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May. 9th, 2025 11:19 pm[ Earlier tonight, Bruce took a bullet.
It isn't the first time, though thanks to the suit's fibers, bullets were more of a nuisance than a real threat. And most of the people shooting at him tonight couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. They're more likely to shoot each other than him. But the man who shot Bruce had been...different. He knew where to aim, so his bullet would slip between the narrow gaps of the protective layers of his suit and bury itself deep in his side.
The pain did not hit him right away. It was the first spurts of blood seeping through. Then there's pain, searing and hot, cutting across his chest. Then the air in his lungs seized at the pain and he's forced to his knees because the weight of his body felt unbearable. Bruce stabbed the wound with the He pressed a hand against the floor, the other to his wound, even though the suit had already compressed around it. His vision swam, but were locked on the shooter. Where had he come from? This impossible blur of grey and black, a near perfect camouflage against Gotham's cold, desolate streets. His voice is distorted, warped. But familiar. So familiar Bruce almost called out to him.
Dick?
Dick was dead.
This couldn't be real. It couldn't be.
Someone else must have shot him. Cobblepot or Dent, some thug taking potshots from a rooftop nearby - anyone made more sense than his lost son.
It's by chance he spots his assailant again while he glides across the city, Joker standing perilously close by, circling the man, appraising him. When speaks his laughter echoes.
You know, Bats, he does look awfully familiar doesn't he? Must be that stupid mask. It runs in the family!
Bruce ignores him but lands on the rooftop anyway. He had to know. He had to hear this man speak again. ]
Who are you?
[ Right to business. He's not in the mood for small talk. ]
It isn't the first time, though thanks to the suit's fibers, bullets were more of a nuisance than a real threat. And most of the people shooting at him tonight couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. They're more likely to shoot each other than him. But the man who shot Bruce had been...different. He knew where to aim, so his bullet would slip between the narrow gaps of the protective layers of his suit and bury itself deep in his side.
The pain did not hit him right away. It was the first spurts of blood seeping through. Then there's pain, searing and hot, cutting across his chest. Then the air in his lungs seized at the pain and he's forced to his knees because the weight of his body felt unbearable. Bruce stabbed the wound with the He pressed a hand against the floor, the other to his wound, even though the suit had already compressed around it. His vision swam, but were locked on the shooter. Where had he come from? This impossible blur of grey and black, a near perfect camouflage against Gotham's cold, desolate streets. His voice is distorted, warped. But familiar. So familiar Bruce almost called out to him.
Dick?
Dick was dead.
This couldn't be real. It couldn't be.
Someone else must have shot him. Cobblepot or Dent, some thug taking potshots from a rooftop nearby - anyone made more sense than his lost son.
It's by chance he spots his assailant again while he glides across the city, Joker standing perilously close by, circling the man, appraising him. When speaks his laughter echoes.
You know, Bats, he does look awfully familiar doesn't he? Must be that stupid mask. It runs in the family!
Bruce ignores him but lands on the rooftop anyway. He had to know. He had to hear this man speak again. ]
Who are you?
[ Right to business. He's not in the mood for small talk. ]