[ Damian doesn't follow, he leads. Or, at least, walks at one's side; with a few quick steps, cape flaring up with the motion, he steps up next to Diarmuid, stuffing another plantain in his mouth (what is even restraint anymore?). ]

I know of him. [ Loftily, mumbled around a mouthful of fried fruit. He can't even bring himself to be surprised this time; of course two Irish legends would be here. ] I'm admittedly not all that familiar with your land's history, but I know his story has many parallels to that of Rostam. A hero from Persian myth. [ He clarifies, after a beat. ] He wouldn't happen to be here, too?

[ Maybe all the dead heroes are here. Maybe he has found himself in the Elysian Fields as a reward for his final act.

But that doesn't explain the robots. Are they alien heroes? Robot alien heroes? Why would aliens be in a human version of heaven?

His contemplation is interrupted by Diarmuid's comment, and he barks out a laugh, half-scoff, half-snort. ]

We fight for real. Red Robin and I have had our moments. [ Just a bit of rambunctiousness. ] The same with Red Hood. Perhaps the only one I haven't come to real blows with is Ba-- Nightwing.

[ Sometimes he still slips up, wants to call Grayson by the title Damian knew him by first.

(We were the best, Richard.) ]

But we do train together, occasionally. Joking, however? [ He thinks on that, lips twisting in mock thoughtfulness, before taking another bite with a snort of dismissal. ] No. I never joke.

[ Absolute lies. ]