Post by Bruce Wayne on May 9, 2010 0:50:43 GMT -5
BRUCE WAYNE
The proceedings for this session with one BRUCE WAYNE can now commence
after being postponed since 19-02-79. Subject is MALE and by referring to their date of
birth we are able to assume they are THIRTY-ONE, without suspicion of
falsehood—as of yet. Inquiries are being made, however, in regards to their response to the
request "Describe yourself in one word", to which their reply was “eschaton.”
Individual’s sexual preference on the generic scale is HETEROSEXUAL and he/she associates,
generally, with other VIGILANTES. However, their current mental state
has left us to wonder if being a DARK KNIGHT is truly right for them. The patient has also informed us
that we may call them by the following title, THE BATMAN. Of all the responses received we were most disturbed to find that they believe quite adamantly that they resemble CHRISTIAN BALE; such a claim raises many questions. [/color][/center]
distinguishing features
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self-presentation
Though still a young man quickly growing older (mostly in mind), Bruce is often frequently mocked as being a 'pretty boy' of sorts; he's got a youthful vitality to him, smooth skinned and lightly tanned with no blemish or scar to be seen. Sharp jawline, rarely scruffy and mostly clean shaven. Serious brows frame dark and intelligent eyes which, upon face to face observation, are revealed to be a solemn green-gray in color. His hair is dark brown, nearly black, and is most often slicked back in a handsome debonair style. Known to frown lots and smile little when out of company, and most of the time his expressions seem to be carefully calculated masks - but close friends would easily know the difference between a genuine smile and a fake one. Even then, there's not much Bruce let's through his emotional filter, and there are times where he refuses to be candid about what's really going on.
Behind the persona and the fancy clothes is a rigorously toned body, his muscle strength honed by endless training, work outs and a surprisingly disciplined diet. Intimidating, broad shouldered, solid, immaculate. It's clear he takes care of himself beyond the petty rich-boy swagger. Bruce is fit and healthy, and make no mistake, quite capable of incredible feats of physical strength, astonishing agility and acrobatics. His body is a vital tool, the one thing more valuable to him than any other gadget, and without it, there would be no feasible way for him to continue as the Batman. The only drawback is that he's constantly covered in painful bruises and other wounds from his nightly escapades; although he has very few scars, if any at all. [/SIZE]
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likes?
- preventing violence, corruption, and petty crime.
- intellectual challenges and puzzles.
- late nights.
- peace and quiet.
- the concept of 'pay it forward.'
- when his actions have good consequences.
- the sight of Gotham from the rooftops on an early morning.
- honest company; hell, honesty in general.
- Alfred's company.
- hot showers.
- not having to act out his playboy persona.
- his close few friends and "family."
- meditation.
- the little things in life.
[/li][/ul]
dislikes?
- the strong preying on the weak; bullies.
- people getting hurt in his name or in his place.
- hypocrisy.
- manipulation.
- the obvious one: crime and criminals. despots of the highest order.
- Gotham's underground.
- selfish motivations.
- corruption.
- greed.
- being jerked around (re: the Joker).
- white wine.
- missing Rachel.
- the paparazzi (but who doesn't).
personal strengths?
And of course, there is the rather obvious fact that Bruce is a billionaire with a massive trust fund to meddle with and use for his personal projects, as well as invest in useful funds across the globe. As the sole heir and shareholder to Wayne enterprises, he's inherited both the responsibility and political weight of managing such a company - hell, the man's got more power than some small countries. Has a place among the elite echelon of society and a fool-proof alibi, the best of both worlds. This also leads to his vast assortment of high-tech gear, the second most vital element to his role as the dark knight. The Bat-suit, utility belt, bat-mobile - the list goes on and on.
A former disciple of the League of Shadows and a one time prison inmate, Bruce is more than knowledgeable in several types of fighting styles, disarming techniques and acrobatics with a surprising amount of speed. Parkour, thievery, martial arts, street fighting, street knowledge, book knowledge - the list goes on. High endurance, agility and stamina, more than capable of staying alert and on his toes for hours upon hours - perhaps even days in drastic situations - as well as a high tolerance for ignoring his own pain and wellbeing in order to get the job done, and multiple targets are no problem in a fist fight. Yet for all his flashy skill in incapacitation, the one thing that defines encounters is Batman's eerie ability to simply disappear mid sentence, as if evaporating into air.
