[By some miracle, Batman had allowed Richard to stay at the manor. They'd even let him stay in the room next to Damian's, even gotten him his own clothes, just like Damian had said. Sitting in school for hours at a time was something that was not only unappealing, but also dangerous, and Tim had also somehow agreed to teach him. But it was-- hard. Not that he expected it to be easy, and he was a fast learner, but it was frustrating. He'd never been good at reading and writing before, and his written English was sloppy and unused for-- two decades, technically. The only thing that didn't put him at a disadvantage for was math, and that subject clearly wasn't his forte either.
He talked a bit more-- was less and less feeling like he had to wait for permission, though still feared repercussion if he misspoke. After awhile, he'd even gone down to the Batcave to train with Batman (whom he was supposed to call Bruce, but the idea had never really stuck). Trying to teach him more forms of nonlethal combat, temper his current physical language, as if he'd ever it, because the only current threat he was facing was his predecessors and agents of the Court and nonlethal techniques would not be necessary against them.
That was another problem. Old habits died hard. They tried to explain it to him, but he just couldn't understand. Had always been told the Batman's way was pointless and weak, a grab for public approval simply so they wouldn't string him up the moment he appeared. He had killed people that were legitimately doing harm and wrong while he was under the Court's orders, even if they were cruel masters (which was another concept he was trying to come to terms with.) People that the Batman would have taken alive. It was a relief that Damian didn't understand it either, but it was a lot harder for Dick to just go along with it, if he now had the freedom to speak, the freedom to move.
And then there was still the matter of the Court's continued attempts to get him back. They were still attacking the people that had decided to take him away from them; that were trying to be so patient with him, trying to care for him even though they had no reason to, and he knew it must have been hard for them. They were all strong, and dangerously skilled, but the Court had numbers and tenacity, would cross lines they wouldn't cross, and they always got what they wanted. Eventually Richard would be dead for the new Talon's initiation, or he would have to kill the newest one that still had a properly beating heart so he could survive, and there was no guarantee the people that had been so kind to him wouldn't get caught in the crossfire or approve of either plan. No guarantee that his brother-- that Damian wouldn't get caught in the crossfire, because as skilled as he was, no one was impervious, and Richard was scared.
They were strong, but Richard knew enough about calculated risk, and this was one that was just unnecessary. If he wanted to start doing something good, he could start by removing his presence as a threat, so they could live in peace.
It was the beginning of March, before Haly's returned to Gotham, that seemed as fine a time to go as any. Relieve the Waynes of a burden, and avoid the family that had already left him behind. Maybe he'd go find the League of Assassins, like Damian had mentioned-- maybe he'd find his own way of tearing down the Court, to remove the problem. Then maybe he could come back and thank them properly.
Most people would sneak out in the middle of the night, but the night was the most dangerous. So it was the crack of morning, when those on patrol had collapsed to bed, and Alfred could finally join them. Sleeping in the room next to Damian's had once been a blessing but now it was a problem when, with his new winter coat, the escrimas on his waist and a packed up backpack slung over is shoulders, he had to try and sneak back the assassin and his dog's domain. A small chance of success, but even Damian had to sleep sometimes, and there was no point in not trying. With determination, he could outrun him, even if he did get caught, so he departed from his room with light and careful footsteps.
(He thought about leaving a note-- but he still didn't have much confidence in his writing skills. So all he'd done instead was drop the husk of his old, reclaimed Talon mask outside Damian's door, and let the yellow lenses catch the morning sunlight. A symbolic sort of gesture fit him better than trying to articulate-- at once stating the reason he had to go, but assuring that he would never go back to them. And he softly departed the hallway to make his way downstairs.)]
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He talked a bit more-- was less and less feeling like he had to wait for permission, though still feared repercussion if he misspoke. After awhile, he'd even gone down to the Batcave to train with Batman (whom he was supposed to call Bruce, but the idea had never really stuck). Trying to teach him more forms of nonlethal combat, temper his current physical language, as if he'd ever it, because the only current threat he was facing was his predecessors and agents of the Court and nonlethal techniques would not be necessary against them.
That was another problem. Old habits died hard. They tried to explain it to him, but he just couldn't understand. Had always been told the Batman's way was pointless and weak, a grab for public approval simply so they wouldn't string him up the moment he appeared. He had killed people that were legitimately doing harm and wrong while he was under the Court's orders, even if they were cruel masters (which was another concept he was trying to come to terms with.) People that the Batman would have taken alive. It was a relief that Damian didn't understand it either, but it was a lot harder for Dick to just go along with it, if he now had the freedom to speak, the freedom to move.
And then there was still the matter of the Court's continued attempts to get him back. They were still attacking the people that had decided to take him away from them; that were trying to be so patient with him, trying to care for him even though they had no reason to, and he knew it must have been hard for them. They were all strong, and dangerously skilled, but the Court had numbers and tenacity, would cross lines they wouldn't cross, and they always got what they wanted. Eventually Richard would be dead for the new Talon's initiation, or he would have to kill the newest one that still had a properly beating heart so he could survive, and there was no guarantee the people that had been so kind to him wouldn't get caught in the crossfire or approve of either plan. No guarantee that his brother-- that Damian wouldn't get caught in the crossfire, because as skilled as he was, no one was impervious, and Richard was scared.
They were strong, but Richard knew enough about calculated risk, and this was one that was just unnecessary. If he wanted to start doing something good, he could start by removing his presence as a threat, so they could live in peace.
It was the beginning of March, before Haly's returned to Gotham, that seemed as fine a time to go as any. Relieve the Waynes of a burden, and avoid the family that had already left him behind. Maybe he'd go find the League of Assassins, like Damian had mentioned-- maybe he'd find his own way of tearing down the Court, to remove the problem. Then maybe he could come back and thank them properly.
Most people would sneak out in the middle of the night, but the night was the most dangerous. So it was the crack of morning, when those on patrol had collapsed to bed, and Alfred could finally join them. Sleeping in the room next to Damian's had once been a blessing but now it was a problem when, with his new winter coat, the escrimas on his waist and a packed up backpack slung over is shoulders, he had to try and sneak back the assassin and his dog's domain. A small chance of success, but even Damian had to sleep sometimes, and there was no point in not trying. With determination, he could outrun him, even if he did get caught, so he departed from his room with light and careful footsteps.
(He thought about leaving a note-- but he still didn't have much confidence in his writing skills. So all he'd done instead was drop the husk of his old, reclaimed Talon mask outside Damian's door, and let the yellow lenses catch the morning sunlight. A symbolic sort of gesture fit him better than trying to articulate-- at once stating the reason he had to go, but assuring that he would never go back to them. And he softly departed the hallway to make his way downstairs.)]