[…] “What,” Bruce grits out from between clenched teeth, knuckles white where he’s gripping the edge of the table, “are you saying?”
“It’s-,” a deep breath, the click of keys “The results came back positive. It was Jason.”
Bruce’s world narrows down to those three words, damning and final. It was Jason.
But perhaps this is just another nightmare. Surely, it must be. Jason wouldn’t- he’s not- Barbara must have made a mistake. Jason had been trained by the League, he’s too good— he’s fine. This is just an elaborate ruse. A plan he hadn’t deigned to include the Bats in. It must be.
“-uce?”
“How,” he demands, willing his voice not to crack.
There’s a hesitant pause. “Detonators. In his helmet.”
“Father, I demand to know what is happening! Has Barbara threatened you?”
Detonators. Detonators. In- in his, “Helmet?” His voice sounds strange in his own ears, like sandpaper and chalk.
“Grayson! Get down here! I suspect we might be under attack! Has Drake done something foolish again?”
“Yes,” Barbara says quietly, and Bruce closes his eyes against the onslaught of a yawning abyss opening and screaming in his chest cavity. “They were linked directly to-“ a deep breath, “there’s no doubt he installed them himself.”
“Dami, it’s three in the morning, you’ll wake up Alfred, please stop— B? Are you alright?”
There’s no air in the room. There’s no goddamn air. […]
