OOC ➠ application . samples
Third-Person Sample:
4:23 A.M. in Gotham City. The Batman…was still awake. Bruce had promised Tim he wouldn't do any more work tonight-it'd been a long week for them both, and even Batman knew better than to stretch himself beyond his limits more than absolutely necessary. Of course, knowing better did not always translate into doing better, and though it hurt Bruce's pride to have Tim so adamantly herd him out of the Batcave as soon as they'd returned, given his actions tonight, Bruce could not honestly say he blamed the boy. To continue work, to refrain from overworking…in the end, it all came down to Bruce's own force of willpower and self-control.
Self-control which, tonight at least…had failed.
Bruce didn't need to suppress a yawn as he shut the door behind him and walked over to the closet. Sleeplessness was no stranger to the Batman; on nights like these, it was a necessary, if unwelcome friend. Bruce was exhausted, true, but he'd had worse nights before, and most definitely worse run-ins with the Scarecrow. Crane specialized in fear, after all-blood-curdling, throat-tightening, heart-stopping fear in all its vast and infinite variety.
Tonight, however...
...he didn't want to think about it.
Directing his thoughts deliberately away from the night's events, Bruce concentrated on a simple and routine task: undressing. He made his movements methodical-each button loosened with exacting precision, each yank and tug of the sleeves and pants careful and calculated to create the least disturbance to the rest of the garments. Perhaps the care he took undressing was but a conscious act to assert control over his surroundings-normalcy to both counteract and distract himself from the too-fresh memories of what had happened.
Or, rather...what had almost happened.
To be fair, the care with which he stripped was more than simply therapeutic; a few months' experience fighting was all it took for Bruce to realize the danger of small wounds-the little scratches and tears on the surface of skin and bone that were so easily forgotten and trivialized when measured against the bigger wounds-the ones that could stop hearts and cripple limbs. And yet, Bruce had learned over time that it was when they were forgotten that the little wounds mattered most; they hurt and rot and stuck on his clothes, and if garments were divested too quickly they tore open and swelled larger. If ignored too long they would advance past the "small wound" stage and become serious infections, at which point Bruce would have to pay attention.
The worst thing about small wounds, thought Bruce, is that they would have healed easily.
If only I'd cared sooner.
There were a few swollen areas on his arms and back that would likely bruise in the morning, as well as a scattering of older bruises and cuts around his torso. He'd have to disinfect them again when he came out of the shower, but for now, Bruce walked into the stall and turned on the water, starting to turn the knob towards "hot" before changing his mind and letting the torrent run cold. Cold showers were a common practice in the select mountainous regions of India where he'd trained-many gurus would insist on the practice of ishnan to clear the mind and hone one's control over the body. Bruce too had once devoted himself to such an unforgiving regimen; at one point, his body had been so conditioned as to be able to raise its own temperature in response to the cold in a matter of seconds. Over the years, however, Bruce had had to cut back on the cold showers to reduce the already high levels of stress and strain on his muscles and aid blood circulation to facilitate healing.
But tonight…what Bruce needed was simply to clear his head again. Clear his head from thoughts of a world without fear, a world where Batman sought thrills and easy solutions to difficult problems. The world in which he'd been submerged in but three hours ago…when he'd almost killed a couple of punks and the Scarecrow.
I didn't mean to, he argued at himself. I didn't mean to, and it was an accident. I've made plenty of mistakes in the past…this doesn't have to be different. I could take this as a simple lesson in the importance of restraint and move on…
He opened his eyes against the spray of the shower, flinching when the droplets of water hit his eyes, his nose, his mouth…
…That's what it could be, but...
...I cannot.
One thing was certain: had Robin not stopped him, Batman would most likely have killed the Scarecrow and that henchman tonight. Not because he wanted blood on his hands, but due to the sheer carelessness the Batman without fear had acted. It'd been a few hours and still Bruce could recall with damnable photographic clarity the feel of the Scarecrow's neck under his gloved hands. The thick cords of muscle pulsating and jerking in response to his grip on their flimsy, shuddering chords-the exaggerated bulge of Crane's eyes as Batman squeezed harder, harder-felt the blood slam and slow against his fingers and pool in the bruising blotches of pained, distorted skin. It hadn't been an unpleasant feeling then-knowing he could end this man and would, that he could get rid of the source of so many nightmares and would. The Batm-no, Bruce would have killed Dr. Jonathan Crane. Right then and there, on an abandoned Gotham subway, if Robin hadn't intervened at the right time and sprayed him with the antidote.
The antidote that returned to him his fear.
Bruce took a deep breath, an earnest attempt to relax and face the situation calmly-sort out his thoughts calmly and rationally as best a man who hadn't had a good night's sleep in three days could. It wasn't overly difficult; the chill of the water helped.
