[ Diarmuid will have to do better than that. Damian is fast, too, and possessive of what's his. Without batting an eye, he swaps the prize to his other hand, holding it aloft and out of reach. Biting with faux delicateness into another piece, he takes his own seat on the tabletop, feet resting on the bench. He flips his hood down and shakes his cape back over his shoulders with an uneven shrug. ]

What kind of people would you say tend to come in?

[ All heroes? He wonders, studying the bloodstains on his gloves; some his own, some his brother's.

(Did she even give him a name?) ]

What's love got to do with it? We were brothers in arms. Soldiers. [ A beat. ] Nightwing would care that I'm dead. [ He's not holding his breath for Drake, or Todd. ]

[ He throws a side-eyed stare at Diarmuid, eyebrows raising mockingly. ]

Am I joking?