Away from the busier streets, the sides of his sneakers scrape against the granite ledge, feet dangling into the empty air. He doesn't meditate often anymore; this is as close as he gets, sitting stories upon stories high, lost in the buildings and skyscrapers of Gotham.
Probably one shouldn't drink a pineapple shake while pseudo-meditating, but Jason's not the type to let that kind of guideline bother him. Besides, if anybody else is up here, it'll let them know immediately that he's not a jumper.
He shouldn't be here, because being discovered by the wrong people will kind of ruin all his plans, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. It's enough to sit quietly, hood up, slumped, taking occasional sips from the straw. It's a little like being home, though that concept is confused and he doesn't want to think about it too hard right now. There's nowhere to go and nothing to do and this is exactly what he wants to feel.
The scene is a hotel lobby dining room. The hotel decor looks like it was once in style, back in the 1970s. The room is outfitted with wood paneling on the walls and everything from the chairs to the tables to the floor is decorated in hues of orange, brown and green It's a step up from a Motel 5, but not by much. There are a few people in the room: a tired-looking waitress, an old man sitting at the bar and three hungover frat boys eating the all-day breakfast.
Mia Dearden is slouching in a plush orange chair, her feet up on the adjacent chair. She's playing with toothpicks, and rubber bands that, up until a few minutes ago, held the napkins and utensils together. She's seated next to a table with several chairs and just a few feet from her are two wall-mounted TVs. She places a TV remote down on the table and lazily rolls her head to the side.
"This is boooooring, there's no cable in this piece of junk hotel. Let's play a game, like Hangman or 21 Questions or something. Or you could just talk to me or tell me something, like what you ate this morning or something you'd never tell anyone else or whatever."
Consider this proposition: If there is a restaurant at the end of the universe, there must be a bar. For all sentient creatures, be they human or Martian or Kryptonian or insert-something-here-ian, require alcohol when they are full.
Welcome to the Bar At the End of the Universe. Location: Between. Please do not try sending post here. The bartender is a tentacle monster and his favourite food is postmen. He finds their little white hats absolutely delicious.
And there is a Bruce Wayne, long sleeves and slacks, lounging at the counter, a drink in his hand. Is it alcoholic? Is it not? Who cares?
Come greet him. Or mingle amongst yourselves. Anything you wish.
Just don't make the bouncer throw you out.
People everywhere. People as far as the eye could see, and then some. People for whom Jason feels the term 'people' may be questionable.
The only good part is that no one so much as blinks when he punches the mime that had started following him around and stuffs him in a trashcan. He's not sure exactly how he ended up in a fucking space-time terminal, but location doesn't matter; mimes aren't people. All the signs and pamphlets assure him he will find his way home eventually, and sure enough, everyone here who isn't acting lost acts like they know exactly where they're going they walk, they fly, they use golf carts and take monorails and use booths that must be either for teleportation or suicide judging by the way people go in and don't come out. So far, he's declined to use the giant hamster tube things. It just doesn't seem right.
The free piña coladas make him suspicious, but what the fuck. He's not going anywhere until he figures out the designation for his home universe, so here he is, sitting in the wide open forum area on a couch and paging through the communicator index, the still wiggling legs of the mime who accosted him sticking out of a nearby trashcan.