Bruce was no more a stranger to fear than the Scarecrow was, though his experience with it was not experimental but "hands-on." Yes, Bruce Wayne knew fear-deconstructed it, analyzed it, catalogued his response to it under different conditions, different stimuli, and for what different reasons. He knew the fear that came with losing what he wanted, that which made up the "unknown" and filled it with alternately impossible and horrifyingly plausible possibilities. He knew fear of others, fear of himself, fear of getting what he wanted and fear of everything out of his control (and even what was in it). Bruce knew that no matter what on Earth terrified him fear was a constant in his life that he could live with, that he faced daily, that he may never grow truly "accustomed to" and that was likely to keep him up in the mornings long past everyone else in Gotham had gone to bed, slept, and awakened.
Fear had its good sides and bad, but most importantly, it kept Bruce human. And when Dr. Jonathan Crane had taken it away…
…it had been a disaster. And, though he would never have admitted it to Robin or even Alfred…tonight had scared Bruce in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. And more.
It wasn't so much that a Batman without fear had acted foolishly reckless-those aerial stunts in the Batplane only confirmed Bruce's own suspicions that he did indeed possess something of an attraction for the dramatic and dangerous, despite all the conditioning he'd put himself through and the fact that the risk involved in his job as Batman had nothing to do with thrill-seeking.
No…it was more the implication that his fear was the only thing keeping Bruce from true madness that disturbed him. Granted, Bruce was perhaps not the sanest of people-nor the kindest. And yet, the one thing that Bruce had always been able to count on was his own self-awareness-his constant doubt of his own character and motives that kept him from straying too far from his original goal. But to know that his famed self-control meant nothing, had prevented nothing, and that all that kept the Batman from becoming a criminal and a killer like Harvey, like Ivy, like the Joker-
Whatever he had had to become, no matter what sort of choices he had made and would make in the future...Bruce had never wanted to become a monster. He didn't think he was-not yet, not now, not while he remained vigilant and wary of the millions upon millions of fine, fine lines that separated justice from dictatorship, motivation from revenge. And yet, sometimes he could not help but feel that...perhaps he had gone mad. That somewhere on the line, without his consent or knowledge, that he had in fact become a true and dangerous madman. Yes, perhaps he was a madman with good intentions...but intentions didn't define character. Actions did. And the way Bruce had acted tonight…
He'd spent too long under the cold water. When a knee began to feel stiff, Bruce turned the shower off. He was tired, he realized-thoroughly and truly exhausted. The drug that had given him such terrifying power had indeed taken its toll on his body-perhaps, even on his mind. Hated as he did to leave such a matter unresolved, Bruce needed some rest before he could face it properly-logically and reasonably, with proper thoroughness and detached observation. Rather than what he was doing now, which was simply fumbling around in the darkness, tormenting himself with thoughts of blame and confused morality, all tangled up in his head like so many wires against a backdrop of Gotham's electric, starless sky.
Tomorrow. Yes, he'd think of this more clearly tomorrow…in a few hours, after breakfast or lunch or whichever he happened to wake up in time for. He'd think of this tomorrow, but for now…he'd try to catch some sleep.
5:00 A.M. in Gotham City. The Batman…was still awake.
Additional Third-Person Sample (Requested):
A string quartet was playing Debussey in the background of an extravagantly held Bon Voyage party for Veronica Vreeland, wishing her luck before her excursion to the Amazon. In a room full of chattering Gothamites and socialites, there was no sign of any sort of panic despite the bomb threat sent to this very Manor but a few hours ago. Ignorance was bliss, of course; they did not worry because they simply didn't know.
One individual, however, was not so lucky.
Bruce Wayne sipped from his glass of cognac, one arm around Irene Pottsdenheimer of the Gotham Times and the other around Fifi-the pet Chihuahua. It was 9:15 P.M. and there was still no threat of either the bomb or a potential bomber; all these individuals were upper-class society Bruce could name on sight.
"-Bruce? Bruce? Are you still listening?"
The carefully blank expression he'd maintained quickly rearranged itself into a wide smile.
"Every word, Irene. Every word." He picked up another glass as the waiter walked by, taking a resigned sip and returning the Chairman's sympathizing wink with one of his own.
"Really, Brucie. This is just ridiculous! I get you away from that new little Latin girl of yours for one night and you can't even manage to pay me some proper attention? You wouldn't happen to be really into her, would you? Just some nasty little immigrant girl whose name you won't even-"
A stab of annoyance shot through him at the comment, but before he could do or say something stupid he reined it in with a low chuckle and raised eyebrow.