Yet the true driving force behind both Wayne Enterprises and the Batman, is the honed knife of Bruce's mind: he is painfully intelligent, alert and aware of his surroundings at all times. Brilliantly cultured, studious, able to push himself far and yield success in most activities, although if you asked him there's no doubt he'd refer to being "always learning." A photographic memory is a likewise useful tool to have.[/SIZE]
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personal weaknesses?
It's also no surprise that the limits of a very mortal man can turn the tables and tear him down at any moment, any wrong move. Batman, as a symbol, an icon, an ideal to the weak and the desperate, is a hero without a face and a savior without limits: Bruce, for all his physical prowess and striking intelligence, is just a man. He can't always be around to act the role of messiah, or beat the bad guys and win. There's a very real chance that if he fucks up, it's a done deal - and the end of both the Batman and Bruce Wayne. In some ways it makes him maybe a little bit reckless in regards to the state of his own well-being. Maybe it's only a matter of time before the gap between mortality and the Batman mantle grows too wide to be filled.
Though more a strength than a weakness, there's no doubt that, at times, Bruce's moral code infringes on his ability to really mete out justice. The Batman may play by rules, but Gotham's underground doesn't. Most of the time, it just means that he has to deal with repeat offenders where he might otherwise be able to prevent more crime... and of course, dealing with the same faces over and over lands him plenty of enemies - some of them no more harmful than a gnat, some of them formidable and mentally shattered.[/SIZE]
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phobias?
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motives?
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evaluation summary
Bruce Wayne, the man inside, is painfully intelligent, alert and aware of everything around him at all times, constantly observing even the most minute details and reassessing all that he comes in contact with. Studious, creative, always craving a challenge as if to distract from something else. This is the private side of Bruce, as though he is still a little boy who never quite managed to overcome the emotional trauma of his parent's murder. He is dedicated to the cause began at their grave site so long ago; every pore of being focused on preventing the same destruction he faced so long ago.
And that's the thing about Bruce that is both amazing and sometimes painful to see: he avoids himself. His deeply ingrained sense of altruism causes him to put others needs before his own at all times, gives him strength to stand between the savagery of human nature and the innocents it would seek to devour. Some worry that Bruce believes himself unworthy of the same intervention that he would offer to others, yet he knows: his burdens are his alone.
A grim and introspective loner by nature, unaccustomed to opening the door and letting others in simply because it's easier not to. A somber individual a lot of the time, even surrounded by those closest to him, as if he holds the world at arm's length while thinking nothing of it. A reflex, a defense mechanism, his 'tinman' shield and wooden sword.
Yer there's something comforting about his silent, stolid charisma - like he's the only pillar of strength in all the world, touched with an implacable will.
And how easy it is for his closest friends to see that he is still hurting over Rachel in all the most secretly obvious ways. Ignorant of her solid plans to marry Harvey - and oh, how bitter to know for him still that she loved that murderous despot anyways - Bruce holds the weight of responsibility heavy in his heart. He ignores this by pouring heart and soul into his role as the Dark Knight. In the last few months before the earthquake, Bruce was known to be rather wary and intolerant of anybody trying to pry into his heart and pretend they care. Seems to be unsure about what he will do without Rachel's tangible presence - if he wants to get over her.
Bruce Wayne, the billionaire? A frivolous hedonist known for being stupidly vain and a frequent headliner for whatever latest stunt he's managed to pull off this time around.
[/SIZE]
[/ul]
As we neared the end of the session, we began to reach the roots of our subject's character.
Questions were posed concerning their immediate relatives. The persons responsible
for their upbringing are/were "THOMAS and MARTHA WAYNE (deceased)".
