Batman, By Definition
Nov. 16th, 2006 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shankieI'm not sure if this counts as a fic or a ficlet. Long ago, I talked about this idea I had about writing a Bruce who discovered... well, you'll see. One of those things I wrote really quickly and barely re-read, let alone betaed.
Batman, By Definition
Batman, Superman. Might be a PG or a PG-13.
Bruce has examined himself with depth, but has never done an in-depth analysis on his own DNA. The results require some discussion.
He was familiar with the sight of his own blood. Pooling deep scarlet that would dry to an ugly brown black as anyone’s did, and it was that he kept very close. With many things held intimate to his mind, that he wouldn’t forget, that he would never lapse into reckless abandon or lest his mind wander to a place that would keep him from his dedication.
Blood, that tasted heavy sweet and like iron in his mouth, that he was also familiar with. How it would smudge on the ends of his fingers or the patterns it made in smears and splatters. He knew what blood was better than most, his own the best of all.
It was many years before he realized the lie of that.
Of all the DNA analysis he’d completed in his time, both casual to eliminate suspects, or acutely important to find a killer, unlock some secret of an ailing metahuman in need of extraordinary measures. Or even discover a meta for what they were.
DNA was easy to collect, simple to process, its secrets known to him.
Like the jewel of the violence of blood, he knew it, as well as the smell of cordite and the burn of a gunshot wound. His life was lived in violence, and it was that language he spoke, whispering to it like lovers in the dark to bring forth her hidden bounty, or an assault in the cover of night, swift and brutal, only to find his lover there again, draped over furniture or floors and beckoning that he unravel every inch.
This night, there was no crusade luring him, no violence to heat his blood, and he contemplated a single vial in his fingers, black-red and thickly catching the light of his work lamp in a crimson glow. His blood.
He’d never subjected it to such analysis as so many others, and curiosity drove him to it on this quiet night, with nothing but the screeches of bats on their journey to hunt, flapping quiet chaos in the arches of his cave. Driven out before, but always, they returned.
If he held it in his hand long enough, it would begin to thicken and lose its macabre beauty, and he touched the needle mark in the crook of his elbow to think of how much blood had been wasted and spilled after so many years. In distant, alien worlds or fights that never felt as his own just as much as in the close corridors of Gotham, his lover’s boudoir and the seat of his soul.
The centrifuge hummed, the computers clicked quietly in their work, and he sharpened his batarangs to razor edges, waiting with a patience tested and forced into its strength. The glow of the monitors and the plastic edges of technology all took on the glow of a shrine to his humble offering, like a prayer to the faceless gods of vengeance made in contemplation.
It is a strange thing, to realize a fear long held, to suddenly be aware of it’s presence, striking viciously at sensibility and creating entropy everywhere it touched.
The lines and strings of decimaled numbers were familiar, and known to him, but not entirely in its humanity.
The printed out sheets of long technical analysis and the monitors still glowing told him something that had to be a lie, and he repeated the process long after dawn would be breaking somewhere above his work.
He flicked off the monitor, and saw his reflection in the blankness of black in contrast, light lining his sharp features and accenting the deep circles under his tired eyes, and he saw it as a stranger, turning away and looking at the most recent pinprick in his arm, still with a hard bead of blood dry there, black and dead, but there for healing, a faint bruise of his molestation of the skin around it.
There was still a watch he kept in his utility belt; the face no longer kept time, but it was the simple technology underneath he beckoned, as he hadn’t for many years, and waited.
When Superman arrived, he looked understandably curious. With so many ways to contact him, that Batman would choose the thing given long in the past, perhaps thinking it had been discarded or thought obsolete some time ago.
“Bruce, what is it?” He had a worried crease between his brows, his arms defensively crossed over his chest as he did, the red cape gliding down his back, but it was never like his own. It ended at his calves, an adornment without weights and Kevlar weaves, rippling in the memory of motion around legs wound strong of unearthly materials.
“How long have you known?” He threw a vial of his blood on the stone at Clark’s feet, where it splattered and shattered and bled like doubt in his mind.
“Bruce, I…”
“How long!?” he cried, standing angrily and throwing his cowl into the splatter of crimson on the ground, tearing off his heavy cape and wishing the symbol on his chest would tear away so easily. Designed to withstand more brutal assaults then his grip in it, the fabric held, and did no more than give some. “I’m not human. How could you keep that from me,” he said in defeat. “Everything I’ve done is a lie!”