"Oh, she has a name, alright. But honestly, Irene-I just didn't see any point in introducing a girl like that to the likes of you. She is an immigrant."
Irene flushed, "N-not really, Bruce, but-oh, you know how the rumors get around..."
"You're not still thinking of those ridiculous tabloids, are you? I promise, Irene-Dick and I are-"
"It-oh, but Bruce! You know I didn't mean it like that! You and Dick would never-well I don't mean he's not attractive, but-oh, I just didn't mean it like that, Bruce! You know that!"
He shushed her with a gesture and a bland, laughing smile.
"Just a joke, darling. But you were probably right about the Latin girl. What with all the upper-class scandals lately it'd be bad for business if someone like me started associating too much with people of her caliber. You were right to point that out."
Her eyes lit up at the slightest hint of praise, and yet what should have been a welcoming smile only seemed to alienate, rather than endear.
"Really? Was I? Oh, Bruce..."
9:30 P.M. As if by clockwork, out the corner of his eye Bruce just managed to glimpse the sight of a black, strangely lumpy leather suitcase-concealed just barely out of sight against the wet bar, nondescript and deceptively harmless.
"Oh, hey, Irene? Sorry to interrupt, but I just remembered that I forgot to send that new suit of mine to the cleaners. I think I'll have to-"
"-what?! Bruce, you promised-"
"I promise it's not in that 'god-awful red' color. It's really not."
"That's not what I-!!"
He waved and smiled, the vapid expression disappearing only when he turned the corner. "I'll be back a bit later. In the meantime, enjoy yourself, alright?"
"I-but-Bruce!!!"
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"If I may say so, sir-you seem rather calm for someone who has just discovered the presence of a dangerous explosive in his family's ancestral home."
Bruce nodded briefly in thanks as Alfred handed him the belt. "Judging by the size of the suitcase, it's probably a simple Type 1 IED with a range of no more than fifty yards. It's Thriller's later concoctions that I'm afraid of."
"Bigger bombs, sir?"
"RDDs. A joint effort between Thriller himself and his buddies at Bludhaven Toxic Waste Disposal. Normally, it wouldn't be cause for this amount of concern, but there've been rumors the material's nuclear."
"So I see," Alfred said dryly. As Bruce pulled the cowl down over his face he caught a glimpse of that placid and yet warm expression in the mirror, and smiled.
"I should be home before curfew," he said as he stood, "But I can't guarantee it. You know how these 'dates' go."
"I've no comments to make on the subject of your nightlife, sir. But do try to be careful."
"I will, Alfred. I will."
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He found her in an alley not far from the Art Museum at 11 P.M., hunched over her cell phone with a haunted expression, as if being hunted. There was always moonlight in Gotham, and tonight it shown harsh and blue against the gaunt, brown angles of the woman's face. At first Bruce just watched her, from one of the old balconies above her head. After confirming that the location was secure and the two of them alone, he leapt.
"Calling someone?"
She dropped her phone with a shriek, eyes wide and terrified as she snapped around to look the Batman in the face. The Batman stepped closer, keeping to the shadows and letting the moonlight do all the work in creating the impression of a cold, unforgiving gaze.
"You...you-!!"
He stepped towards her, footsteps steady and slow. The woman tripped on her high heels as she tried to back away, yet met with the dead end of the wall all too soon.
"Sweetheart, maybe? Or...your brother?"
Her lips trembled. Defiant, even now. In some situations, perhaps such stubbornness could be considered admirable. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
"About you, maybe." The Batman's voice was low and gravelly, the deeper tones echoing around the alley walls like some sort of strange, dooming static. He spoke with no sign of haste, though the situation loomed dark and imminent above their heads.
"Guadalupe 'Santy-anny' Matute. Age 34, single, lives with a colleague and three male cats."
She was silent, now-her eyes lowered and her mascara messy. It left blackish streaks down her pale cheeks, but she didn't seem to notice. Bruce wondered fleetingly if he should perhaps attempt to be gentler. He had to be. If his memory served him correct, after all…
…she had nothing left.
"...I want to make my call."
"You use to live in Colombia until your father tried to sell you as a drug mule-"
"You can let me do that, can't you?"
"-and then you escaped with your brother four years ago to the States, where you started an underground business auctioning off your knowledge of South American trade connections and weapons trade secrets."
"Let me make my call, you bastard!" she screamed. The noise was shrill and loud, impacting the air with a fierce desperation. It was disturbingly quiet for a bit after that-as if even the rats knew better than to disturb such a scene.
"...you've considered leaving him, haven't you? Leaving the business?"
She stayed stubbornly silent. Good thing the Batman was equally stubborn.
