"Hey. Hey, you there?" Jason speaks into his walkie-talkie. He looks out at the fading sun, admiring how the light filters through the treeline, absentmindedly scribbling a poem about it in his journal as he waited for his inevitable response. "I swear if you lost this thing again."

He doesn't need to address anybody particular. Over the comms, it was just him and another soul.

He meant to take the fire watching summer gig to get away from Gotham, and from people in general. The Pit was at an all-time low, and he found that he remarkably loved the solitude one had in a tower surrounded by trees. No one knew him here. He was just Jason. Lookout on Tower Seven.

He couldn't help talking to his distant neighbor, though. The person in the lookout tower a few miles from him. Rather, they couldn't stop talking to him. He was pretty sure chatter was supposed to be kept to a minimum, but Jason stayed vigilant and his radio buddy wouldn't be stopped by rain or shine to talk his ear off.

Jason liked them. He wouldn't say it, but he liked them. The large windows staved his claustrophobia off, but listening to their voice at night as they rambled about whatever helped him remember that there was no coffin, and that someone could hear him. Someone was listening.

So, he always talked back; his way of paying back the favor they didn't know they were lending. Loneliness could go both ways.

"Sun's pretty. You better be looking," he murmured.