bruce narrative: assassin's creed Who: Bruce What: Narrative. Where: AC Door. When: Recently. Warnings/Rating: Teeny tiny bit.
He'd put the phone away.
Too often, Bruce realized, he was allowing himself to be drawn back into Gotham without actually stepping foot back in the city. He understood that there were those who cared about him. Worried. Wanted to know how he was doing. But, all that communication was exhausting. He could feel guilt and obligation creeping along the edges, just out of sight, a slow stalk in preparation to leap. He had to fend them off. He had to keep them away. If he went back now, all would be lost. The progress he'd made would have been for nothing, because he didn't want to go back yet. When he did, and he hoped he reached that point, he would, but only then would he return.
Stephanie and Eddie's wedding didn't count. That was an exception.
Damian--or so he wanted to believe, that it was his son and not a nightmare, not a clone--was back. He didn't know what to say to him. He didn't know what to say to Eddie; he was sure he'd made some sort of mistake there. He didn't know what to say to anyone. He felt distant, worlds and worlds away from his family... which was true, literally, but it stretched beyond the literal. Part of him feared that, if he did return, the chasm between himself and those he cared for would be too large and too deep to cross. Wouldn't it be the funniest joke of all, he thought, if in finding himself he lost everyone around him?
Or maybe he just wasn't used to putting himself first. Maybe the guilt was toying with his mind. Bruce supposed it was possible.
Regardless, he put the phone away. Beneath the floorboards, out of sight; there was nothing for him in Gotham until the wedding. Nothing yet, because he wasn't ready. Not even for Damian was he prepared to go back through that door. Did he miss them? Of course he did. Even Selina, who had Banner now. But unless he did this, unless he completed his journey, he would spiral back into despair and darkness and there would be another Wayne to bury on that small, grassy hill. Right then, he didn't feel like Batman. He didn't feel like Bruce Wayne. He didn't want to be either. A different name, a different identity; he could lose himself in the guise of another and in that moment, in this present, he wanted only that.
He went out.
After instructing Lucia to tell Iris that he would 'be back later', he saddled up his favourite horse and climbed atop. The dog he'd found upon first arriving in the door bid him farewell in a series of barks; he'd named him Pip, short for the Italian word for bat. A reminder of sorts. Bruce smiled, a brief thing, and then he spurred the horse forward into a gallop. This was freedom, riding across the gently sloping land, sun bright and the breeze cool against his skin. Freedom, escape, and maybe if he rode fast enough, far enough, he could outrun all his demons. Leave them to perish in the sun, alongside farmers and gardens.
Alas, he could not. He made it to the city instead. Recently he'd preferred the countryside, the quiet, but there were details he needed to get settled. Income was at the top of his priority list, a way to sustain the household, but he wanted to get a better feel for the time period as well. He knew the Church had a great deal of power in Rome, and he knew of the prominent families; Pazzi, Borgia, Medici. He'd seen some of their guards in Florence. He knew, too, that corruption was rife, for where there was power there were those who would do anything for it. But those weren't his problems, he reminded himself. He had no need to make himself enemies here.
But some things were in his nature, and maybe a sliver of himself had survived.
Bruce was perusing the food stalls, enjoying the chance to practice his Italian, when the sudden clash of metal and angry cries drew everyone's attention. Some stayed where they were, some fled, but others still raced down cobblestone paths to investigate.
Caro Dio, but he followed.
A scuffle had broken out in the square, around the corner, four guards (Borgia, judging by the color) and three men in garb he didn't recognize, hoods and metal adorned on their robes. There were screams of gathered, some seemed to lose their resolve and ran, while others watched from a safe distance. Bruce lingered against the wall, knowing this wasn't his fight, yet unable to leave. There was an itch along his spine, a cramping in his muscles, but he ordered himself to stay still. He was a visitor here. It wasn't his place to become involved.
One Borgia went down, throat slashed. But then more guards appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and the other men were clearly outnumbered. Back, back, they were forced into a corner, curses tossed back and forth in rough Italian. He caught most of it, sensed the animosity, but what could he do? He closed his eyes. He couldn't choose a side. He had no idea who the men were, the guards called them something he thought might have translated to assassin-- did he want to become involved with men like that?
The guards ordered that they surrender. The men refused. Bruce's eyes snapped open, time seemed to slow, and he moved.
He was good. Even without his suit or weapons, he was good. He snatched a cloak from a nervous bystander, nimble fingered and swift, and pulled it over his head as he backed away; it was the best he could do. Scaling buildings was simple, and this was no Gotham. Seconds, if that, rooftop to rooftop and he felt a sort of looseness in his muscles that he hadn't experienced in a long, long time. His body responded well, smoothly, and when he pushed off and jumped he landed exactly where he'd intended; on the shoulders of one of the Borgias.
It was unexpected, his arrival, and both sides fumbled to catch up. Bruce didn't mind; he pried the unconscious man's sword from his fingers and assumed they would all catch up soon enough.
They did.
The men, he noticed, the assassins, had no qualms about killing their foes. Bruce, however, kept his attacks non-lethal, which required only a little extra effort that he thought worthwhile. Between the four of them they managed to make a fair sized dent in the Borgia group, and when a path cleared Bruce gestured for them to take it. "Andare," he shouted, and the men exchanged glances before seeming to come to an agreement. The nodded to him, a tilt of chin and a touch of fingers to their forehead, and then they were gone. He didn't stick around long afterward; when he saw his own out he took it, escaping to the rooftops and not stopping until he was sure he'd put enough distance between them.
He sat, cross legged, and watched the sun begin to lower in the sky. He'd have to go back for his horse, but he should wait, perhaps until after dark. He wondered if he would see the men again. He wondered if he'd been recognized. Perhaps he should have simply turned and walked away, but he felt alive. It felt good. He hadn't intervened out of obligation but rather a desire to do so, and that was new. Doing things because he wanted to; him, not anyone else.
He leaned back on his hands and exhaled. The feeling had begun to fade, but he'd felt more alive than he had in a long time. That couldn't be a bad thing.