wince. Very new, then.
"It wouldn't be Bruce if he wasn't paranoid," Tim eventually answered, even though the answer felt unsatisfying. "All of... this," he made a vague gesture at the entirety of the suit, "looks crazy. But we don't know anything about his Gotham, or what happened to him. All we've been given is the aftermath of whatever he's been through before he ended up here."
Neither spoke for a little while, letting their brains tinker with the details.
"There is the big, massive elephant in the room." Duke spoke, finger tapping the screen to pause the exact moment Copybat threw the bleeding Penguin toward Nightwing, "this still doesn't make sense. Maybe if we... figure it out, it might tell us more."
"He claimed that Ozzie wasn't Ozzie," Tim said plainly, "though he seemed angrier at the fact Penguin knew the name Oswald Cobblepot."
"Then cut his hand off. Admittedly not the worst thing that had happened to that greasy idiot."
"What could possibly be worse?"
"Penguin would have willingly cut his own hand off if it meant never dealing with Jason ever again."
Tim's lips twitched. "Fair." He said at that, before clapping his hands together obnoxiously. "So that's our conclusion? He really hates identity theft?"
The goal in making Duke laugh succeeded. As he placed the axe back in place, Duke gave another thoughtful hum. "We're definitely missing something," he spoke, running his fingers alongside the jagged edges of the axe. "If there's one thing these tools can tell us, it's their history. Many of the blades are worn down and need repair or replacement. The fact that they aren't probably means they're precious enough that Wayne can't afford to do so. Moreover, the suit looks to have been broken and repaired, broken and repaired, and so on and so forth. The bat-claws show similar damage. And the axe, it has been through the wringer."
"None of that is exactly conclusive," Tim tilts his head, "I feel like we're running laps, getting nowhere until the guy wakes up. Besides, trying to piece all of this together makes me feel sort of like a creep. I mean, we haven't even washed the suit for him," Tim complained, "although maybe that would be creepier..."
"We became vigilantes because we're so nosy," Duke corrected him.
"Yeeeaaaahhh, but by then Bruce was used to nosy teens up on his business. Wayne is... clearly not, by own-self admission."
A Batman with no Robins. That did not feel like the rawest version of Batman either. Tim could taste the contradiction on his tongue. His attempts to get answers out of Wayne back in those sewers had not been the most optimal in the long run either.
"And by self-admission as well, we know he works together with Alfred, who he calls Pennyworth, and Barbara, who he refers to as Gordon, who is a cop." Tim resumes.
"Very formal," Duke notes.
"Very," Tim agrees, "it sounds lonely. Is that the factor we're missing? That this is a lonely Batman?"
But Duke interrupts Tim's train of thought, pointing back at the footage, still looping. "What matters is his reaction to Penguin's name." Duke concludes, "Don't stray away now. It's our one connection to his Gotham; everything else can be built up from that basis."
Their dialogue advanced no faster than a turtle's pace. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, again and again. Despite being here in search of answers, it felt like they were running in circles instead, chasing some elusive finish line that was always out of reach. While Tim's frustrations grew into a skin-deep itch, running a hand through his hair in a motion as frantic as it looked exhausting, Duke looked up into the bright white headlights.
Then, as if a stroke of luck, inspiration struck. For a moment, the footage screen flickered in a series of glitches before shutting down entirely. The room fell silent, Tim about to turn to Duke and tell him to control his powers when Duke snapped his fingers.
"Oswald Cobblepot!" He said, the burst of energy almost surprising Tim. He kept looking at Duke's hand, processing what the boy just said, trying to get hit by the apparent clarity that hit Duke. "Wayne wasn't formal mentioning him, not once!"
The revelation hung in the air, tantalizing and sweet. While Duke could clearly taste it on the tip of his tongue, Tim hadn't. Or perhaps it did, and it tasted too strange for him to consider. That is what Duke considered the taste of victory.
Somehow, everything led back to the beginning, back to that initial confrontation with Dick, inside Penguin's basement.
While Duke's excitement bubbled, waiting for Tim to catch on, Tim regarded him as if Duke was aiming for the moon. "What you're implying is a massive reach," he countered.
"''Where did you learn that name? That ain't your name,'" Duke repeated the footage almost verbatim, following the script of the footage now no longer looping. "Then he turned to Nightwing and asked him to explain. That's defensive. That's protective. That's the tone Bruce uses for us, defending us."