When asked about siblings they responded: ”ONLY CHILD.” Lastly, we inquired about
"significant others" who have had held or who currently hold in a role in their lives: ”once romantically involved with his childhood friend, RACHEL DAWES, now deceased; unsure time-will-tell friendship with SELINA KYLE. Bruce knows an endless assortment of people, but considers DICK GRAYSON, TIMOTHY DRAKE, CASSANDRA CAIN and BARBARA GORDON his 'extended family and adopted children' of a sort. Extremely close with his godfather, friend and butler, ALFRED PENNYWORTH.”
background check
From the moment they met, Dr. Thomas Wayne and Martha Kane were kindred spirits with a strong attraction to one another. After serving for a variety of organizations in the world's medical hotspots, Tom returned to his "home town" of Gotham, close friend Alfred Pennyworth in tow, chalk full to the brim good intentions and an endless assortment of plans that would hopefully peel back some of the city's grunge and corruption; Martha was a kind, selfless woman with a passion for helping anybody in need. Two souls like these meeting and falling in love was inevitable. After marriage, they were quickly blessed with the birth of Bruce, their one and only child due to medical complications.
There was nothing awful at all about Bruce's childhood. He had a secure, stable family who never wanted for anything, and though he was privileged and wealthy, he grew up learning humility and the need to be compassionate to all no matter the circumstance. An exceptionally intelligent boy who rose to any challenge in his way, and a bit of an athletic whirlwind as well, usually to be found palling around with manor staff's children. A brotherly bond formed between him and Rachel Dawes, the daughter of the cook, and they were practically inseparable.
It was during one of their typical outings - hunting for lost relics and stolen artifacts - that Bruce fell into an old well, broke his leg, and startled a large colony of bats. Trapped for hours in a tight space both dark and damp with screaming mammals flying around like small black bullets was certainly a stressful experience and enough for a phobia to develop. Of course, he was later rescued by his father and all was well again.
The fear of bats, however, would manifest again on a later night. Though treated to an opera, the story of which his mother explained to him prior, Bruce felt incredibly uncomfortable at a portrayal of bats on the stage - images kept flashing by, sounds and scents and the shiver of terror.
Exiting through a side door to get some air, the Waynes were intercepted by an armed thug, demanding their goods and waving a gun around. And though Thomas was calm and almost casual in his negotiations, both he and Martha were shot and mortally wounded right before their son's eyes. Bruce had been eight years old, and that night was subsequently the end of the childish, happy boy he'd once been. The shock and trauma of losing both parents in a practically 'roll of the dice' act of crime was made no better by the invasive media coverage and bold and insensitive headlines.
After the death of Bruce's parents, he was raised by Alfred Pennyworth, his godfather and legal guardian as per the Wayne's last will and testament. The young boy drew into himself extensively, not quite entirely devoid of his youthful spark, but feeling lost and uncertain - and more than anything, alone and at fault for his parent's murder. He had permanently put away his 'childish things' in the belief that he owed it to his parents to carry on, to devote himself to following in their footsteps of bettering the world and make them proud.
As he got older, Bruce Wayne was an eccentric student at best. Though he plowed into studies with all the fervor and intensity of a child savant - he craved knowledge and understanding, and in turn learning was both a distraction and a release from his pain - and once he understood something, it wasn't uncommon for him to simply switch his mental focus to something he hadn't intellectually devoured yet. Private tutoring and more advanced studies often took up his time, and left little of it for social interaction. Most campus-mates at the various universities he cycled through labeled him as an indecipherable enigma. As a young man, Bruce had no real interest in socializing with those around him, despite his charisma, and thought only of pouring himself into gathering knowledge without reservation.
Perhaps the one thing that granted him some sort of challenge was the discipline of martial arts, the beginning of his physical molding into a formidable opponent, though still quite inexperienced and too tempered by his frustrated naivete to really excel.
Then came the pop-up news of Joe Chill testifying against the mob boss Carmine Falcone - and all hands of the clock pointed at the obvious. That the man who had selfishly murdered his parents was about to walk free was inconceivable to Bruce - it wasn't fair, it wasn't right, how could they let this bullshit happen again? Fuck that, he'd take the matter into his own two hands if he had to. Returning from Princeton University to the Gotham city of his birth, he was fully intent on killing the convict... only to be intercepted by one of Falcone's own men after the hearing.
