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Khoa was across the ocean as soon as possible, which was still too late.
He never made much effort to lie to himself about his surveillance of Bruce. He was self-aware enough to acknowledge that it was probably a bit weird or creepy, but also that Bruce himself certainly knew about it and would’ve come to fight him if it was really such an issue. So maybe his AI tracked Bruce constantly, and if that was the case then once Bruce (that baffling man) started taking in little brats it made perfect sense to include them in his tracking too.
He didn’t monitor these systems every day, because Ghostmaker had significantly more important work to do than stalk his weird ex. However, when he got a notification saying that the youngest brat was caught on camera in Ethiopia, he was swiftly redirecting a significant amount of his technological power to the area. He regretted the lack of prior investment in the region.
Still, the situation became apparent quickly. The boy was not alone, but nor was he accompanied by Bruce. He may have gone of his own free will, but that didn’t mean he was safe, just that he was a stupid child.
Bruce’s plane was just leaving Gotham as Khoa pieced this together, aimed toward Ethiopia. It was unlikely Khoa would get there any faster, or that he’d be any help at all. Still, he got in his own jet and shot toward Africa.
Khoa arrived four minutes after the warehouse burst.
The building was caved in at the center and flaming wildly, but just at the edge of the wreckage was a smudge of black. Being lit from the back hid the already dark details, but Khoa could read the shape. Hunched over, low. Shaking badly enough to be read from so many meters away. There was something in his arms. Colorful, but as Khoa approached, he found more red than anything else.
The sight took him aback. He knew Bruce was different from him in how he felt things—that had always been clear. And yet he was so good at compartmentalizing those sentimental feelings, especially when in his suit. Khoa may know the truth of Bruce as an emotional, irrational man, but there was a reason he was one of few. And yet now Bruce kneeled in the sand, cowl discarded, openly sobbing. No quiet, stoic tears like someone might expect from The Bat, but desperate choked gasps. When Bruce finally looked up to Khoa, tears washed down his face unchecked.
“Khoa?”
He didn’t complain about the use of his name. Even he knew that would be inappropriate.
“Bruce. What happened?” Standing over Bruce was awkward, so he knelt beside him. He inspected what he could of the boy. There was a deep gash across his face and bloody cuts littered along the rest of his body. The end of his life was clearly violent and painful. And sure, he was a stupid child dressing up to fight criminals after school, but a person who would do this to a child of any kind was a person deserving of death.
“Bruce. Who?”
That got Bruce’s attention. For the first time that night Bruce’s eyes flashed into awareness. He gently laid the boy out on the ground, as though he was trying to avoid causing any more pain. Then, slowly, he stood. With the edge of his cape he wiped his face of the rest of his grief.
“The Joker. He must still be around.”
His gaze darted around for a moment then he prowled off in a seemingly random direction. Khoa was not frightened by this sudden change in Bruce’s demeanor. He did, however, jog to block Bruce from moving forward.
He splayed his hand out across the chest of the Batsuit.
“Bruce. Where are you going?”
Bruce’s eyes glowed with anger when he lifted them to glare at Khoa.
“I am going. To kill. The Joker. Now get out of my way.”
He shoved Khoa aside harshly. The type of uncontrolled violence Bruce used to dismiss.
Khoa was not too good for jealousy. He'd spent years trying to convince Bruce of the value of killing. He felt the distrust and resentment from Bruce at every new name on his list. As irrational as it was, something burned in his chest at the realization that this child’s life was worth Bruce’s moral code when he wasn’t. And yet…
He put himself in front of Bruce again.
“Bruce. Listen to me. You’re not thinking straight.”
He lifted a hand to the side of Bruce's face, a mimicry of their old affections. Bruce jerked in surprise as he realized that his head was exposed, that he was too distracted to even remember to re-affix his cowl. His expression flickered for a moment, a twist too complicated for Khoa to decipher. He hastily pulled down his cowl, then growled when Khoa still didn’t move out of his way.
“Are you really going to stop me, Khoa?” This time the use of his name was clearly an intentional dig.
It was a good question, probably. Was this not precisely what he wanted? For Bruce to operate like him?
But this wasn’t the same, he rationalized. This wasn’t Bruce admitting the inherent flaws of his approach and changing his beliefs. This was Bruce, too overcome with grief to care about even his most dearly-held values. And he knew Bruce well enough to know that after, once the guilt came crashing back in, he would not extend to himself any of the kindness he did his rogues. Whatever else he felt for Bruce, he didn’t want to see the man take his own life.
“Yes,” he replied, gently, and Bruce stopped fighting him for a moment. Khoa took the opportunity. “Take the boy. Bring him back home. Lay him to rest. I’ll take care of the Joker.”
Bruce stood there, mouth open. Like he wanted to object but couldn’t find the logic to do so.
“Go,” Khoa prompted, pushing Bruce back slightly with a light shove to the shoulder. Bruce turned and staggered toward his son, still lying bloody on the ground. He nearly collapsed back on top of him in the rush to wrap him in the long black cape of the batsuit.
Distantly, as he headed off to fulfill his promise, Khoa heard the quiet response, hollow and hopeless as it was murmured into a bloody chest.
“Thank you. Thank you, Khoa.”
Yeah. The Joker was going to suffer.