Bruce Wainright has (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} onerule) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms,@ 2014-05-31 00:27:00 |
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What: Narrative: a new door, aka where Bruce went.
Where: Assassin's Creed.
When: Recently/Nowish.
Warnings/Rating: Nope.
Exhaustion made the finer details fuzzy.
But maybe how didn't matter. Bruce had chosen a door at random once he'd left Gotham, no looking back, seeking an escape. A fresh start. An opportunity. What he'd found was an underground facility, people who spoke to him as though they knew him, familiarity and he was too tired to try to make sense of it; a machine, he remembered, they'd called it an Ani-something and lying down had sounded so very good that he let everything wash over him like waves on a beach, nothing but silence as he closed his eyes--
He slept.
Maybe.
When his eyes opened again, there was hay against his cheek and a furry face inches from his. He blinked. Slowly, the sounds around him began to filter in, voices and the clip-clop of hooves, hustle and bustle so entirely unlike Gotham it left him dumbfounded. And then he remembered. He'd left, now he was here. But where was here?
He sat up, the mangy stray which had only seconds earlier been sniffing around his jaw darting about, yipping wildly, and he looked down at himself to realize he was sitting (previously lying) in a pile of hay on a cart which seemed, for the time being, was not being used. His first clue that he wasn't in the modern day was the clothing those around him wore, and then it registered that they weren't speaking English, either. He cocked his head to the side.
Italian.
Though he didn't know it, he was in Florence. 15 century. Guards in silver and red patrolled the streets in clusters, and no one paid him very much attention. He was dressed for the times, and this seemed a good a place to stay as any, didn't it? Bruce knew Italian. He could adapt. And he didn't mind living in the past, no, not at all. So he got to his feet, he brushed himself off, and he slipped into the crowd with the dog close at his heels.
Until sundown, he explored the city. He learned. Rooftops here were guarded; he noticed quite a bit was. His boots were worn on cobbled side streets and dirt paths, and when night fell he found a place to take refuge, the dog curled up beside him; he didn't sleep.
Early, early, when the sun was still creeping into the sky, he found a stable. He stole a horse. He rode onward, following a feeling, a twinge in his belly, a whisper in his ear.
He didn't think of Gotham. Later, he could check in later. He looked forward, not back, and for the first time in nearly a decade he felt a taste of what might one day become freedom.