“I am not human. You are.”
“Semantics don’t change anything.”
Clark sighed and began pacing, worrying at his hips as if wishing there were pockets there to stuff his hands into, rubbing the bridge of his nose at a pair of spectacles that weren’t sitting there. “Since Starro.”
“You never told me.”
“If you didn’t already know, I… I didn’t know how. You held it so close to you… were so proud that you could be so powerful without falling back on superpowers. Thought it was just a crutch for everyone else. What was I supposed to say?”
They regarded one another, and for the first time in distant memory, Bruce was the first to look away.
He was a meta. He was like everyone else now, another human blessed with some chance of genetics to rise above the others, but a gift more insidious in its subtlety. It was likely standard testing would never see how the RNA translated little changes to the human template. Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what the metagenes were doing in his body; but he could make several educated assumptions, hating how so many things began to make better logical sense than before.
It wasn’t much. It was enough.
“You never said anything.”
“Not a word, to anyone. God as my witness.”
Bruce stood in his raiment, feeling very much like a king that had stolen his crown and cheated into his kingdom, standing proudly in it all the same.
“I’m not interested in what any god would have to say on this matter, or any.” He’d stood before enough to know the truth of it acutely, and gripped the cape in his hands before he reattached it to his shoulders, let it drape around him like strength.
Clark looked vastly relieved. “So… you aren’t going to just… quit, then?”
”No.”
“But I thought…”
“My work is more important than I am,” he replied dismissively. “It is just another obstacle to be overcome.”
It didn’t feel true until he was alone again, breathing in the musty age of his throne room, if that was the metaphor he chose to use.
It felt appropriate, as he returned to his purveyances of the world, and noted the latest Biaylan uprising would require attention.
He'd lied to himself before, and he could do it again.
Batman, By Definition
Batman, Superman. Might be a PG or a PG-13.
Bruce has examined himself with depth, but has never done an in-depth analysis on his own DNA. The results require some discussion.
He was familiar with the sight of his own blood. Pooling deep scarlet that would dry to an ugly brown black as anyone’s did, and it was that he kept very close. With many things held intimate to his mind, that he wouldn’t forget, that he would never lapse into reckless abandon or lest his mind wander to a place that would keep him from his dedication.
Blood, that tasted heavy sweet and like iron in his mouth, that he was also familiar with. How it would smudge on the ends of his fingers or the patterns it made in smears and splatters. He knew what blood was better than most, his own the best of all.
It was many years before he realized the lie of that.
Of all the DNA analysis he’d completed in his time, both casual to eliminate suspects, or acutely important to find a killer, unlock some secret of an ailing metahuman in need of extraordinary measures. Or even discover a meta for what they were.
DNA was easy to collect, simple to process, its secrets known to him.
Like the jewel of the violence of blood, he knew it, as well as the smell of cordite and the burn of a gunshot wound. His life was lived in violence, and it was that language he spoke, whispering to it like lovers in the dark to bring forth her hidden bounty, or an assault in the cover of night, swift and brutal, only to find his lover there again, draped over furniture or floors and beckoning that he unravel every inch.
This night, there was no crusade luring him, no violence to heat his blood, and he contemplated a single vial in his fingers, black-red and thickly catching the light of his work lamp in a crimson glow. His blood.
He’d never subjected it to such analysis as so many others, and curiosity drove him to it on this quiet night, with nothing but the screeches of bats on their journey to hunt, flapping quiet chaos in the arches of his cave. Driven out before, but always, they returned.
If he held it in his hand long enough, it would begin to thicken and lose its macabre beauty, and he touched the needle mark in the crook of his elbow to think of how much blood had been wasted and spilled after so many years. In distant, alien worlds or fights that never felt as his own just as much as in the close corridors of Gotham, his lover’s boudoir and the seat of his soul.
The centrifuge hummed, the computers clicked quietly in their work, and he sharpened his batarangs to razor edges, waiting with a patience tested and forced into its strength. The glow of the monitors and the plastic edges of technology all took on the glow of a shrine to his humble offering, like a prayer to the faceless gods of vengeance made in contemplation.
