└ I'm the hero of this story ┐
Who: Aslan [aslandish] and Batman/Bruce Wayne [kingofrooks]
When: 11 May, really late night. 2am or so?
Where: Sector 7 slums
Summary: I don't need to be saved.
[ The more he stays here the more this place reminds him of Gotham, except it is even more dangerous and its monsters are literal rather than metaphorical. But Bruce deals with them well enough, armed with two knifes, a grapple gun, and the barest necessities that he needs right now. A few batarangs, some rope, bits and pieces that will tide him by until he has enough funds and equipment to possibly replace his equipment. No use spending it all now, not when there's the danger of the Joker and Black Mask stirring up trouble later on.
Not to mention whoever the Core can drag it.
But it has the consequences that he has to fight at closer range and depend far more on his hand-to-hand combat- which isn't the problem. But there's the fact that he's spent months (he isn't sure exactly how many) strapped uselessly to a chair under Desaad's torture, and though suspended animation (or whatever it had been) didn't atrophy his muscles, it did slow his reactions a little.
Or maybe it was the exhaustion that came from the fact that he hadn't had a lot of sleep the past week he's been here. There's simply too much to do, to explore, to know. Information is power, and one truth he spoke as 'Bruce Wayne' is that he despises having idle hands. But- maybe he's pushing it.
There are two young kids behind him. Twins, he thinks he sees their mother in the corner, in a drug haze. In front of him is almost a mob of rope-faced dogs - he'd killed one a few days before, saving a boy from it, and now the thing remembers him even though his uniform lets him practically meld against the Darkness itself. Their ropes shake, one starting towards him and he whirls around, cutting it off in mid-air in one easy stroke- but another one darts under his guard and loops around his wrist. He cuts that off too, and three are coming towards him- down-
He's not exactly ducking. His knees half-gave out and his back doesn't, straight and stiff and he's still covering the children- good. But the dogs are getting closer - he can smell the pungent Darkness on them, thick and noxious - and he knows that if he doesn't drive them off and kill them, they will be doomed. But- his legs aren't cooperatingvery well.
Goddamnit. He needs to- move. ]
When: 11 May, really late night. 2am or so?
Where: Sector 7 slums
Summary: I don't need to be saved.
[ The more he stays here the more this place reminds him of Gotham, except it is even more dangerous and its monsters are literal rather than metaphorical. But Bruce deals with them well enough, armed with two knifes, a grapple gun, and the barest necessities that he needs right now. A few batarangs, some rope, bits and pieces that will tide him by until he has enough funds and equipment to possibly replace his equipment. No use spending it all now, not when there's the danger of the Joker and Black Mask stirring up trouble later on.
Not to mention whoever the Core can drag it.
But it has the consequences that he has to fight at closer range and depend far more on his hand-to-hand combat- which isn't the problem. But there's the fact that he's spent months (he isn't sure exactly how many) strapped uselessly to a chair under Desaad's torture, and though suspended animation (or whatever it had been) didn't atrophy his muscles, it did slow his reactions a little.
Or maybe it was the exhaustion that came from the fact that he hadn't had a lot of sleep the past week he's been here. There's simply too much to do, to explore, to know. Information is power, and one truth he spoke as 'Bruce Wayne' is that he despises having idle hands. But- maybe he's pushing it.
There are two young kids behind him. Twins, he thinks he sees their mother in the corner, in a drug haze. In front of him is almost a mob of rope-faced dogs - he'd killed one a few days before, saving a boy from it, and now the thing remembers him even though his uniform lets him practically meld against the Darkness itself. Their ropes shake, one starting towards him and he whirls around, cutting it off in mid-air in one easy stroke- but another one darts under his guard and loops around his wrist. He cuts that off too, and three are coming towards him- down-
He's not exactly ducking. His knees half-gave out and his back doesn't, straight and stiff and he's still covering the children- good. But the dogs are getting closer - he can smell the pungent Darkness on them, thick and noxious - and he knows that if he doesn't drive them off and kill them, they will be doomed. But- his legs aren't cooperatingvery well.
Goddamnit. He needs to- move. ]