Blake's finished work is placed back where the mortar had come from, leaving the ingredients in order to better observe the tubes and flames. He moves around, from one side of the Witcher to the other, a meandering pace that would be better controlled with a string of tasks to keep his curiosity and hands at bay.
He debates on his answer, uncertain what to say. He could say nothing at all — Geralt would respect it — but that's a shitty response after everything that's been done for him. Still, the story is somehow both remarkable and mundane, hardly forced warfare and magical destinies, but nothing akin to a lackluster life.
"For a while, it was law enforcement," Blake finally responds, haltingly. "Think... small cog in a massive machine. Thousands servin' millions." As one of the largest cities on the eastern seaboard, Gotham requires no less than thirty thousand cops at the best of times. "But — (and maybe it's not like this where you come from) — but what I saw behind the curtains of that political production didn't sit right with me."
Blake lifts a jar to the light, peering into its contents. They're wings, he thinks. Paper-thin, with falanges, they ironically remind him of bats from home were they to have fine decorations like a moth or butterfly. When he sets them down, the powder from the wings fluoresces as it drifts gently to the bottom.
"Quittin' wasn't hard. Some stuff happened," the young man says, a halting tone belying his tendency to minimize the severity of nearly everything relating to his life. It's a real fucking problem.
"Group of para-military terrorists took over. Laid siege to the city, cut us off, starved us, kept us scared. Spent five months workin' undercover 'cause any cop they found on the street was culled.
"They wanted us to eat ourselves alive and we almost did," he admits, softly. And the worst part is that it's not even the first or second time it's happened, albeit every time in massively different ways. As if Gotham must be constantly tested for its loyalty to itself, Blake has lived through Ra's, Scarecrow, Dent, Joker, Talia, and Bane. And that's in the last decade, not mentioning his youth at all. "We saved the city in the end, or well, we— we stopped the terrorists, but it's hard to know what's gonna come next."
A nuclear explosion, a physically and emotionally fraught city, a crumpled infrastructure, not to mention billions in repairs: Nothing but uncertainty in that.
And where is Blake? Hiding in the cellar presumably light years away behind the deadliest person he can find that still possesses the necessary moral fiber to do the right thing. That is why Geralt is so often Blake's choice in his time of need, and while he feels guilty for being able to give nothing in return, the slow application of pressure to Blake's steadfast being is squeezing him to death.
He's used to being alone, but he's also used to being of service and having a purpose. Being here, he never hoped to avoid a new purpose, either. Abraxas had other plans, though, and try as he might, it's been difficult for Blake to deny the karmic implications. Many of his colleagues, including his old partner, Ross, died below ground, half-starved and sick, if not injured from explosions or other action. He'd touched that fear and suffering for a fraction of the time; in a year he hadn't healed nearly enough to consider himself capable of maintaining, let-alone helping others. When he'd come to visit Geralt in jail, it had been a cry for help in many ways, and it wasn't even asked for the sake of himself, at least not beyond the relief of knowing if he happened to fail — a very real possibility — someone else would know where and how to pick up.
He leans back against the table, arms crossing. There's a bookcase that draws his eye, but he's staring right through the spines. It feels like this is the most of consequence he's said to anyone in a long time and the more he admits, the harder it becomes to keep going.
"Already told you 'bout the kids—" His orphanage of sixty-five, and the foundation trying to serve one-point-five million at-risk kids (and so many more to still come through the system post-disaster), both represent only a portion of his focus upon returning. What he doesn't say, especially about the lasting legacy placed into his hands — the responsibility held firmly beneath that cape and cowl — is that it's only for him, and destined to be a thankless, brutal, lonely endeavor. Even if he does everything right, with access to every dollar necessary to back him, every support member in the know, the only guarantee seems to be that he'll be at least as broken as Bruce was after a decade, except with none of the benefits of the rigorous and precise training of his predecessor.
It's basically a death sentence. Or a suicide mission, depending on how you look at it.
What little relaxing he'd done in the tub will be quickly undone with this line of thinking. It drives him inward, much like this storm, but there's no shelter there from being whipped back and forth. Blake hates the sense of it, both dizzying and obstructive.