"Okay but how the hell would Penguin be his friend?" Tim frowned, giving up on fixing the screen with his attention divided. "He mentioned Roman by name too. I don't see how that connects to anything either."
For that, Tim received a good-natured eyeroll. Duke seemed locked and convinced of his theory. "Except for the fact Wayne said Black Mask's name with utter hatred. Nothing to do with the Oswald situation." He refuted.
"Nothing to do with it, fine, sure, let's go with that," Tim sighed, because at some point they needed to actually go somewhere. And although Duke's hypothesis seemed like a reach for him, Tim decided to give it a try. "So Oswald is his friend, back in his dimension. That correlates with his behavior in the basement, somewhat."
Duke nodded, encouraging.
Tim gave that thought another round in his head, trying to decipher how it tasted. It was not anything he would have come up with himself, and maybe that was the point. To twist the mirror, so to say, and not expect a clear reflection.
"A Bruce Wayne who grew up poor, who, not only witnessed his parents' death, but then also had to deal with growing up in East End of all places. Amongst all of those differences, he's also friends with a rogue." Tim summarized what he understood as Duke's theory. Given Duke gave a nod of agreement, it meant he was on the right track here. "But not Roman. Roman is still an a-hole."
"Roman is a rich a-hole," Duke interjected, "and Wayne doesn't exactly like rich people."
That felt like an understatement. Despite their few interactions, there was a curious depth when it came to Wayne's visible disdain for the rich. Not like that was a sentiment hard to grasp for anybody who lives in Gotham, especially those raised in places near Crime Alley, but Wayne's aversion felt unique nonetheless. Tim hoped it didn't connect back to those surgical scars.
"... but he's friends with Ozzie. Oswald Cobblepot — the insane, bird-themed crimelord? One of thee rich a-holes from the Cobblepot family? One of Gotham's founding families?" Tim's furrowed in confusion, trying to make sense of it.
"If Wayne is poor, it stands to reason that his family surely was too. Then we can assume the same from his Ozzie."
"... Inversion?" Tim lifted his head. He spoke before thinking, his eyes locking with Duke's. Finally, a strange taste filled his mouth. "Is Wayne's dimension an inversion? Is that... what we're dealing with?"
That made sense. Saying it out loud, it truly felt like the eureka they had been trying to find. But the weight of the revelation pressed down on him like lead in water. He needed to sit down.
Somehow, this conclusion felt right. Duke solved it. An inversion of everything they knew could be the only way to describe Wayne's otherwise erratic and strange behavior so far.
But what that implied for Wayne himself... There was nothing euphoric about that discovery. It only made Tim feel sick, nauseated by its implications.
Not only what the guy must already have gone through in his own world, but beyond the shit they put him through, the fact that Wayne hadn't freaked out further, and didn't hate their very guts spoke of the guy's inherent nature. Although, maybe he'll wake up hating them and wanting nothing to do with them, which would be a very fair assessment.
"His Gotham must be a loony bin," Tim muttered, visualizing for some reason an upside down Gotham, then a Gotham on fire, then as the no man's land it became after the cataclysm. "Or maybe it's... normal-er? If he is.. friendly with Oswald, then his rogues must- god, I don't know. I just- I have so many questions."
No response. Duke remained quiet, allowing Tim to sort his thoughts aloud while he thought them over himself.
"A young, reversed Batman," Tim continued, "with nothing in common with our Batman except for that raw driving need to wage war against crime. That's familiar. Familiar territory, yes. But that's it. No. No, wait. Hell, not even— Not even a young, angry Batman would cut off someone's hand. Or wield a damn axe."
"Tim, you're spiraling," Duke frowned, placing his hand on Tim's very stiff shoulder. "Sidestep the big picture. We need to get the story straight first before overthinking the details."
"But he says he wages war," Tim insisted, hissing louder like a screeching kettle, "I don't know how much more violent you can describe it."
"Well," Duke conceded, taking his time to gather the right words, "he never said he liked it."
At that moment, all Tim can do is give an incredulous blink.
"We've both done things we felt obligated to do. Out of duty, for the city, for our families. Who says it's not the same for him? Who says that he enjoys what he is doing? What he’s done?"
Neither does their Bruce. It's not enjoyment, not really. But Tim witnessed that needless violence and—
"I assumed."
"We all did."