|
Last Edit: Aug 20, 2012 13:44:15 GMT -5 by vigilant
|
Post by vigilant on Aug 20, 2012 1:46:00 GMT -5
It was well past midnight. Gotham's inhabitants had crawled into bed, ready to face the day to come. Children were bundled away under the blankets, hugging stuffed animals close to their chests, while a melody trickled from the radio in the backdrop. For many of them, it was another uneventful day. A day that passed without meaning or ceremony. But for one man, today was the day where everything changed. It was the day when the world as he knew it was flipped upside down, and a boy's whole universe, a universe replete with young hopes and dreams and joys, was destroyed.
That night, it rained. It rained so hard that, for an instant, it seemed like the heavens were shedding hot tears for the poor man who stood there, drenched. Thunder rumbled in the distance, blue streaks arcing across the sky and casting bright lights upon a grave. The grave of Thomas and Martha Wayne. It was obvious that someone had made the painstaking effort to clean it. Weeds were pulled. Dust shed off. Grave scrubbed clean. On the center of the grave was a bouquet of white forget-me-nots. Standing before the grave was Bruce Wayne himself, in a clean-cut, tailored black suit, and a dark tie.
He hadn't said a word since he came here. But the look on his face was enough. Bruce was broken inside. The sunny smile, the cheery attitude, the cocksure and loose-lipped expression. All gone. He seemed shrunken, like a grape that had been left in the darkness for far too long. It was hard to tell whether he had been crying. If he had, the tears were dashed aside by the rain. Still, there was no denying that he was suffering. That regardless of the number of supermodels he dined with, or the cars he drove, or his vast, immense wealth, he was hurt, and seemed no better off than a poor man on the street.
Come tomorrow, the smile would return and he'd strut about, like a prized peacock. Because he was the Prince of Gotham. Because he knew the painfully important lesson that for a man like him, keeping up appearances was of the utmost important. So over time, he learned to smile. He learned to hide the rage that rattled deep in his bones like an earthquake, and smile. Tomorrow, instead of visiting the grave of his parents like Gotham expected, he would be in a fast car, leading a fast life, with some skimpily-clad woman caked in make-up. Gotham would condemn him, but they would never say it. The people would merely shake their heads, unable to blame him because he had suffered a personal tragedy. After all, he was Bruce Wayne, notorious for his foolhardy, thoughtless, playboy ways, just like the stereotype the world had of dashing, young billionaires.
Stooping low, Bruce brushed a finger across the grave, followed the letters of his parents' names, before rising alas. There he stood, thinking, reminiscing, his mind tumbling down the rabbit hole and back to a nightmare he has grown accustomed to reliving.
|
|
Deleted Member
Deleted
Registered On: May 5, 2024 21:23:57 GMT -5 ~
Posts: 0
|
|
Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2012 15:40:12 GMT -5
It had rained. Not that she had cared. She'd called Liv and told her to postpone most of her meetings for the day so she could enjoy the weather, stay in, and sleep. She needed it. A bit of R&R while she could get it, before Gotham once again swept her up in it's glorious heartbeat; one she had missed while overseas.
Finally waking, Selina had enjoyed a warm bath, and now was sipping on a cup of tea as the sun went down. Yes, down. It was too bad that she had missed the gray day, the humidity as the last of the rain was burned away by the sun. Oh well. It would make the night rather pleasant to prowl in. Possibly. She was going to have to get back into the rhythm, revisit her old haunting grounds to see what was rife for pillaging, and maybe even stop by Cartier downtown...
But first she was going to finish the gossip column, see if there was anything of interest, then suit up, and head out for a night on the town.
|
|
|
|
Post by vigilant on Aug 20, 2012 16:32:19 GMT -5
It was a long way home. Perhaps the longest he's ever been. His polished leather shoes were ruined and spotted with mud. His tie, stripped off and cast into the sewers. His jacket, given to the nearest passerby, some poverty-stricken hobo on the street. When he reached the Wayne Manor, he undid the buttons of his shirt and peeled the fabric from his skin, tossing it to the floor as he entered. Bruce could feel Alfred's concern for him from across the room. The elderly man had decided to stay up and wait by the door. It seems it wasn't only Bruce who remembered what date it was.
Perhaps he wasn't the only one who lost something that night.
In spite of Alfred's insistence, Bruce removed whatever was left of his clothing and changed into the Bat-suit. The armor, slipped on quietly and without a word. The cape, fixed and left to hang majestically from his back. It was the black cowl that he put on last, as though that was the final piece of the puzzle; the knife that finally cut him free from his identity as Bruce Wayne. A sweeping change came over him then. The look of sorrow on his face was replaced by a mask of grim-faced stoicism. His eyes, once filled with an inexplicable sadness, showed a steely resolve, before it was shrouded by a set of pure white lens. With each step he took, he seemed to shed whatever remained of Bruce Wayne from his body, as though it was a second skin that served no purpose other than to camouflage.