"No pressure," he muses with a quiet laugh, squeezing at the nape of his neck.
no subject
He debates on his answer, uncertain what to say. He could say nothing at all — Geralt would respect it — but that's a shitty response after everything that's been done for him. Still, the story is somehow both remarkable and mundane, hardly forced warfare and magical destinies, but nothing akin to a lackluster life.
"For a while, it was law enforcement," Blake finally responds, haltingly. "Think... small cog in a massive machine. Thousands servin' millions." As one of the largest cities on the eastern seaboard, Gotham requires no less than thirty thousand cops at the best of times. "But — (and maybe it's not like this where you come from) — but what I saw behind the curtains of that political production didn't sit right with me."
Blake lifts a jar to the light, peering into its contents. They're wings, he thinks. Paper-thin, with falanges, they ironically remind him of bats from home were they to have fine decorations like a moth or butterfly. When he sets them down, the powder from the wings fluoresces as it drifts gently to the bottom.
"Quittin' wasn't hard. Some stuff happened," the young man says, a halting tone belying his tendency to minimize the severity of nearly everything relating to his life. It's a real fucking problem.
"Group of para-military terrorists took over. Laid siege to the city, cut us off, starved us, kept us scared. Spent five months workin' undercover 'cause any cop they found on the street was culled.
"They wanted us to eat ourselves alive and we almost did," he admits, softly. And the worst part is that it's not even the first or second time it's happened, albeit every time in massively different ways. As if Gotham must be constantly tested for its loyalty to itself, Blake has lived through Ra's, Scarecrow, Dent, Joker, Talia, and Bane. And that's in the last decade, not mentioning his youth at all. "We saved the city in the end, or well, we— we stopped the terrorists, but it's hard to know what's gonna come next."
A nuclear explosion, a physically and emotionally fraught city, a crumpled infrastructure, not to mention billions in repairs: Nothing but uncertainty in that.
And where is Blake? Hiding in the cellar presumably light years away behind the deadliest person he can find that still possesses the necessary moral fiber to do the right thing. That is why Geralt is so often Blake's choice in his time of need, and while he feels guilty for being able to give nothing in return, the slow application of pressure to Blake's steadfast being is squeezing him to death.
He's used to being alone, but he's also used to being of service and having a purpose. Being here, he never hoped to avoid a new purpose, either. Abraxas had other plans, though, and try as he might, it's been difficult for Blake to deny the karmic implications. Many of his colleagues, including his old partner, Ross, died below ground, half-starved and sick, if not injured from explosions or other action. He'd touched that fear and suffering for a fraction of the time; in a year he hadn't healed nearly enough to consider himself capable of maintaining, let-alone helping others. When he'd come to visit Geralt in jail, it had been a cry for help in many ways, and it wasn't even asked for the sake of himself, at least not beyond the relief of knowing if he happened to fail — a very real possibility — someone else would know where and how to pick up.
He leans back against the table, arms crossing. There's a bookcase that draws his eye, but he's staring right through the spines. It feels like this is the most of consequence he's said to anyone in a long time and the more he admits, the harder it becomes to keep going.
"Already told you 'bout the kids—" His orphanage of sixty-five, and the foundation trying to serve one-point-five million at-risk kids (and so many more to still come through the system post-disaster), both represent only a portion of his focus upon returning. What he doesn't say, especially about the lasting legacy placed into his hands — the responsibility held firmly beneath that cape and cowl — is that it's only for him, and destined to be a thankless, brutal, lonely endeavor. Even if he does everything right, with access to every dollar necessary to back him, every support member in the know, the only guarantee seems to be that he'll be at least as broken as Bruce was after a decade, except with none of the benefits of the rigorous and precise training of his predecessor.
It's basically a death sentence. Or a suicide mission, depending on how you look at it.
What little relaxing he'd done in the tub will be quickly undone with this line of thinking. It drives him inward, much like this storm, but there's no shelter there from being whipped back and forth. Blake hates the sense of it, both dizzying and obstructive.
"No pressure," he muses with a quiet laugh, squeezing at the nape of his neck.