“We will be climbing down and then up,” Damian decides, given the evidence.
“No, Damian,” she says, and starts off walking, forcing him to come after her as the rope tugs taut. He chews on his lip behind his gator, cringing and trapped by his mistake. Survivalist exercise? Or maybe navigation? Some sort of test? He can’t afford to be wrong again.
“There shouldn’t be any crevasses,” Ommi says into the silence, “but if I start to fall, cut your rope immediately. Understood?”
“Then I can’t stop your fall,” he argues. She gives him a look, just the briefest glance over her shoulder. “Understood.” They crunch on for a minute. “I could rescue you, Ommi.”
“No.” The word clouds the air, just briefly. “You will preserve your own life only. You should think of saving your breath, it’s a long way down.”
That’s not an order, however, so he’s free to push. “We are leaving the compound.” She doesn’t reply. Damian squirms for a moment, trying to find a way to ask that requires no question at all. “We have a destination already in mind.”
“Yes,” Ommi says, finally. “Gotham.”
Talia, Damian, and leaving the devil you know, the hell you've built, the life you've made your own.
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