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Bruce raised his hand to his ear, then paused, distantly realizing his cowl had been torn off long before - for CPR, or to beg, or to see his child without the lens, he didn’t remember. He reached instead for the communicator at his belt. Slippery fingers took two tries to press the code.
“Batman!” The voice crackled through the damaged speaker. “Did you make it?” A pause. “Is he - ?”
Bruce lifted his hand to his uncovered face and swiped the back harshly over his eyes. They were left wetter than before. He looked up at the sky, at the sliver of sky visible past the buildings on either side of the alley, looked up at a navy streak that had a red tinge at the edges from his freshly moistened eyelashes.
“Jason,” Bruce said, and it was Bruce’s voice, soft and human, no hint of the Batman’s gravel. “It’s time.” A breath. “Do it. Be our weapon.” His voice narrowed to a whisper, a whisper so full of certainty that it wavered, a whisper that was all Bruce, saying words the Bat could never utter. “Put him down.”