"You could make a clean start somewhere else without him. Without the drugs, Guadalupe. Without the drugs or the fear. But you have to turn yourself in. I've talked it over with the police; they can lighten your sentence if you agree to testify."
Matute scoffed, "Do you really think the police would protect me? A woman, alone, friendless and having just betrayed her own family?"
She was quiet again.
"...I'd be no better off with you than I am now, Batman. If you think I'm going to crack, think again."
"You'd be safer in prison than where you are now."
"No, I wouldn't be. At least, where I am now I have..." She trailed off, as if suddenly embarrassed. Matute turned her face away, and as Bruce Wayne felt his eyes widen behind the mask the Batman felt an almost cold sensation of pity.
"Whatever it is you have," Batman continued coldly, "consider whether it's worth the price. If I don't uncover the location of Thriller's headquarters by tomorrow evening, by Monday most of the Gotham underworld will be armed with radioactive explosives that'll spread panic throughout the city. Nuclear radiation, Guadalupe, that could disfigure not only your own mind and body permanently...but your daughter's, as well."
Matute froze.
"...what did you say?"
"Thriller's released a-"
"Not that," she snapped, fresh anger twisting her features into a snarl. "The part about my daughter. How did you-"
"I have my sources."
"Not those kind of sources, you freak! No one knows about my daughter except the people I've told, and so far as I remember I've only told one person about her, and that's-that's B-!!"
The night fell silent again as Matute's eyes widened in new horror and revelation. Nostrils flaring as she took a deep, desperate gasp of air, the Batman could not even muster so much as a word of sympathy as the woman burst out sobbing.
-----------------------------------
It was near 4 A.M. when he returned to the Manor. Tired but triumphant, it was a strangely bitter taste of victory that overwhelmed his senses-filling his mind with a kind of metallic darkness, like moonlight or blood. It should have been a good night by most standards, and yet Bruce was more exhausted than ever, and wanted nothing more than to be able to collapse onto his mattress and sleep into next Tuesday. It was times like these that he was grateful for the social functions he attended as Bruce Wayne; there was no reason not to act hopelessly hungover until late tomorrow evening.
Bruce had just begun stripping off the gauntlets when Alfred came in carrying a tray of hot towels and mineral water. He took a sip of the water as he resumed tugging at his boots, closing his eyes and searching for the sound of bat wings against cold cave air.
"Did you have a safe trip, sir?"
"I think so, Alfred. The witness was secured. It…took some convincing, but she turned herself in."
He opened his mouth again as if to elaborate. Then closed it, deciding better.
"Gordon's promised to keep a close eye on her until after Thriller's been arrested, after which she'll go to the state prison with better security. I've got the interrogation down on tape; I'll analyze it more closely in the morning."
"…I see. Then I shall leave you to your rest, sir, though there is one more matter you might want to address before you retire. An unidentified lady called sometime near eleven o'clock this past evening. She sounded...rather emotional, to put it lightly."
Bruce stopped.
Stopped, thought…and finally, sighed.
"...it's alright, Alfred. I'll try calling her in the morning, but...I don't think she'll want to speak to Bruce Wayne for awhile."
"Understood, sir."
Bruce looked up again, "If that's all, Alfred..."
"...of course, sir. Pleasant dreams, and good night."
"Good night, Alfred...good night."
First-Person Sample:
[ooc note: Written in clear, block-ish letters in journal. Large signature at the bottom in model cursive.]
Now, I'm really not a big fan of diaries-nothing personal, just a bit big and slow for my taste. But with the way things are going here, I'm probably going to need a written record of this for my lawyer, since maybe he'll have better luck than I've had convincing the rest of you that none of this is making any sense at all. My name is Bruce Wayne. You know, Wayne as in Wayne Enterprises? And I don't care just what kind of bogus doctors you'd have to be to insist that I-out of all people-belong here, but I am not insane.
I mean, come on now. Let's talk this over like rational people. To lay it all flat, I'm a billionaire. A billionaire. What kind of reason would a billionaire have to go nuts anyway?!
[ooc note: The following is a note written also in the journal, but in a cramped, slanted, and carefully illegible scrawl. Page soon to torn out and hidden some place where it can't be traced back to Bruce Wayne. Paranoid bat is paranoid, after all. ]
dr. martin landel- doctor, psychologist, head of institute
b- false, never existed need help
HVAC duct route must thru cafeteria, kitchen, patient buildings---> bathrooms lead??
pitch, possibility: basement
damping between corridors CCTV?? wiring hidden
east wing halls quiet: possibility: cancellation generators?
priority: camera security in patient rooms? out of grounds? can't count on standard hospital regulations regarding privacy
May not be a Gotham City.
it isn't a dream. none of it. but what reason
find landel---> map, patients
4:23 A.M. in Gotham City. The Batman…was still awake. Bruce had promised Tim he wouldn't do any more work tonight-it'd been a long week for them both, and even Batman knew better than to stretch himself beyond his limits more than absolutely necessary. Of course, knowing better did not always translate into doing better, and though it hurt Bruce's pride to have Tim so adamantly herd him out of the Batcave as soon as they'd returned, given his actions tonight, Bruce could not honestly say he blamed the boy. To continue work, to refrain from overworking…in the end, it all came down to Bruce's own force of willpower and self-control.
