narrative: bruce Who: Bruce Wayne What: Narrative. Where: Underground. When: Nowish. Warnings/Rating: Nah.
Bruce regained consciousness slowly.
Heavy limbs, the weight of his own body. Awareness. He saw darkness and it took a few seconds to realize why, to open his eyes. There was a vague sensation of pain, of ache, and a peculiar soreness in his neck that he didn't immediately understand. Where was he? What had happened? Such questions were contemplated as he stared ahead, seeing nothing but blurred shapes and shades. He blinked. His mouth was dry and he swallowed as the world slid back into focus, sharp and clear. A floor. Concrete. Black boots... his feet. His legs, clad in black. Panic made his chest ache; something was wrong. Something-- something wasn't right, why--
He tried to move. He couldn't.
Restraints. Limbs weren't just heavy from fatigue, he was being kept in place. Metal and steel, and he looked down at himself. A chair. Nailed to the ground; he used all his strength and all he managed was a rattle and screech of protest. He couldn't move his arms, couldn't move his legs; all he could do was turn his head. Back and forth, and slowly, slowly, his surroundings sank in.
Underground, it must have been. Cool and cement, a table before him bore a television set for his viewing pleasure. In the shadows beyond there were figures, dark and motionless; watching. Standing guard.
Ra's.
The name exploded within his mind. The condemned building. A trap, and he'd been caught. There had been barely any time to react, he'd heard his name, Detective, and then there was the sting in his neck and he tried to fight, to save himself, but whatever was in the syringes worked quickly. Nothingness was swift. Black and numb.
(COWARD)
And now he was here. Bruce knew, then, what Ra's intended; oh, he wasn't going to kill him. No, he was going to keep him here, make him watch Gotham's destruction while he sat helpless. It was happening again, that was all he could think, and he began to struggle fruitlessly against his binds. No, no, no, and a scream was building in his mind, clawing up his throat and threatening to break free--
(Breathe, Bruce. Breathe.)
He stopped. His struggles ceased, and he swallowed his scream down, down. Fighting would only waste energy he couldn't afford to lose. Screaming would only give Ra's and his League the satisfaction of knowing they'd hit a nerve. So he closed his eyes, and he breathed.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
He was alive. He had his mind, too, and in that there was hope. He could get out of here, he could escape. He would escape. Oh, he knew his family would come looking, but better if he got away before any of them could put their lives at risk. He was angry, yes, so angry, but he corralled it, kept it on a leash to use in his favour.
His anger, his family, Selina. That was what Bruce focused on as he breathed.
That, and escape. Out. He would get out, and then--