returnjourneylogs | (no subject)

Grace's head tilts slightly to the side, as if it ought to be obvious.

"Medical," she says, simply. And then it makes sense, why her clothes cover her completely from neck to fingertips to toes on a fully climate-controlled spaceship with carefully-calibrated and functional life support systems. The only thing visible is the edge of a scar at her collarbone, barely peeking at her neckline-- just the tiniest tip of a surgical line drawn parallel to the bone, an even starker color than her too-pale skin.

"...I think 'physical therapy' is a nice word for 'medically-mandated torture', sometimes," she says with that smile again, and it's beginning to become more clear exactly what it means when she wears it.

Well he fucking figured that one but since she mentioned it he thought maybe there was something else going on!! He should have, he would have normally, but his mind was... not great at the moment. Not very good at thinking.

Still, Jason took a moment or two to really consider it. Especially as Grace continued. Eyes traveled over her before he let out a 'hm' as his body slouched against the wall, fingers clutching the cup. Hm indeed. There's a long period of silence but he isn't sure he wants to bring up the things he was thinking.

"Sucks, man." It comes after some time. "Any kinda authority always thinks they can do whatever the fuck they want."

"It's hard, when you're a kid. Not a lot of choices allowed. Survive or don't, pretty much." A noncommittal shrug, the smile unmoving from her face, practiced. A defense mechanism, lest anyone be made uncomfortable by the reality of her. It's fine, it's fine.

"That's part of the struggle of this place. It takes a lot of choices away from you, as an inmate. But the point is to try to teach you how to make your own better ones. So that when you go back out there, you can do more than just surviving." Grace tugs the hems of her sleeves down over her fingertips-- a subconscious thing, comforting, protective. "That's something the wardens here all have in common. We learned the hard way, and we chose to come here. To help other people. To make their hard ways less hard than ours were."

Maybe it's a rosy view of things, but it's clear it's what she actually believes, at least.

Hold on, this is important. Jason has a lot of opinions on these things. Opinions that changed drastically post-death, but they've been there... lingering. That crowbar just ushered them into the forefront. His fingertips clack down on the cup in a rhythm as thoughts sort into some coherent string. It was admittedly harder than the kid had any desire to admit, but first Todd figures to clear something else up: "You guys get offered something in exchange for your work here, don't pretend this is charity."

Maybe some people don't care about whatever it is they get and want to help but he can't bring himself to believe that helping is an afterthought. Which is fine, they all have their shit they need to take care of. He's just not into sugar coating what's probably a lot more true.

That out of the way, Jason manages to get his head up straight and watch Grace for a moment. "There are no better choices in a place like Gotham," is where he starts, taking time to parce out what it was he actually all wanted to say. "Crime is more complicated than 'this is against the rules and therefore bad'. Systematic oppression creates monsters and then punishes them for it." His entire cadance had changed; eyes still peering at Grace. "And the people that are actually horrific run it all. The only way to clean things up is to burn it to the ground." A sigh escaped him as his body slouches back again, "and it's a lot more merciful than what I used to do."

Grace listens. Patiently. Because it all rings true, and familiar.

"I don't disagree with you. Where I'm from... it's not too different. Institutionalized rot starts from the top and seeps down. Pools at the feet of the people who least deserve it. Poisons everyone who can't afford to get out. That's how it is."

Her head tilts, rests an ear on her shoulder as her dark, wide eyes stare at the wall. Ruminating.

"We operate more like... a surgeon. Cutting out decay piece by piece, stitching together what's left. Healthier, you know? But I see the appeal of blowing it all up and starting over." She grins, again. Wide. "There's people back home who feel that way too. Sometimes worked with them. They can be fun."

This had become far more interesting than he'd expected. His brows ebb inward as thoughts flood to the forefront but Jason's also not sure how much he wants to give away. It's safer to pretend he's still just a snot-nosed street kid.

"Need more coffee," he says abruptly, slowly getting up to his feet. "We're not all bad," comes as a passing comment when his feet shuffle past Grace, a nod of his head inviting her to walk with him.

The question of what redemption means still remains because if she's really from a place similar to him then she knows more than likely anyone else here that this place, far as he can tell, is still upholding the same oppressive systems of control.

Grace uncurls, placing her feet back on the floor and walking off after Jason, as though she hadn't just been sitting in midair. She doesn't need to walk, and in fact shouldn't, given what it does to her back, but not everybody gets to know she can fly. Which, she supposes, makes Jason special, somehow.

