with strange aeons even death may die
On the outskirts of Boston, in the year 1929, there is an old house with an incongruous basement; basements are for tornadoes, and tornadoes aren't much of a concern in New England. Over the years it's been used for storage and the occasional hiding place, but mostly it's for collecting.
It's always 1929 in Boston, in this house, or at least it has been for some time. Certainly longer than 1929 should have lasted. It stays where it needs to, borrowing the tools it needs, but never quite fixing the problem. The evidence lays in footprints scattered across the floor, some fresh, some long lost under dust and dirt, and in the other remains. You can't stay in the basement, but sometimes you come back - because that's where it started, and logic says that where you walked in should be where you walk out, and there's no other way out, so it has to be here, and oh, God, you want to get out.
But you don't know the big question. You don't know: why here?
Bruce Wayne had been in Stigmata, doing nothing of importance and taking apart another PINpoint out of boredom and stress relief. He'd put that away, grabbed a cup of coffee, and hit the button on his hacked phone to go back home. Now, as he pulls himself as quick as he can from groggy and unnatural sleep, he knows that he did not go home. Blackouts aren't usual for him - hell, they're unheard of, his control doesn't slip, not on anything - and he's positive that the coffee he'd taken was safe.
He sits up, feeling the remnants of a headache but no injuries, and as he's taking in his surroundings he realizes with a certain sense of oh, fuck that his PINpoint must have malfunctioned. He'd been holding the device when he made the jump, where-- he grabs it off the floor next to him and flips through the screens. The display is broken, lines of green and black, coding shot to hell.
"Great." It's quiet, an exasperated exhale. His confidence is indomitable; if he got here, he can get out, it might just be a pain in the ass. He can deal with that. He pushes himself to his feet, dusts himself off, and takes a better look at where he is. He's been in basements before, but there's something off about this one - he can't put his finger on it, it's just a feeling. Not quite like he's being watched, not quite like there's someone about to strike, but something that tries to unsettle him all the same.
Perhaps, he thinks while looking behind a decrepit barrel, that feeling has something to do with the skeletons.
Hm.
Bruce takes in all there is to see, mind taking notes and processing details computer-fast, deciding promptly against lingering. He's not heard a thing from upstairs so far, and for all he knows he's being held prisoner here, but he's not about to try to crawl through a window before just opening the door at the top of the stairs and seeing what's going on. On the third step, beneath the noise of creaking wood, he hears a groan. That feeling amplifies and he stops, turning to look over his shoulder even though he knows that there is nothing there.
He's alone in the basement.
It's always 1929 in Boston, in this house, or at least it has been for some time. Certainly longer than 1929 should have lasted. It stays where it needs to, borrowing the tools it needs, but never quite fixing the problem. The evidence lays in footprints scattered across the floor, some fresh, some long lost under dust and dirt, and in the other remains. You can't stay in the basement, but sometimes you come back - because that's where it started, and logic says that where you walked in should be where you walk out, and there's no other way out, so it has to be here, and oh, God, you want to get out.
But you don't know the big question. You don't know: why here?
Bruce Wayne had been in Stigmata, doing nothing of importance and taking apart another PINpoint out of boredom and stress relief. He'd put that away, grabbed a cup of coffee, and hit the button on his hacked phone to go back home. Now, as he pulls himself as quick as he can from groggy and unnatural sleep, he knows that he did not go home. Blackouts aren't usual for him - hell, they're unheard of, his control doesn't slip, not on anything - and he's positive that the coffee he'd taken was safe.
He sits up, feeling the remnants of a headache but no injuries, and as he's taking in his surroundings he realizes with a certain sense of oh, fuck that his PINpoint must have malfunctioned. He'd been holding the device when he made the jump, where-- he grabs it off the floor next to him and flips through the screens. The display is broken, lines of green and black, coding shot to hell.
"Great." It's quiet, an exasperated exhale. His confidence is indomitable; if he got here, he can get out, it might just be a pain in the ass. He can deal with that. He pushes himself to his feet, dusts himself off, and takes a better look at where he is. He's been in basements before, but there's something off about this one - he can't put his finger on it, it's just a feeling. Not quite like he's being watched, not quite like there's someone about to strike, but something that tries to unsettle him all the same.
Perhaps, he thinks while looking behind a decrepit barrel, that feeling has something to do with the skeletons.
Hm.
Bruce takes in all there is to see, mind taking notes and processing details computer-fast, deciding promptly against lingering. He's not heard a thing from upstairs so far, and for all he knows he's being held prisoner here, but he's not about to try to crawl through a window before just opening the door at the top of the stairs and seeing what's going on. On the third step, beneath the noise of creaking wood, he hears a groan. That feeling amplifies and he stops, turning to look over his shoulder even though he knows that there is nothing there.
He's alone in the basement.