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The voices close in on him. A guilt that he normally reserves as a drive toward saving lives (you are a hero) and his determination to fight (you shouldn't be acting like this) but this is coming from a gentler place in his mind. Not born of a concrete tragedy that he can pinpoit. This is a cosmic, divine guilt being placed on his shoulders.
Bruce-- no, no no, the voices whisper. Batman. The sinner in the mask. The man in the iron mask. The man in the iron cowl. The man who deserves no name or identity. The man struggles to the surface, gasping for breath. The last of the lunch he had stolen (shouldn't have eaten food, food makes you weak.) becomes the taste of bile and stomach acid leaving his mouth. He deserves this.
The waters of the underworld, this stench of the Styx, finally gives way to the pit of the damned that they had all carried. A few faces he can swear he recognizes. But he can't. Can't associate with these people. They are criminals. They are damned.
But so are you, foul sinner. That is how you ended up here.
No, no. He was-- escaping? This place is wrong. The food-- the food is evil. And yet... He ate the outsider's food and it destroyed him. Both times, he threw it up. That means it's wrong. The only safe food is the one from the Deacon. Only the Deacon can provide. Only the Deacon can save him.
But the Deacon turned his back on him. On The Man that Sits Alone, shivering amongst the dead. Maybe he will die soon. This is his fate. He is in hell. The bodies are filled with water-rot and they slip beneath his boots. Waterlogged skin sloughs off as he tries to climb to a solid perch.
Again the Batman (no! Not the batman! You don't deserve that name!) He hits his head against the wall, trying to remind himself of his place. The Man. If he can even be called a man, the heretic that he is.
_____ curls up in a ball yet again. It is safe, like this. He can conserve energy and he can think, try to plan, to escape. The rational mind, the detective. Detective? No, no no. Wrong word. Defective. Sinner. Betrayer. He went in to the inner sanctum, he went past the curtain and tore the veil. No wonder he is damned.
The water drips. His legs begin to ache from sitting hunched like this. Deserves it. Deserves the pain. Only way to exist here in Hell. The Deacon had told him that hellfire and brimstone and sulphur would swallow the sinners. But here there is only water. There is only water and a smell of death and rot. But there is still plenty of suffering.
He wants to gnaw on his finger again. It is sore, under the glove it is surely red. Hunger, the hunger clawing at his stomach. Bite his finger off? Nourishment? No, no. Pain. But he deserves pain. His jaw clenches and he can't stop it. His hands are chained behind his back. He is like a chid, wanting to chew on his thumb out of nerves and panic. Immature. Unworthy to know the truth. Unworthy to have even seen the light and heard the answer in the first place.
Something splashes, again and again. In the darkness, colors begin to form and play out. (The Prisoner's Cinema, Bruce. It's just a reaction to the darkness--) The colors are the totem speaking to him, reminding him of his place. Reminding him that he deserves to be here. The current makes the bodies under him shift, pulling him deeper in to the pile. Maybe he will be buried in corpses soon. Then he will die. (How can you die if you are in hell, Bruce? Be logical.)
No. Doubt was what got him here in the first place. Doubt is what cursed him, crushed him. He ate the outsider's food. He trusted the outsider's words. He trusted his own mind. Can't do that, can't. Only the Deacon is true. Not even your own mind is real. Your mind is not even in your body right now, it is standing far away and watching you from a distance.
The darkness and the hunger and the smell all make him dissolve, make him wish for any other sensation than the pain and the lack of sight and the sound of rats and the cold water in his boots and the pain of his gunshot wound (you were shot because you ran away from your fate. If they had killed you at least you could have helped the Deacon live on longer, you could have been a martyr. But now you are nothing, and you will die with the rats.)
“What is this? Garbage?” a voice calls out. That is not innacurate. He is. He is a heritic, a blasphemer, a demon, a defiler, a--
“Batman?” A rat squeaks to punctuate the sentence. The voice. He knows the voice. But he knew the faces that he passed on the way in here and that meant that he belonged here. If he puts a face to this voice surely they are both damned. Something in the back of his mind sparks, a soft whisper of a yell, a rush of slow realization. Father. Son. Ally. Jason? Jason. Robin. Help! Help me! Please. I am chained. I am Bruce. I am father. I am Batman. I am hero. I am not guilt and pain and damnation. I am savior and an ever-righteous darkness and the safety in the shadows.
“Can you hear me? Are you there?” Jason asks. Jason! Jason! Jason!