Self-control which, tonight at least…had failed.
Bruce didn't need to suppress a yawn as he shut the door behind him and walked over to the closet. Sleeplessness was no stranger to the Batman; on nights like these, it was a necessary, if unwelcome friend. Bruce was exhausted, true, but he'd had worse nights before, and most definitely worse run-ins with the Scarecrow. Crane specialized in fear, after all-blood-curdling, throat-tightening, heart-stopping fear in all its vast and infinite variety.
Tonight, however...
...he didn't want to think about it.
Directing his thoughts deliberately away from the night's events, Bruce concentrated on a simple and routine task: undressing. He made his movements methodical-each button loosened with exacting precision, each yank and tug of the sleeves and pants careful and calculated to create the least disturbance to the rest of the garments. Perhaps the care he took undressing was but a conscious act to assert control over his surroundings-normalcy to both counteract and distract himself from the too-fresh memories of what had happened.
Or, rather...what had almost happened.
To be fair, the care with which he stripped was more than simply therapeutic; a few months' experience fighting was all it took for Bruce to realize the danger of small wounds-the little scratches and tears on the surface of skin and bone that were so easily forgotten and trivialized when measured against the bigger wounds-the ones that could stop hearts and cripple limbs. And yet, Bruce had learned over time that it was when they were forgotten that the little wounds mattered most; they hurt and rot and stuck on his clothes, and if garments were divested too quickly they tore open and swelled larger. If ignored too long they would advance past the "small wound" stage and become serious infections, at which point Bruce would have to pay attention.
The worst thing about small wounds, thought Bruce, is that they would have healed easily.
If only I'd cared sooner.
There were a few swollen areas on his arms and back that would likely bruise in the morning, as well as a scattering of older bruises and cuts around his torso. He'd have to disinfect them again when he came out of the shower, but for now, Bruce walked into the stall and turned on the water, starting to turn the knob towards "hot" before changing his mind and letting the torrent run cold. Cold showers were a common practice in the select mountainous regions of India where he'd trained-many gurus would insist on the practice of ishnan to clear the mind and hone one's control over the body. Bruce too had once devoted himself to such an unforgiving regimen; at one point, his body had been so conditioned as to be able to raise its own temperature in response to the cold in a matter of seconds. Over the years, however, Bruce had had to cut back on the cold showers to reduce the already high levels of stress and strain on his muscles and aid blood circulation to facilitate healing.
But tonight…what Bruce needed was simply to clear his head again. Clear his head from thoughts of a world without fear, a world where Batman sought thrills and easy solutions to difficult problems. The world in which he'd been submerged in but three hours ago…when he'd almost killed a couple of punks and the Scarecrow.
I didn't mean to, he argued at himself. I didn't mean to, and it was an accident. I've made plenty of mistakes in the past…this doesn't have to be different. I could take this as a simple lesson in the importance of restraint and move on…
He opened his eyes against the spray of the shower, flinching when the droplets of water hit his eyes, his nose, his mouth…
…That's what it could be, but...
...I cannot.
One thing was certain: had Robin not stopped him, Batman would most likely have killed the Scarecrow and that henchman tonight. Not because he wanted blood on his hands, but due to the sheer carelessness the Batman without fear had acted. It'd been a few hours and still Bruce could recall with damnable photographic clarity the feel of the Scarecrow's neck under his gloved hands. The thick cords of muscle pulsating and jerking in response to his grip on their flimsy, shuddering chords-the exaggerated bulge of Crane's eyes as Batman squeezed harder, harder-felt the blood slam and slow against his fingers and pool in the bruising blotches of pained, distorted skin. It hadn't been an unpleasant feeling then-knowing he could end this man and would, that he could get rid of the source of so many nightmares and would. The Batm-no, Bruce would have killed Dr. Jonathan Crane. Right then and there, on an abandoned Gotham subway, if Robin hadn't intervened at the right time and sprayed him with the antidote.
The antidote that returned to him his fear.
Bruce took a deep breath, an earnest attempt to relax and face the situation calmly-sort out his thoughts calmly and rationally as best a man who hadn't had a good night's sleep in three days could. It wasn't overly difficult; the chill of the water helped.
