theknightshift | (no subject)

[ 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. ]

Threaded | Flat

[ The problem with fighting a war on two fronts — or dozens, depending on how anyone cared to categorize the various factions at play — is that there's often no clear lines drawn in battle, relative threat levels can change in seconds, and he's always running on a razor-thin line, dodging just as many attacks as he deals out, if not more. So it's no surprise that he didn't withdraw unscathed either, if he wasn't maybe he wouldn't have needed to make another shot at all, one could have been enough, and on top of that inconvenience is the weight of exhaustion bearing down on his shoulders, threatening to drag his body down more than gravity ever has. He may be operating at near-meta levels but he has his limits, and he's feeling several of them now.

Then there's the fact that he was closer to him today than he's been in years, and that's compromised him more than he would care to admit. Not enough to make him pull the shot, or enough to stall a pursuit that he would have made otherwise, but it's there. Feelings, memories, things that he's pushed so far down, with such determination, that they never should have seen the light of day again.

While it's a challenge to pick out the sound of a figure gliding through the city sky at night, with a backdrop of traffic and sirens and gusting wind that took up the space, Batman lands like a ton of bricks. Always has. He's stronger, still, though not by much, but not as flexible, especially with that bullet digging into his side.

He could retreat. Circle back when he's ready for this kind of fight.
Or he can stay, see if Batman will let his guard down.

Talk? He'd rather not. He gives cold, distant silence due consideration, leaning back against the heavy metal door to the roof that's providing him cover, before ultimately deciding that no, if he doesn't engage then this will just spiral into a physical confrontation before he's prepared to finish one. Especially since it could end with him unconscious and locked up somewhere. ]

Does it matter?