He takes a hesitant step forward, and looks back inside. It's weird. He doesn't look much different from the neck up - a few more lines, a touch of grey at the temples. But he's walking to a table, and Bruce can't help but think he's moving like an old man. There's a pronounced stoop, like he can't straighten his back. His limp is so obvious, it's like one leg's shorter than the other. And though his shoulders are still broad and strong, he looks much thinner. His brain tells him it makes sense - if he's injured, and can't work out, he'd obviously lose muscle. But it's a shock to see.

He swallows hard, and heads for the door. He tells himself it's fine - if he's here, maybe Gotham's fixed. Maybe he chose this because the place didn't need him any more. It's easier to consider than the idea of injury, and incapability.

There's a walking stick inside the door, obviously for outdoor use. In the living room, another one; he assumes that's for inside, given how close by it's kept. His older self sits with a sandwich on the table, reading a book. He's wearing glasses. There's no TV. No radio, nothing that looks technological. It might all be hidden away, of course - it would fit his M.O. But he has an uneasy feeling that this really is it.

He turns to the ghost, and opens his mouth to ask a question. And then shuts it, because what's the point? He turns back to watch himself pull a bottle of pills from a pocket, and swallow three.

So. Middle-aged, alone, away from Gotham. And fast headed towards a wheelchair, by the look of things. This is what being Batman gets him?



After a long silence, he asks the question anyway.

'This is written in stone? Or can I change it?'