After Rachel revoked Bruce's childishly vengeful plans with disgust and Falcone sneered at his ignorance - "Now, you think because your mommy and your daddy got shot, you know about the ugly side of life, but you don't" - Bruce, in his frustration and emotional insecurity, rises to the challenge and flings himself into the great wide world. He discarded his name, his identity, but never his baser motivations or the memory of his parents.
"But I know the rage that drives you. That impossible anger strangling the grief,
until the memory of your loved one is just... poison in your veins. And one day, you catch
yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed so you'd be spared your pain."
until the memory of your loved one is just... poison in your veins. And one day, you catch
yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed so you'd be spared your pain."
So began the hardest test.
You learn a lot about yourself in the deepest ruts of desperation. About how fear is a weapon and a tool of control and how lords like Falcone die all the time but are always replaced, spare parts from a junkyard repairing one great machine-monster of crime. About how to be ruthless and strike fear into those who would eat you alive given the chance, because it's a dog eat dog world out there and the weakest link loses in all the worst ways. How power and desperation are linked together hand in hand like violent and ugly lovers, hellbent on destruction. About the dark abyss of the human mind and its razor edged teeth, how it can turn to hideous solutions when your face is down in the mud and there's no air left to breath.
How fear could be a weapon, a shackle to the masses, able to be defied on a personal level but never entirely scourged from the minds of the weak. Learned the fear before a mission and the thrill of success when they won, but he never became one of them.
The name "Wayne" had nearly been wiped off the world's social radar. What else could he be if not dead?
Until Bruce popped up again, detained in Bhutan for stealing from a cargo train (one belonging to Wayne enterprises, ironically) and where he met a man by the name of Henri Ducard. Mysterious, suave and willing to manipulate the emotionally vulnerable Bruce, Ducard invited him to join a secret vigilante group of elites known as the League of Shadows, led by a man named Ra's al Ghul. Freed from prison, he journeyed to live and train with the League atop a mountain; the training was intense, both psychologically and physically. In the process, Bruce learned to overcome his childhood fear of bats, how to combat multiple targets, how to disappear... but also of the League's plans to destroy Gotham - with him as the vehicle, a bizarrely warped vision of a messiah. In a hard betrayal he burned the place to the ground, Ra's dying in the process, and "Ducard" surviving out of Bruce's own compassion and inability to blindly kill his former mentor.
"I seek … the means to fight injustice. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful."
Seven years had passed.
The Gotham that greeted Bruce was at once both the same and very different. For starters, the man who now sat at the top of the criminal hierarchy was Falcone; Bruce had been 'declared dead'; Wayne Enterprises was rotting in the hands of a greedy entrepreneur. His purpose in live having been refreshed, Wayne began a one man war against Falcone, against corruption, against the convoluted underground rotting Gotham from the inside out - and it's clear he intends to win.
After reestablishing his connections within the company, Bruce began to put plans into more than just blueprints and schemes. With the help of Lucius Fox, he acquires prototypes to experiment with: an armored suit once used for military purposes and an armored car formerly made for desert terrain, both discarded by their intended buyers and the perfect tools needed. And, in a cave beneath Wayne Manor, a secret base is built.
Thus, Batman begins.
With his new modus operandi, Bruce intercepted a drug shipment by Falcone, and as a final insult, left the mob boss tied to a flood light, a clear sign: Gotham was no longer an open avenue for the vampiric to devour. And in the process of disrupting an assassination attempt on Rachel, Bruce also revealed a judge on Falcone's payroll - the very same man who'd once watched him dragged out into the street by Falcone's thugs. But this is not enough, of course. Just who is shipping the drugs - and why - are questions unable to be answered by mere crime lords.
