inbox (etraya)
UN: Bruce T. Wayne ceo | UN: Batman
[ Text ] [ audio ] [ video ] [ Action ]
[ Text ] [ audio ] [ video ] [ Action ]
Just specify which account you’re messaging
(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. ]
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. ]
Strictly Business (for prettyredbird)
[ When the drugs wear off, Bruce would be able to pinpoint exactly where his plans had gone awry. He's meticulous and precise and careful when it came to planning such large scale operations. There would never be room for error or miscalculation. He couldn't afford it if he was going to end Black Mask's trafficking ring.
Problem was, there had been a miscalculation. A grave one. A variable Bruce had been unable to account for and did not have the time to adapt to. That's how Bruce Wayne, who once might have been considered a respectable client here, was next up on the auction block, hands bound up tight behind him. The drugs were powerful, but Bruce was somehow still lucid enough to realize something wasn't right and if he wasn't bound good and tight, he'd have put up a decent enough fight. Roman Sionis couldn't have that. He's strong, all muscle and tall. He's handsome too. That makes him an easy product to push. Makes the prices jump considerably. They'd make a fortune.
It's hard to think through this fog. Hard to pin down where he is in relation to everyone else. Hard to know how exactly he was going to get out of this when his arms and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
Around him, he can hear shouting. Numbers. Bids rising higher and higher. Money he would have gladly parted with himself if he could bring himself to say something. His tongue felt heavy, unwieldy in his mouth. So he doesn't say anything at all. He just looks out at the crowd vying for him. Through the fog, Bruce reaches for clarity, clings to it wherever he can find it. Behind him, he tests the restraints. He's not strong enough to try that yet. But soon.
He only needed a few more minutes. Just a few more and this would all be over. ]
Problem was, there had been a miscalculation. A grave one. A variable Bruce had been unable to account for and did not have the time to adapt to. That's how Bruce Wayne, who once might have been considered a respectable client here, was next up on the auction block, hands bound up tight behind him. The drugs were powerful, but Bruce was somehow still lucid enough to realize something wasn't right and if he wasn't bound good and tight, he'd have put up a decent enough fight. Roman Sionis couldn't have that. He's strong, all muscle and tall. He's handsome too. That makes him an easy product to push. Makes the prices jump considerably. They'd make a fortune.
It's hard to think through this fog. Hard to pin down where he is in relation to everyone else. Hard to know how exactly he was going to get out of this when his arms and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
Around him, he can hear shouting. Numbers. Bids rising higher and higher. Money he would have gladly parted with himself if he could bring himself to say something. His tongue felt heavy, unwieldy in his mouth. So he doesn't say anything at all. He just looks out at the crowd vying for him. Through the fog, Bruce reaches for clarity, clings to it wherever he can find it. Behind him, he tests the restraints. He's not strong enough to try that yet. But soon.
He only needed a few more minutes. Just a few more and this would all be over. ]
hmd
 |
| How's My Driving? |
Do you have feedback or critique on how I play Bruce? This is the place to give it! Also if you could provide links to examples with any critique, that would be excellent, since it'll help me identify (and improve!) the issue. ANON: ONIf you'd like to talk in slightly easier but still private way, you can send a PM! |