Into the night Batman went. From rooftop to rooftop, his powerful figure like a panther, all black and all chiseled muscles. Never once did he pause. Not to brood or to patrol the area for crime. Not to drink in the beautiful light-show Gotham City gave off at night. He had a set destination, and there was nothing in the world that could stop him from reaching it.
|
|
Deleted Member
Deleted
Registered On: May 5, 2024 21:23:57 GMT -5 ~
Posts: 0
|
|
Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2012 20:30:16 GMT -5
Sipping at her cup of tea, relishing the soft fluff that was her robe on freshly washed and scrubbed skin, Selina enjoyed the last of the sun dipping over Gotham's impressive skyline. Of course it would be better taken in by a certain gargoyle, but it was too early for her to sneak out and get there before the sun actually did set.
Setting down her mug, she gently shrugged off her robe, and looked to the suspended bar in her rather spacious bedroom. To call it a 'master bedroom' would be an understatement. Anything that was able to house a rather large, almost full executive desk in front of an equally large, open wall of window, which of course opened to a balcony, a stately queen sized bed, nightstand, loveseat and chair that comprised a 'sitting area' of sorts, as well as a rather luxurious walk in closet, and bathroom that spared no expense.
She loved it. Yes, the rest of her apartment was nice. There was an exercise room, a kitchen, a dinette, extra bedroom, Liv's room, bathroom, whatever. But she mostly lived in her bedroom. It was well worth it, considering Liv ran and kept the day-to-day activities up and running. Selina could then keep her nocturnal schedule as often as she cared. And without prying. Jasper and Liv knew enough to know when to push, and when to wake her, of course.
But now, she was focused on her bar. If anyone asked, she stated it was for outfits, and the gowns, and anything she needed to hang. That kept prying questions at bay, even if the bar was suspended...rather high. Even with a bit of a jump, she could barely clear it, but that wasn't the point.
The point was she used it for...pre gaming, one could say. A jump, a grasp, and as fluid as any gymnast, and she would be pulled up, her knees hooked around it as she went about stretching; preparing herself for the night before she even dressed in her suit. Shedding her daytime cloak, and slinking into her nighttime skin. Thankfully she wasn't as rusty as she had feared; no, she was still limber from her tour in Europe.
Letting go and soundlessly landing, Selina yawned. Good enough. Now to dress, the black suit she had retooled while she was away newly laid out on her bed waiting. It was supple, and strong. Then the boots, her belt, her gloves, and the nearly matching leather bag she carried with slung over her shoulder where it laid at her hip. She plaited her hair tonight and pinned it back, securing her cowl and night-vision goggles atop her head.
And then with a pat to Jasper, she was out the balcony, and soon making her way to a rather familiar rooftop that was calling her name...
|
|
|
Last Edit: Aug 21, 2012 1:26:21 GMT -5 by vigilant
|
Post by vigilant on Aug 21, 2012 0:41:05 GMT -5
Perhaps it was the urgency with which he climbed through the night. Perhaps it was the way his shadow seemed darker, larger and more gruesome than ever, as though it didn't belong to Batman, but some monstrous and hellish fiend. That night, all of Gotham's criminals slinked back to the safety of their homes, to whatever shadowy corner they deemed safe. All except one. But Catwoman was the last thing on Batman's mind. Even the feline fetale, who on more than one occasion had managed to distract him, couldn't divert him from his goal tonight.
So on he went, swinging from roof to roof, in the steel and asphalt jungle that is Gotham City. When he did pause, it was only upon reaching Crime Alley. There he stood, a lone figure with a bat's emblem dashed across his chest. His cape was drawn closely around him, as though to ward off a bitter chill. The dark shadow splashed like an inkblot behind him was tilted over, shoulders stooped and chin sunken. It was a pose malapropos to everything Batman stood for. He was Gotham's Dark Knight, guiltless and sure, the only thing standing between it and complete annihilation. But for some reason, he seemed exhausted, drained and withdrawn. Here was the proud lion, clipped of its fangs; here was the bat, robbed of its wings.
Then, like a comet from the sky, he shot off the roof and landed on the street, his figure a dark blur. The street was empty, and the single streetlight above him flickered, like a dying man fighting for life. It was this exact spot where his parents were murdered. Shot by one man armed with a gun, though at the time, to young Bruce Wayne, it sounded like the firing squad of a whole artillery. He still remembered the way their bodies fell, like two dams, crushed behind the current's immense weight. For Bruce Wayne, the current was a giant tidal wave, a black torrent replete with all the world's atrocities. That night, his parents fell, and Bruce was swept away, carried off and nearly drowned by all the wickedness that plagued the world.
But Bruce didn't blame them. He never did. At first, he had made it a personal mission to reap vengeance from the man who had committed murder. But slowly he understood, and from a fallen, broken boy, he emerged a man. A man ready to face the world; a man who had vowed at his parents' grave that he would defend Gotham with his life. But still, he never stopped laying blame for what happened that night. Now a man well into his thirties, a decade into his career as Gotham's Silent Guardian, he finally knew who it was he had to blame.