Bruce was no more a stranger to fear than the Scarecrow was, though his experience with it was not experimental but "hands-on." Yes, Bruce Wayne knew fear-deconstructed it, analyzed it, catalogued his response to it under different conditions, different stimuli, and for what different reasons. He knew the fear that came with losing what he wanted, that which made up the "unknown" and filled it with alternately impossible and horrifyingly plausible possibilities. He knew fear of others, fear of himself, fear of getting what he wanted and fear of everything out of his control (and even what was in it). Bruce knew that no matter what on Earth terrified him fear was a constant in his life that he could live with, that he faced daily, that he may never grow truly "accustomed to" and that was likely to keep him up in the mornings long past everyone else in Gotham had gone to bed, slept, and awakened.
Fear had its good sides and bad, but most importantly, it kept Bruce human. And when Dr. Jonathan Crane had taken it away…
…it had been a disaster. And, though he would never have admitted it to Robin or even Alfred…tonight had scared Bruce in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. And more.
It wasn't so much that a Batman without fear had acted foolishly reckless-those aerial stunts in the Batplane only confirmed Bruce's own suspicions that he did indeed possess something of an attraction for the dramatic and dangerous, despite all the conditioning he'd put himself through and the fact that the risk involved in his job as Batman had nothing to do with thrill-seeking.
No…it was more the implication that his fear was the only thing keeping Bruce from true madness that disturbed him. Granted, Bruce was perhaps not the sanest of people-nor the kindest. And yet, the one thing that Bruce had always been able to count on was his own self-awareness-his constant doubt of his own character and motives that kept him from straying too far from his original goal. But to know that his famed self-control meant nothing, had prevented nothing, and that all that kept the Batman from becoming a criminal and a killer like Harvey, like Ivy, like the Joker-
Whatever he had had to become, no matter what sort of choices he had made and would make in the future...Bruce had never wanted to become a monster. He didn't think he was-not yet, not now, not while he remained vigilant and wary of the millions upon millions of fine, fine lines that separated justice from dictatorship, motivation from revenge. And yet, sometimes he could not help but feel that...perhaps he had gone mad. That somewhere on the line, without his consent or knowledge, that he had in fact become a true and dangerous madman. Yes, perhaps he was a madman with good intentions...but intentions didn't define character. Actions did. And the way Bruce had acted tonight…
He'd spent too long under the cold water. When a knee began to feel stiff, Bruce turned the shower off. He was tired, he realized-thoroughly and truly exhausted. The drug that had given him such terrifying power had indeed taken its toll on his body-perhaps, even on his mind. Hated as he did to leave such a matter unresolved, Bruce needed some rest before he could face it properly-logically and reasonably, with proper thoroughness and detached observation. Rather than what he was doing now, which was simply fumbling around in the darkness, tormenting himself with thoughts of blame and confused morality, all tangled up in his head like so many wires against a backdrop of Gotham's electric, starless sky.
Tomorrow. Yes, he'd think of this more clearly tomorrow…in a few hours, after breakfast or lunch or whichever he happened to wake up in time for. He'd think of this tomorrow, but for now…he'd try to catch some sleep.
5:00 A.M. in Gotham City. The Batman…was still awake.
Additional Third-Person Sample (Requested):
A string quartet was playing Debussey in the background of an extravagantly held Bon Voyage party for Veronica Vreeland, wishing her luck before her excursion to the Amazon. In a room full of chattering Gothamites and socialites, there was no sign of any sort of panic despite the bomb threat sent to this very Manor but a few hours ago. Ignorance was bliss, of course; they did not worry because they simply didn't know.
One individual, however, was not so lucky.
Bruce Wayne sipped from his glass of cognac, one arm around Irene Pottsdenheimer of the Gotham Times and the other around Fifi-the pet Chihuahua. It was 9:15 P.M. and there was still no threat of either the bomb or a potential bomber; all these individuals were upper-class society Bruce could name on sight.
"-Bruce? Bruce? Are you still listening?"
The carefully blank expression he'd maintained quickly rearranged itself into a wide smile.
"Every word, Irene. Every word." He picked up another glass as the waiter walked by, taking a resigned sip and returning the Chairman's sympathizing wink with one of his own.
"Really, Brucie. This is just ridiculous! I get you away from that new little Latin girl of yours for one night and you can't even manage to pay me some proper attention? You wouldn't happen to be really into her, would you? Just some nasty little immigrant girl whose name you won't even-"
A stab of annoyance shot through him at the comment, but before he could do or say something stupid he reined it in with a low chuckle and raised eyebrow.
