"I'm going to buy out all his holdings as soon as they declare him dead, in theory that'll include the land," Bruce says, an uninteresting fact. "I could have ten years ago, but he wouldn't sign over complete control, and." He shrugs. "Mobsters." A sudden shift, then, his tone moving over to someone griping about spots scores: "I can't believe how long it's taking to confirm he died. It's obvious what went on, what are they going to do, sift out an eyeball from the Atlantic."

Grumble. Picking between a postcard with a stylized collage cut-out of Gotham Aquarium!, and some sharks. He ends up choosing the former, since it looks more kitschy and vintage. The sharks he will save for the fridge.

Breath in, half-sigh out; barely audible for a human over the hum of asphalt beneath wheels.

"My kid." He writes Richard Grayson into the addressee line, fills out a label for a condo in Blüdhaven, New Jersey.

It'll end up in the trash, but, you know.

Doesn't voice that. Taps the end of the pen on the slip of cardstock, finally decides on 'Couldn't help remembering. - B' He doesn't need to leave a name, or even the initial; Dick will recognzie his handwriting and understand the reference, but it feels slightly creepy to not add it. Clicks the end of the pen. Done writing.