Bruce finally chokes out an answer. “Yes.” The voice is not Batman. Not Bruce. Not even afraid. It is defeat, it is weakness. It is a drugged cry for help. Drugs? Drugs. They fed you drugs. You must-- you have to fight it.
Robin, Jason, Son, is silent as something squishes. The Man of Guilt has grown accustomed to that noise in the last hour he has sat here. The sound of flesh under feet, the sound of water escaping from flesh, squishing like a sponge. “Where are we? What is this place?”
He does not understand. He has not heard the truth. The totem has not given him the word, the revelation. Do you, well, consider yourself religious? It's been said I have a very Old Testament outlook.
Oranges and Lemons say the bells of Saint Clemens. Who copped the clapper? Who copped the clapper? You owe me five farthings, say the bells of Saint Martins.
“Hell. You see, I've been bad. I doubted. This is my punishment.”
“Batman?” Stop calling him that. He is not worthy of any name. Much less the hero's name. Or is it the sinner's name? “What are you being punished for?”
I do not know, says the great bell at Bow. It was wrong, he did know. It was all he had been berating himself for in the last hour, you see? Robin? Do you understand? “Because I didn't keep the faith. I doubted. That was wrong.”More silence, and he wishes that the bells were chiming again. That he could see the sun again. But he does not deserve it. Does not want it. It will weaken him. He has to stay here, underground. Has to stay in hell. Has to be punished.
Robin is more frantic. Son is more frantic. Comfort him. Lead him. “Batman. Keep talking so I can locate you.” Why did it matter? They were both in hell. They were both damned. He had led his own child into damnation. But his son does not know the truth. Was not worthy of the truth. But neither was the man himself.
Robin trips and now it is his son's turn to sound afraid as he shouts in surprise.
“Robin?” Even as the man with no name he knows, he – something inside of him remembers to call his son by their-- aliases? Field names. Personas. Secrets. Yet another reason that he should be damned. He is lying, to the entire world.
“I just stumbled on something. What is this?”
“The damned.” Like him. Like him. The man who broke all the cardinal sins. The only difference is that one of the damned is still breathing. Somehow. But that will be fixed soon. The spirits will see to that.
“Oh my god. My flashlight, where's my flashlight?” More squishing as Robin shuffles his feet, looking for something. The light is blinding. A holy light, a holy fire. Burning him away, burning the man away. He wants to let the light consume him, a holy warmth finally seep into his bones, but reflexes make him close his eyes and turn his head away.
He is damned. He does not deserve the light. But why does Robin have it? Robin has not heard the truth. Robin has not seen the totem, not had it turn it's holy gaze upon him. He has not gone through the trials, the hunger, the-- drugs? Drugs. Bad. Not hell. Yes, hell.
“Welcome to hell.” His voice speaks without him commanding it. Maybe the spirits are working through him. Maybe he is hungry. Maybe he is tired and stressed and injured and relived that Robin is here. Or maybe he is a sinner, a demon hissing and hiding from the light that displays his sins. The fiery sword that cast the first couple from the Garden. He chants it over and over and Robin walks closer, the light in the man's face. It burns, it burns, he has spent too long underground. But he belongs here, underground. What is this light? It is not fire. Not warm. The water, is still cold and he can't feel his legs or his hands or his shoulders.
Robin is looking him over for injuries like he was trained. A careful ally taking care of him. He does not deserve it, he is a sinner. He is in hell. And he has dragged this child down here with him? Robin is breathing shakily, trying to calmly tell Batman-- Bruce! Bruce! We have to get you out of here! Listen to me! Shut up for a second, will ya?
Welcome to hell. Welcome to hell. He will not doubt any more. He will not doubt anymore. This is hell. This is where his doubt, his betrayal has brought him. This is hell, and he is a sinner. This is his lake of fire, his lake of stench and rot and death.
And Robin sits next to him, trying to talk him out of it at first. Logic. Batman. Hero. Stories, of Alfred, of tires, of training and of-- the flashlight bounces as he talks, throwing odd shadows and suddenly in the shadows a woman is hanging, swaying, dead there right in front of him. He reels back and stumbles into the water and Robin tries to catch him but Robin, Robin, Robin is tainted, Robin is not a hero, they are both in hell and they both deserve to be here.
And Robin asks him what is wrong and Batman can only form one name. The name of the woman that drove Robin to kill, and he manages to stop the “Welcome to Hell” chanting long enough to whisper “Gloria” and Robin's grip on his arm tightens but he bites his lip and takes a deep breath and mutters an apology before slapping Bruce hard across the face.