How she knew that, or more accurately, why she knew that, is another thing. She just... recognized something in this boy that felt familiar, something that felt like her friends back home. She thought about Ruby, bruised and black-eyed, stitching herself up again and again, not because she didn't trust anyone else, but because she didn't want anyone else to feel imposed on by her own weakness. She thought about Ava, hiding her real feelings under layers of masks-- physical strength, confidence, charisma, beauty-- all a performance so that no one would guess at the turmoil inside and dismiss her capabilities out of hand. Toughness comes in so many shapes, and it is almost always a misdirection, developed to protect an innate vulnerability underneath, one that runs deep and vital, one that can never be cut out, only covered up.

The world is cold, and harsh, and so Grace has always felt that there's a certain bravery in weakness. Maybe Jason has it in him.

"That's true," she agrees, finally. "Many of the inmates here seem to be at least decent people. Just ones who made choices... well, that landed them here."

Those were exactly his type of people. They were. Before Bruce, and he'd left the majority of them thinking he could make a bigger impact. Thinking he mattered to someone in a way they couldn't fulfill, or maybe he was just a fucking idiot. There are a lot of thoughts, actually, that really rush in after death. You know, the should haves. The could haves. Things you'd do if you had a second chance.

Pale blues look over to Grace as they walk down the hall toward the kitchens. He's slow, he's dragging along. Looks about the same as he feels. "People say that like some of us had a choice." Sure, there was technically always a choice, but humans want to servive. They want to thrive. "That's the problem with places like this; its always been the problem with jail back home."

"...After a while you might find there's some ways this place is different than jails back home. That's if your home is anything like mine, and it kind of sounds like it might be."

Her dark, wide stare slides over to meet his-- her eyes are enormous in her stark face, her irises so dark it's hard to tell their actual color, sometimes-- they seem to be in perpetual shadow, less reflective than they ought to be somehow. And it seems like she doesn't blink nearly as much as she should.

She says that like its a comfort, but the truth was even if Gotham was a shitty place it was the devil he knew. He'd operated outside of Gotham before but it just never took for more reasons than one.

"Maybe that's the problem," Jay flicked his gaze up to her, slowly becoming less and less unnerved by the... herness. Honestly, she'd fit in well back home and he thought for a moment to tell Grace a little about it but. There was time for that. "I know those systems," Jason stepped into the mess hall, trudging his way toward the end goal, "but a place pretending it's not like that? Can't help looking for holes, you know?"

"It's understandable. Nobody else trusts anything here either. Probably a good instinct to have. But it's hard to live without trusting something outside of yourself. People go crazy for less!"

She says that like it's a comfort, which. Says a lot about Grace, really. She just follows him into the mess hall, trying not to make direct eye contact with anyone who might be milling about within, but taking note of who else is there. Perceiving, but not being perceived. It's a difficult line to walk. Grace is used to floating above it. That isn't always an option here.

Makes him think of Bruce. A person who trusts nothing and no one. He thought otherwise for a long time. On the surface, it looked like the guy trusted a number of people but he learned. He learned, eventually. If Grayson was right about anything, and Jason really didn't wanna give him any fucking credit for anything, he was right about Bruce. To an extent, at least.

"Hard for other people around you," he corrected but didn't choose to say anything more as he grabbed some coffee and nodded back toward the door. Like her, Jason also did his own sweep of the area. Hold on, he's gonna get a second coffee just in case. "you want one?"

"I'll have one, if you're having another," Grace accepts. The weirdly bitter, unsweetened space-coffee here is barely drinkable to a palette like hers, so used to caramel syrups and whipped cream and other insane additives that make it barely coffee at all. She'd always had a sweet tooth, hence all the baking, but she'd been forced to readjust, here.

About that, and a lot of things. She tries to keep her eyes on Jason, attempting to ignore the feeling of other eyes in the cafeteria crawling on her spine, assessing the new kid, assessing her with him.

"There's always things you can trust about people, though. Personality traits you can identify, patterns of behavior people stick to. When you look close enough." Plenty of people looking closely at people, here.

Welcome to jail life, Grace. Though she's been here longer than he has, Jason had some experience with this kind of thing. It was different, Gotham didn't have Wardens but there were always those inmates who had it in good with some of the staff. It was the smart thing to do, but you don't do it too much-- want the advantages of being friendly but don't want to be a suck-up.

Problem was: he didn't fucking care, and on immediate inspection, even though this was a prison, he didn't... it wasn't like a normal prison. Though they hit that talking point before. He'd fight the whole system still, cause it was some real bullshit, but the cell life? Eh, Jason could afford to be a little more lax.

With coffee in hand, he's more than happy to head back down the hall and out of here. "Sure, it's easy to clock some people. But in places like this everyone has their own MO. Better not to forget that." A moment. "And besides, they bribe warden's to do this work, don't they?"