In comes Dr. Johnathon Crane. During an investigation of a warehouse stocked full to the ceiling of the mysterious drug, Batman is ambushed by Crane and sprayed by a powerful hallucinogen, one designed to exaggerate the victim's personal fears. After being saved by Alfred, who neutralized the effects of the toxin, and then saving Rachel a second time at Arkham Asylum while Crane is arrested, Bruce learns that Crane had pipelined the drug through the water. It's a race against time and all he can do is give Gordon a paltry gift of two vials of antidote: one for himself, one for the city.
Amidst the action of the life of a vigilante, it's almost easy for Bruce to forget about his life behind the mask - and his imminent birthday. Of course, his mask of Bruce Wayne, boy billionaire, is an easy thing to wear and to use deceitfully at the rich and the famous attending such a party. And then it all crashed down: the League of Shadows, headed by Ducard revealed as the real Ra's al Ghul, confronted Bruce. It had been the League's plan all along, with Crane as the vehicle instead of Bruce. Abrasively, he forces his guests from the manor, and duels briefly with Ra's - a distraction so the League could set fire to Wayne Manor, a flaming inferno he escaped with Alfred's help.
And in the streets of Gotham, chaos reigned: Arkham had been unleashed in full force.
In the final climax, Batman battles Ra's aboard the train his parents built so long ago; Bruce escapes just as the train tracks are toppled by Gordon. It was over, then, for the moment. Batman had been impressioned on the minds of Gotham's citizens as a hero, but Bruce -
- watched Rachel walk away on the smoking ashes of his father's manor, saying to him that one day maybe they'd be together, when there was no longer a Batman and no dual voice in Bruce's mind. There could be no reconciling her love for Bruce Wayne with his dual life as Batman. He'd finally gained control of his father's company as a CEO, yet he'd lost so much more in the process.
But he'd committed himself to a cause, and there was no way in hell he was going to back out now. This was his duty to the city of Gotham, and he would abide. To the bitter end.[/SIZE]
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This marks the conclusion of this report.
To finish, we ask the name of the patient’s doctor: Benny!
Next, we need to know your schedule: UTC/GMT -6 hours.
Also, we need to know if you have anything to share with us: ”Greetings from Canada~ I've never been omg obsessed about Batman but I figured, "hey, I've seen a few movies and read some graphic novels, and I like misanthropic anti-heroes and nightmarish dystopia settings - why not give it a shot?" hopefully y'all don't mind a little outside flair... it's a nice change of pace! Totally rockin' site, very friendly attitudes, so I'm pretty excited to be here. <3”
Lastly, before we forget, a statement of your past experience in this field would be an excellent finishing touch:
You said I'm gonna buy this place and burn it down
I'm gonna put it six feet underground
I'm gonna buy this place and watch it fall
Stand here beside me baby, in the crumbling walls
Raining again.
Hard sleet shot through glistening leaves, fine grey bullets shot from the sky's gun, which was in this case, black and varicose clouds slouching over a forest's canopy. The tree tops were a dark green and waxy phalanx against much of the weather, although an ineffective, rusty thing at best - it was as though nature had designed it to keep things from getting out, rather than get in. The rain pelted in anyways and wetted the forest in dismal shades, a water color painting gone askew. The earthy smell of pine and atmosphere was pervasive and intense but not entirely unpleasant, carried on the roiling mists wafting upwards in thick, misty clouds. Sound seemed to have abandoned the asylum that was Alteron.
Silent, all save the comforting patter of rain against wood and soil, a barrier of gentle sound pierced by the occasional cry of a solitary bird. A wolf threaded through the undergrowth with sure and careful steps, every line of quivering muscle and tendon along his body tense and alert with caution. There was an odd and organic grace about his being that mingled with a world-weary bravery readable in his grizzled, perhaps even knightly face, and an overwhelming sense of a burden - that of reluctant leadership. It was his expression that did it, both the one on his face and the language that bled through each step, a physical language. He was at ease here, or at least, well enough - Alteron was familiar and by extension, comforting, for he knew every inch like an intimate lover - yet something of the casual had been discarded from his nature and replaced with wariness, one open door shutting forever only to yield a dozen more just as shut. Still, his steps were quick and diligent, business-like, and he never once lost his footing. The rhythmic scything of his shoulderblades shed rivulets of translucent water, droplets knifing off the small of his back like shards of glittering, liquid glass. None of this bothered him.
