Who: Terry Mcginnis [narrative] What: Losing control. When: three days after his disappearance. Where: a room with tiled walls and floors. Warnings:mental torment. Rating: Probably highish.
Why was it never easy What was left of his rational thought complained without a single outward noise as his eyes struggled against the bright light. He wasn't going to satisfy the freak by voicing his discomfort and buried fear. Wayne had at least taught him better than that. Eccentric and possibly insane as his methods had been if he wasn't totally out of his mind by the end of this; he'd have to thank him and try to remember not to complain so much. Well, the first part was probably doable at least.
There was just this thing about pain. It didn't matter when pain hit, or how it hit, or even how much: what mattered was what was on your back when it happened. Terry'd been thrown off buildings as Batman higher than any he'd dare walk on as himself. It wasn't just that the suit was a hundred percent everything-proof and a thousand percent Wayne; things just phased in and out differently. Channeled the pain somewhere else. Put it all behind the big, huge doors at the back of Batman's mind, right next to emotion, and history. Now it had no where else to go. He took it, and he took it. And then he took some more.
minutes, hours, days. . He tried counting them once. Time had no concept anymore. Terry didn't know how long he'd been gone. In the back of his mind he wondered if Bruce was even phased, if he would come. If it were him in Bruce's shoes would he? It wasn't like he'd made the best impression. Then another direction. How long had he been baking like a cold blooded reptile under the blinding lamps. And another. Brentwood. he didn't know why that was on the tip of his tongue, but it was said after three days of staying awake you were legally considered insane. He hoped it hadn't been that long. Everything felt surreal. He took it, and then when he couldn't take it anymore, he stopped and took a labored breath.
Terry sat on the cold unforgiving ground. Wrists chafing against their shackles as he struggled in vain. If he had his suit he could have easily picked the lock, or blasted his way out. But the Joker apparently knew that, he was left with nothing of his own. In uncomfortable medical scrubs. His head in his hands and close to his knees as he slipped from consciousness. He felt himself desperate for sleep and dozing off, unable to fight it anymore. It only lasted a millisecond until the sounds changed again. Until he heard something in the back of his mind. Or at least what seemed like his mind. Everything started to fade and his vision blurred together as he blinked his eyes open. They were so dry, it almost burned. His arms stopped their struggling with the chains. a distinct noise caught his attention. His head turned toward a tiled wall and eyes narrowed as he listened. Tried to force himself to focus. There were sounds of a scuffle. The faintest noise that sounded like Bruce had somehow found him. That he was waiting for Terry on the other side of that wall, and it gave him hope. If anyone could find him, Batman could. The original. Any second now he expected Bruce through the single door just out of reach from his "leash". He forced himself to stand, and couldn't take his eyes from that door.
silence and a heart breaking eternity of nothing. His eyes softened and something inside them had begun to crack. He wasn't coming. Nobody was. Were they? Terry was really on his own. He'd never see his brother again, or mom. They'd never know. He was out of energy, he sank down again. Face in his hands.
You have something to prove McGinnnis? Bruce's cold voice. His Wayne. His eyes snapped open again. The world spun out of focus. Everything shifted for the countless time and he heard the sound of gongs. "....Wayne? Where are you?" He finally spoke in a small voice of mixed emotions, the Joker had torn past the mask of Batman and started to open at himself. It took him three days, but there was movement. The young future could hardly decipher the difference between reality and illusion. His hands pressed at his ears, and he tried to block the sounds. Summoning some reserve energy and managing again to jerk at the chains. Managing a tiny crack in the wall itself and then falling limp with exhaustion. Tried again to shut his eyes tightly before locking them in a steady glare at the lights. Something dark and cold. Couldn't say he didn't have spirit. But for his efforts his only reward was the twisted laughter of a deranged clown.
"Where are you!?" Hands gripped into a tight fist. "Wayne!" His head lowered. "..Why.." Mirthless eyes dropped, defeated and stared at the tile.