"Oh, she has a name, alright. But honestly, Irene-I just didn't see any point in introducing a girl like that to the likes of you. She is an immigrant."
Irene flushed, "N-not really, Bruce, but-oh, you know how the rumors get around..."
"You're not still thinking of those ridiculous tabloids, are you? I promise, Irene-Dick and I are-"
"It-oh, but Bruce! You know I didn't mean it like that! You and Dick would never-well I don't mean he's not attractive, but-oh, I just didn't mean it like that, Bruce! You know that!"
He shushed her with a gesture and a bland, laughing smile.
"Just a joke, darling. But you were probably right about the Latin girl. What with all the upper-class scandals lately it'd be bad for business if someone like me started associating too much with people of her caliber. You were right to point that out."
Her eyes lit up at the slightest hint of praise, and yet what should have been a welcoming smile only seemed to alienate, rather than endear.
"Really? Was I? Oh, Bruce..."
9:30 P.M. As if by clockwork, out the corner of his eye Bruce just managed to glimpse the sight of a black, strangely lumpy leather suitcase-concealed just barely out of sight against the wet bar, nondescript and deceptively harmless.
"Oh, hey, Irene? Sorry to interrupt, but I just remembered that I forgot to send that new suit of mine to the cleaners. I think I'll have to-"
"-what?! Bruce, you promised-"
"I promise it's not in that 'god-awful red' color. It's really not."
"That's not what I-!!"
He waved and smiled, the vapid expression disappearing only when he turned the corner. "I'll be back a bit later. In the meantime, enjoy yourself, alright?"
"I-but-Bruce!!!"
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"If I may say so, sir-you seem rather calm for someone who has just discovered the presence of a dangerous explosive in his family's ancestral home."
Bruce nodded briefly in thanks as Alfred handed him the belt. "Judging by the size of the suitcase, it's probably a simple Type 1 IED with a range of no more than fifty yards. It's Thriller's later concoctions that I'm afraid of."
"Bigger bombs, sir?"
"RDDs. A joint effort between Thriller himself and his buddies at Bludhaven Toxic Waste Disposal. Normally, it wouldn't be cause for this amount of concern, but there've been rumors the material's nuclear."
"So I see," Alfred said dryly. As Bruce pulled the cowl down over his face he caught a glimpse of that placid and yet warm expression in the mirror, and smiled.
"I should be home before curfew," he said as he stood, "But I can't guarantee it. You know how these 'dates' go."
"I've no comments to make on the subject of your nightlife, sir. But do try to be careful."
"I will, Alfred. I will."
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He found her in an alley not far from the Art Museum at 11 P.M., hunched over her cell phone with a haunted expression, as if being hunted. There was always moonlight in Gotham, and tonight it shown harsh and blue against the gaunt, brown angles of the woman's face. At first Bruce just watched her, from one of the old balconies above her head. After confirming that the location was secure and the two of them alone, he leapt.
"Calling someone?"
She dropped her phone with a shriek, eyes wide and terrified as she snapped around to look the Batman in the face. The Batman stepped closer, keeping to the shadows and letting the moonlight do all the work in creating the impression of a cold, unforgiving gaze.
"You...you-!!"
He stepped towards her, footsteps steady and slow. The woman tripped on her high heels as she tried to back away, yet met with the dead end of the wall all too soon.
"Sweetheart, maybe? Or...your brother?"
Her lips trembled. Defiant, even now. In some situations, perhaps such stubbornness could be considered admirable. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
"About you, maybe." The Batman's voice was low and gravelly, the deeper tones echoing around the alley walls like some sort of strange, dooming static. He spoke with no sign of haste, though the situation loomed dark and imminent above their heads.
"Guadalupe 'Santy-anny' Matute. Age 34, single, lives with a colleague and three male cats."
She was silent, now-her eyes lowered and her mascara messy. It left blackish streaks down her pale cheeks, but she didn't seem to notice. Bruce wondered fleetingly if he should perhaps attempt to be gentler. He had to be. If his memory served him correct, after all…
…she had nothing left.
"...I want to make my call."
"You use to live in Colombia until your father tried to sell you as a drug mule-"
"You can let me do that, can't you?"
"-and then you escaped with your brother four years ago to the States, where you started an underground business auctioning off your knowledge of South American trade connections and weapons trade secrets."
"Let me make my call, you bastard!" she screamed. The noise was shrill and loud, impacting the air with a fierce desperation. It was disturbingly quiet for a bit after that-as if even the rats knew better than to disturb such a scene.
"...you've considered leaving him, haven't you? Leaving the business?"
She stayed stubbornly silent. Good thing the Batman was equally stubborn.
