He didn’t turn to the screens. He didn’t want to look to the aftermath of another one of the Joker’s demented games, played at the cost of somebody’s life and another person’s sanity. Terry was there, watching and unresponsive. He didn’t think he heard him, despite the commotion that he’d caused trying to get to him. His boots had been silent when they’d hit the floor, but this time he made noise, more noise, more ruckus that hinted at life.
It had been too long, nearly two weeks. Too much of a bad thing destroyed people. It broke spirits and shattered emotions. It came down hard and unyielding and the Joker’s presence wouldn’t soften the consequences. It could only make them worse.
Terry hadn’t been ready for what had found him. Bruce had tried to keep him away from it and he’d failed at that, miserably, terribly. There were long, drawn out pockets of time when he’d feared that his new ward was going to end up like Rachel or Harvey, or Jason, beaten to death with a crowbar.
So he looked harder and talked more, gained eyes who could see when he was away and unable to see for himself. That got him here, in a basement inhabited by a tortured teenager and lit up screens of destruction and dying voices. He threw his grappling hook at those and tore out the fronts, wires and all, effectively silencing the chaos that Terry hadn’t turned away from.