Re: [quicklog: gotham ground zero]
[He was responsible. He couldn't undo what he had wrought. He could never even atone for it. But, he could help. Duty. His father's word. His mother's too, though she defined it by different parameters. And though Damian Wayne had done what he talked about, sane—taking Gotham and cleansing it of its deep-seated evil via annihilation—he didn't feel as he once imagined he would. There was no pride to it. He didn't feel he had made a good difference in the world or that he had fulfilled some chapter in his destiny. He had reduced a city of millions to dust, concrete and metal beams and the twisted pulp of what remained of citizens, spattering here and there, in chunks and gristle as especially macabre decoration. And all he felt was guilt.
It was suffocating. Certainly it was selfish, but all suffering was. He would drown in it, and though he would deserve it, a better-fitting fate, he... didn't want to. He had become what he intended, so many years ago—what his mother had intended, wanted, and he knew she would be so proud of him. But, he did not want this. He did not want her pride nor her blood. He detested it, even as it nourished his body and moved through his veins, and if he could have emptied it out, into the streets of Gotham, he would have. But he destroyed said streets and everything else. Father was gone. Duty called.
The Tumbler moved through the city with ease, even without those streets, wove through the wreckage, turning on a dime. It purred beneath Damian. And for all the man felt, he was marginally better than earlier, if only physically. Barbara helped too. Food, a bed. He was in his suit too, green boots climbing up his shins and only his cape missing. He thought very briefly on that as he drove, until Barbara's voice in his ear and piped through the Tumbler's impressive, immersive audio system. He pulled to a stop three blocks out from Batgirl, the Fashion District sizable—and very unstable. It was leveled almost completely.—Rescue workers were thin here, the majority of them still extracting people nearer the epicenter.
Damian got out of the vehicle.] I will. [He scratched at the butterfly bandages on the side of his face before he took out his phone and did as he said he would, sending a message through that simply said: We're here. Barbara is looking for your heat signatures.—That was enough information. The girl, Gwen, was intelligent enough to know what she needed to do to make it easier, and, in the mean time, he began prepping the drill.]