Himself.
|
|
Deleted Member
Deleted
Registered On: May 5, 2024 21:23:57 GMT -5 ~
Posts: 0
|
|
Post by Deleted on Aug 21, 2012 17:11:57 GMT -5
If she had taken a second longer to linger, watching a couple cross the street several stories down she would have missed it. Just like most people engaged in whatever nightly activity missed it. Not exactly an 'it,' but a Him. Batman. So it seemed he was out tonight as well, perhaps sensing that his feline companion was back on the prowl.
So as she heard the barely perceptible hiss-shhhhh of his swinging, she tracked him, a rooftop behind, her own whip cracks covered by well timed traffic. It was too early for her to want to see him. And tonight, the Bat seemed...driven. So she was curious. Who could blame her for wanting to know where, or even what he'd been up to?
Finally she heard the thud that signalled a darker shadow hitting pavement. Hm. Crouching in the darker shadow, away from a streetlight, she watched as Batman; someone she hadn't seen, nor interacted with in a while, stood there. Almost contemplative, if she could allow such a brooding entity such a quiet action. Cocking her head to the side much as her namesake would, she continued to peer down at him, a fingertip slipping her nightvison goggles over her eyes, another tap pressing a button in silence.
|
|
|
Last Edit: Aug 22, 2012 8:26:00 GMT -5 by vigilant
|
Post by vigilant on Aug 22, 2012 0:17:06 GMT -5
Something wasn't right with him. Something that no telescope, no matter how sharp, could possibly discern. But Catwoman had known him for years. Known him since the incipience of his journey as Gotham's Cowled Crusader. Seen his growth, his transformation, and in turn, Gotham's metamorphosis because of him. He was Gotham's Dark Knight. Strong, incorruptible, and relentless. Like the bat emblazoned across his chest, in the minds of Gotham's citizens, he was a creature of the night; predatory, mystical, and unstoppable. A symbol that relinquished its humanity, so he could shoulder the whole of Gotham on his shoulders, like the mystical titan, Atlas.
But something was different tonight. For the first time in years, Batman seemed human. With all the rage and darkness that oozed out of him, like blood from a fresh wound, one couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he reached the breaking point. If, like a glass bottle finally unable to withstand the pressure, he broke, and shattered. And, scarily enough, Batman felt like he was tip-toeing dangerously close to the edge.
"I failed you. And I failed him."
It was a whisper in the dark. So soft, the ears would have to strain to hear it. It seemed like he was speaking to somebody; someone that he saw, but nobody else could see. Kneeling unto one knee, Batman passed his hand over the ground. It was cold, but once upon a time, on a chilly night outside of Gotham's theatre, a man and woman was shot and it was warm with their blood. That night, the survivor, a young boy left with a life he didn't know how to live, went cold. Colder than the floor as it is now; colder than the night when the murder occurred. Colder than any one boy deserved to be.
"I vowed that I would protect Gotham with my life. I vowed that I would not ever let another boy suffer like I did. But I failed. I buried him, the same way I buried you. And I wonder to myself, who would be next? Would else would suffer because of my own inadequacy?"
Batman had counted on the traffic drowning out his voice. And perhaps it did; portions of it. But he would have never guessed that, in the emotional state he was in now, someone had snuck up on him. That they stood well within hearing distance, watching him, listening to the words stream out, like hot tears as it runs down a child's face. Except he wasn't crying. No, the Batman would never cry, not like the powerless child who could only stare helplessly, too scared to yell, and too weak to fight, as his parents fell before him.
Silently, Batman loosened his grapple gun. Pointed, hand unsteady for half a second. Shot, and swung his body onto a nearby rooftop. Without so much as a glance back, he leapt onto another roof, then another. Soon, the enormous black figure became a dot, then a speck, before disappearing entirely. Left in his wake, on the ground with the metal wing sticking out diagonally was his batarang. It stood there, like a tombstone having risen from the earth. If Catwoman cared to retrieve it, she would find letters engraved upon the center.
Bruce May You Rest in Peace
|
|
Deleted Member
Deleted
Registered On: May 5, 2024 21:23:57 GMT -5 ~
Posts: 0
|
|
Post by Deleted on Aug 22, 2012 14:20:19 GMT -5
To say it was an interesting scene unfolding before her eyes was an understatement. Batman, sans his verve and strength, was remembering something. It was a pity she couldn't hear, but could see his lips moving. Thankfully she was recording everything as well via her 'night eyes.'
It wasn't a long scene, before he stood, straightened, and was back into the sky almost as easily as he had dropped to the ground. But as she glanced from road to roof, she noticed an odd shadow from where he had been kneeling. Dropping to the ground herself, she went to the object, neatly plucking it from the road.
Bruce May You Rest In Peace
Turning it over in her gloved hands, she ran a claw over the engraving before pocketing. There was enough running through her mind right now, and she didn't exactly want to ponder it here, in this alley. Looking around for a street sign, she wasn't able to find any, so instead took in as much scenery as she could, before alighting back to the rooftops, and somewhere she could think.
|
|