Shattered windows and the sound of drums...
Bruce Wayne is pretty sure, last time he'd given it any thought, he was climbing a drainpipe on the side of a factory down in the Narrows. It was pouring rain, which made the climbing a bit difficult, and he was grateful his--the Batman's--body armor was mostly waterproof. It wouldn't do for the Batman to catch his death of a cold. Fighting crime and protecting the city waits for nothing, not even the sniffles.
He's positive that's what he was doing.
So why did he feel pavement under his back? And very close under his back, no less, meaning something was wrong with his body armor.
Bruce drew in a breath, and pulled in his stomach muscles, righting himself, sitting up. And was immediately sorry he had done so, as his head all but exploded with sound. He opened his eyes, but that only made things worse. The world seemed too bright and inexplicably fuzzy.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the racket inside his head, but it wouldn't budge. It was as if he could hear everything, all at once--every passing car, every breath in by every passerby, every single noise for miles and miles. His head threatened to shut down to protect itself.
What the hell...? Gas? Weaponized hallucinogens? Had he fallen and injured his head? His hand flailed for his belt, for his radio, to call Alfred... and found only fabric. He chanced a glance down at his hands and it became evident why the pavement had felt too close for comfort--he wasn't wearing his body armor anymore.
This is how a tall, attractive young man in a very expensive Armani three-piece suit comes to be sitting in the middle of the sidewalk outside City Hall, bent nearly double, his palms clapped over his ears, eyelids squeezed so tightly shut it's a wonder his eyeballs don't find another means of exit.
He's clearly not having the best day.
He's positive that's what he was doing.
So why did he feel pavement under his back? And very close under his back, no less, meaning something was wrong with his body armor.
Bruce drew in a breath, and pulled in his stomach muscles, righting himself, sitting up. And was immediately sorry he had done so, as his head all but exploded with sound. He opened his eyes, but that only made things worse. The world seemed too bright and inexplicably fuzzy.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the racket inside his head, but it wouldn't budge. It was as if he could hear everything, all at once--every passing car, every breath in by every passerby, every single noise for miles and miles. His head threatened to shut down to protect itself.
What the hell...? Gas? Weaponized hallucinogens? Had he fallen and injured his head? His hand flailed for his belt, for his radio, to call Alfred... and found only fabric. He chanced a glance down at his hands and it became evident why the pavement had felt too close for comfort--he wasn't wearing his body armor anymore.
This is how a tall, attractive young man in a very expensive Armani three-piece suit comes to be sitting in the middle of the sidewalk outside City Hall, bent nearly double, his palms clapped over his ears, eyelids squeezed so tightly shut it's a wonder his eyeballs don't find another means of exit.
He's clearly not having the best day.