How many times had Trent been here? How many cycles of forever - could he even call them cycles if they never approached an end? Here, not so much a place as it was an endlessness, a continuation of sameness that hovered about him, plagued him like some black, clinging apocalypse. Trees leered down at him even as Trent glanced expressionlessly up at them, looming with their usual dislike. Underfoot, soil turned to mud gulfed the gap between toes with a refreshing cool. Evidence of his speed was visible through clumping socks of dirt trailing up each limb.
Sometimes he thought of... of her; and later when he couldn't bear this anymore, sometimes he thought of the outsider drowning in Alteron. Sometimes he wondered if his precious children, who were no longer children but grown men and a woman, treated the outsider just as the screaming horde did. If they kicked and scuffed and tore at her.
Wondered if she'd drowned yet.
And sometimes Trent wanted to start a war, if only to ease the pressure of violence caught in his chest, a vice grip squeezing around his heart... only because he needed the release. No other reason, he lied. But Trent needed Alteron, too, that was the catch-22; the forest's umbilical cord had wound its way around his brain, wormed beneath his tender skin, and it sustained him well enough. What a formidable weapon Rapier had wrought (if not by her own hand), what a place she had found, a perfect trap indeed - Rapier was not the real villain in this tale, not anymore than survival, because the real villain was the forest itself. Long after they were all gone, nothing but so much dust in the fucking wind and bone meal ground into the thirsty dirt - mother Alteron would still be there, just as lonely and keening for babes as ever, though she'd have long forgotten her previous, misbegotten children, the ones who had rose and fell before the world moved on; would have put their memory out of thought and time. Until the next fools fell into the trap and the cycle began anew.
A yawning, abyssal sense of time and eternity suddenly dawned on Trent, disorienting, dizzying. He paused to inhale steadily, sucking in the clear air with starving lungs, head lifted to the misted canopy - only to catch a furtive scent blown in on a forlorn wind - a whisper of the outsider, a message, a sign. "You," He said, a gasping exhale. "Still maybe... alive," Incredulous but concrete - and this was good, even if he did not know why. He could still remember bringing her before the gates of Rapier's private Hell, only this Hell was called Alteron and sometimes rebel angels could escape from it, although it was not always certain they would regrow their wings. Could still see the Queen strutting in his minds eye, almost a parody of herself, spitting accusations with a gleeful fervour, a justified anger, jealousy, resentment. Once, Trent might have mustered a regretful, apologetic excuse - he was doing his job, he didn't mean nothin' by it, onnest - but now all that remained was a numb shackle of purpose. The Beetle was bound by duty, loyalty and obedience, and without such there could be no order and no control. Alteron was already running the verge of chaos. There was nothing more he could do.
But he did not regret it anymore. Maybe he didn't feel anything at all. A fleeting tug of circumstance, a morbid urge to see what Alteron had made of a hero in exile; if those suffocating mother's arms had deformed the spirit, if the spirit had held out.
... maybe just to look in a mirror and lie about the truth.
Trent set out at once.
So I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war
If you can tell me something worth fighting for
I'm gonna buy this place is what I said
Blame it upon a rush of blood to the head.
I'm gonna put it six feet underground
I'm gonna buy this place and watch it fall
Stand here beside me baby, in the crumbling walls
Raining again.
Hard sleet shot through glistening leaves, fine grey bullets shot from the sky's gun, which was in this case, black and varicose clouds slouching over a forest's canopy. The tree tops were a dark green and waxy phalanx against much of the weather, although an ineffective, rusty thing at best - it was as though nature had designed it to keep things from getting out, rather than get in. The rain pelted in anyways and wetted the forest in dismal shades, a water color painting gone askew. The earthy smell of pine and atmosphere was pervasive and intense but not entirely unpleasant, carried on the roiling mists wafting upwards in thick, misty clouds. Sound seemed to have abandoned the asylum that was Alteron.
