After hearing the abridged story, Bruce leaned back against the rear seat and fell silent.
He had to admit that, much of the time, it wasn't irredeemable criminals who shook his resolve, but people like William, caught between black and white.
William had killed a guilty man who was certain to escape legal judgment, and Bruce didn't even know what grounds he had to intervene.
Bundle the three officers together and dump them outside the Police Station along with the evidence?
If he still considered himself nothing more than an avenger, he shouldn't get involved-aside from their more extreme methods, they were really no different from him.
"Then let's get back to the subject. What's this 'curse' you mentioned all about?"
"You don't need to know about this."
"Oh, fucking brilliant, buddy. You trick me into spilling everything, then play the aloof badass when it's your turn?"
Bruce turned to look out the window.
He wasn't putting on an act. The problem was that much of it involved legends and notes from the basement. The family curse was intertwined with the origins and history of the Court of Owls, and there were almost no factual records.
Bruce was extraordinarily meticulous. Without solid evidence, he neither wanted nor felt able to spread fear to someone who was bound to be powerless to help.
"Master Wayne, perhaps William really can help."
"Alfred, I understand your relationship with him. I can tolerate you seeking help without my approval, but you can't disregard the facts. We both have to admit that William can't help with this."
"Did Deathstroke help you, then?" William's question sounded brimming with confidence.
He knew perfectly well that if Deathstroke had made things worse, Bruce would never have spoken to him so gently.
"To be precise, he saved my life.