"You could make a clean start somewhere else without him. Without the drugs, Guadalupe. Without the drugs or the fear. But you have to turn yourself in. I've talked it over with the police; they can lighten your sentence if you agree to testify."
Matute scoffed, "Do you really think the police would protect me? A woman, alone, friendless and having just betrayed her own family?"
She was quiet again.
"...I'd be no better off with you than I am now, Batman. If you think I'm going to crack, think again."
"You'd be safer in prison than where you are now."
"No, I wouldn't be. At least, where I am now I have..." She trailed off, as if suddenly embarrassed. Matute turned her face away, and as Bruce Wayne felt his eyes widen behind the mask the Batman felt an almost cold sensation of pity.
"Whatever it is you have," Batman continued coldly, "consider whether it's worth the price. If I don't uncover the location of Thriller's headquarters by tomorrow evening, by Monday most of the Gotham underworld will be armed with radioactive explosives that'll spread panic throughout the city. Nuclear radiation, Guadalupe, that could disfigure not only your own mind and body permanently...but your daughter's, as well."
Matute froze.
"...what did you say?"
"Thriller's released a-"
"Not that," she snapped, fresh anger twisting her features into a snarl. "The part about my daughter. How did you-"
"I have my sources."
"Not those kind of sources, you freak! No one knows about my daughter except the people I've told, and so far as I remember I've only told one person about her, and that's-that's B-!!"
The night fell silent again as Matute's eyes widened in new horror and revelation. Nostrils flaring as she took a deep, desperate gasp of air, the Batman could not even muster so much as a word of sympathy as the woman burst out sobbing.
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It was near 4 A.M. when he returned to the Manor. Tired but triumphant, it was a strangely bitter taste of victory that overwhelmed his senses-filling his mind with a kind of metallic darkness, like moonlight or blood. It should have been a good night by most standards, and yet Bruce was more exhausted than ever, and wanted nothing more than to be able to collapse onto his mattress and sleep into next Tuesday. It was times like these that he was grateful for the social functions he attended as Bruce Wayne; there was no reason not to act hopelessly hungover until late tomorrow evening.
Bruce had just begun stripping off the gauntlets when Alfred came in carrying a tray of hot towels and mineral water. He took a sip of the water as he resumed tugging at his boots, closing his eyes and searching for the sound of bat wings against cold cave air.
"Did you have a safe trip, sir?"
"I think so, Alfred. The witness was secured. It…took some convincing, but she turned herself in."
He opened his mouth again as if to elaborate. Then closed it, deciding better.
"Gordon's promised to keep a close eye on her until after Thriller's been arrested, after which she'll go to the state prison with better security. I've got the interrogation down on tape; I'll analyze it more closely in the morning."
"…I see. Then I shall leave you to your rest, sir, though there is one more matter you might want to address before you retire. An unidentified lady called sometime near eleven o'clock this past evening. She sounded...rather emotional, to put it lightly."
Bruce stopped.
Stopped, thought…and finally, sighed.
"...it's alright, Alfred. I'll try calling her in the morning, but...I don't think she'll want to speak to Bruce Wayne for awhile."
"Understood, sir."
Bruce looked up again, "If that's all, Alfred..."
"...of course, sir. Pleasant dreams, and good night."
"Good night, Alfred...good night."
First-Person Sample:
[ooc note: Written in clear, block-ish letters in journal. Large signature at the bottom in model cursive.]
Now, I'm really not a big fan of diaries-nothing personal, just a bit big and slow for my taste. But with the way things are going here, I'm probably going to need a written record of this for my lawyer, since maybe he'll have better luck than I've had convincing the rest of you that none of this is making any sense at all. My name is Bruce Wayne. You know, Wayne as in Wayne Enterprises? And I don't care just what kind of bogus doctors you'd have to be to insist that I-out of all people-belong here, but I am not insane.
I mean, come on now. Let's talk this over like rational people. To lay it all flat, I'm a billionaire. A billionaire. What kind of reason would a billionaire have to go nuts anyway?!
[ooc note: The following is a note written also in the journal, but in a cramped, slanted, and carefully illegible scrawl. Page soon to torn out and hidden some place where it can't be traced back to Bruce Wayne. Paranoid bat is paranoid, after all. ]
dr. martin landel- doctor, psychologist, head of institute
b- false, never existed need help
HVAC duct route must thru cafeteria, kitchen, patient buildings---> bathrooms lead??
pitch, possibility: basement
damping between corridors CCTV?? wiring hidden
east wing halls quiet: possibility: cancellation generators?
priority: camera security in patient rooms? out of grounds? can't count on standard hospital regulations regarding privacy
May not be a Gotham City.
it isn't a dream. none of it. but what reason
find landel---> map, patients