Silent, all save the comforting patter of rain against wood and soil, a barrier of gentle sound pierced by the occasional cry of a solitary bird. A wolf threaded through the undergrowth with sure and careful steps, every line of quivering muscle and tendon along his body tense and alert with caution. There was an odd and organic grace about his being that mingled with a world-weary bravery readable in his grizzled, perhaps even knightly face, and an overwhelming sense of a burden - that of reluctant leadership. It was his expression that did it, both the one on his face and the language that bled through each step, a physical language. He was at ease here, or at least, well enough - Alteron was familiar and by extension, comforting, for he knew every inch like an intimate lover - yet something of the casual had been discarded from his nature and replaced with wariness, one open door shutting forever only to yield a dozen more just as shut. Still, his steps were quick and diligent, business-like, and he never once lost his footing. The rhythmic scything of his shoulderblades shed rivulets of translucent water, droplets knifing off the small of his back like shards of glittering, liquid glass. None of this bothered him.
How many times had Trent been here? How many cycles of forever - could he even call them cycles if they never approached an end? Here, not so much a place as it was an endlessness, a continuation of sameness that hovered about him, plagued him like some black, clinging apocalypse. Trees leered down at him even as Trent glanced expressionlessly up at them, looming with their usual dislike. Underfoot, soil turned to mud gulfed the gap between toes with a refreshing cool. Evidence of his speed was visible through clumping socks of dirt trailing up each limb.
Sometimes he thought of... of her; and later when he couldn't bear this anymore, sometimes he thought of the outsider drowning in Alteron. Sometimes he wondered if his precious children, who were no longer children but grown men and a woman, treated the outsider just as the screaming horde did. If they kicked and scuffed and tore at her.
Wondered if she'd drowned yet.
And sometimes Trent wanted to start a war, if only to ease the pressure of violence caught in his chest, a vice grip squeezing around his heart... only because he needed the release. No other reason, he lied. But Trent needed Alteron, too, that was the catch-22; the forest's umbilical cord had wound its way around his brain, wormed beneath his tender skin, and it sustained him well enough. What a formidable weapon Rapier had wrought (if not by her own hand), what a place she had found, a perfect trap indeed - Rapier was not the real villain in this tale, not anymore than survival, because the real villain was the forest itself. Long after they were all gone, nothing but so much dust in the fucking wind and bone meal ground into the thirsty dirt - mother Alteron would still be there, just as lonely and keening for babes as ever, though she'd have long forgotten her previous, misbegotten children, the ones who had rose and fell before the world moved on; would have put their memory out of thought and time. Until the next fools fell into the trap and the cycle began anew.
A yawning, abyssal sense of time and eternity suddenly dawned on Trent, disorienting, dizzying. He paused to inhale steadily, sucking in the clear air with starving lungs, head lifted to the misted canopy - only to catch a furtive scent blown in on a forlorn wind - a whisper of the outsider, a message, a sign. "You," He said, a gasping exhale. "Still maybe... alive," Incredulous but concrete - and this was good, even if he did not know why. He could still remember bringing her before the gates of Rapier's private Hell, only this Hell was called Alteron and sometimes rebel angels could escape from it, although it was not always certain they would regrow their wings. Could still see the Queen strutting in his minds eye, almost a parody of herself, spitting accusations with a gleeful fervour, a justified anger, jealousy, resentment. Once, Trent might have mustered a regretful, apologetic excuse - he was doing his job, he didn't mean nothin' by it, onnest - but now all that remained was a numb shackle of purpose. The Beetle was bound by duty, loyalty and obedience, and without such there could be no order and no control. Alteron was already running the verge of chaos. There was nothing more he could do.
But he did not regret it anymore. Maybe he didn't feel anything at all. A fleeting tug of circumstance, a morbid urge to see what Alteron had made of a hero in exile; if those suffocating mother's arms had deformed the spirit, if the spirit had held out.
... maybe just to look in a mirror and lie about the truth.
Trent set out at once.
So I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war
If you can tell me something worth fighting for
I'm gonna buy this place is what I said
Blame it upon a rush of blood to the head.
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I'M NOT MAD BATMAN! by a.l.e.x. of caution 2.0? (edited by Tori)