It is a strange thing, to realize a fear long held, to suddenly be aware of it’s presence, striking viciously at sensibility and creating entropy everywhere it touched.
The lines and strings of decimaled numbers were familiar, and known to him, but not entirely in its humanity.
The printed out sheets of long technical analysis and the monitors still glowing told him something that had to be a lie, and he repeated the process long after dawn would be breaking somewhere above his work.
He flicked off the monitor, and saw his reflection in the blankness of black in contrast, light lining his sharp features and accenting the deep circles under his tired eyes, and he saw it as a stranger, turning away and looking at the most recent pinprick in his arm, still with a hard bead of blood dry there, black and dead, but there for healing, a faint bruise of his molestation of the skin around it.
There was still a watch he kept in his utility belt; the face no longer kept time, but it was the simple technology underneath he beckoned, as he hadn’t for many years, and waited.
When Superman arrived, he looked understandably curious. With so many ways to contact him, that Batman would choose the thing given long in the past, perhaps thinking it had been discarded or thought obsolete some time ago.
“Bruce, what is it?” He had a worried crease between his brows, his arms defensively crossed over his chest as he did, the red cape gliding down his back, but it was never like his own. It ended at his calves, an adornment without weights and Kevlar weaves, rippling in the memory of motion around legs wound strong of unearthly materials.
“How long have you known?” He threw a vial of his blood on the stone at Clark’s feet, where it splattered and shattered and bled like doubt in his mind.
“Bruce, I…”
“How long!?” he cried, standing angrily and throwing his cowl into the splatter of crimson on the ground, tearing off his heavy cape and wishing the symbol on his chest would tear away so easily. Designed to withstand more brutal assaults then his grip in it, the fabric held, and did no more than give some. “I’m not human. How could you keep that from me,” he said in defeat. “Everything I’ve done is a lie!”
“I am not human. You are.”
“Semantics don’t change anything.”
Clark sighed and began pacing, worrying at his hips as if wishing there were pockets there to stuff his hands into, rubbing the bridge of his nose at a pair of spectacles that weren’t sitting there. “Since Starro.”
“You never told me.”
“If you didn’t already know, I… I didn’t know how. You held it so close to you… were so proud that you could be so powerful without falling back on superpowers. Thought it was just a crutch for everyone else. What was I supposed to say?”
They regarded one another, and for the first time in distant memory, Bruce was the first to look away.
He was a meta. He was like everyone else now, another human blessed with some chance of genetics to rise above the others, but a gift more insidious in its subtlety. It was likely standard testing would never see how the RNA translated little changes to the human template. Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what the metagenes were doing in his body; but he could make several educated assumptions, hating how so many things began to make better logical sense than before.
It wasn’t much. It was enough.
“You never said anything.”
“Not a word, to anyone. God as my witness.”
Bruce stood in his raiment, feeling very much like a king that had stolen his crown and cheated into his kingdom, standing proudly in it all the same.
“I’m not interested in what any god would have to say on this matter, or any.” He’d stood before enough to know the truth of it acutely, and gripped the cape in his hands before he reattached it to his shoulders, let it drape around him like strength.
Clark looked vastly relieved. “So… you aren’t going to just… quit, then?”
”No.”
“But I thought…”
“My work is more important than I am,” he replied dismissively. “It is just another obstacle to be overcome.”
It didn’t feel true until he was alone again, breathing in the musty age of his throne room, if that was the metaphor he chose to use.
It felt appropriate, as he returned to his purveyances of the world, and noted the latest Biaylan uprising would require attention.
He'd lied to himself before, and he could do it again.
no subject
on 2006-11-16 11:43 pm (UTC)That was very, very cool. Yes, it would explain a lot, and man, would it be a blow to Bruce's confidence. But of course he wouldn't quit... oh, self-deception, your name is Bruce!
It is a strange thing, to realize a fear long held, to suddenly be aware of it’s presence, striking viciously at sensibility and creating entropy everywhere it touched.
All the blood imagery, Gotham the mistress, and the poetic way Bruce's thoughts are presented, very... well, poetic, yet almost dry and distant, it's a very good Bruce voice. He's stoic in his fears and feelings, but you can read how deeply he feels them.
Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what the metagenes were doing in his body; but he could make several educated assumptions, hating how so many things began to make better logical sense than before.
I love how collected Bruce sounds in his head, how full of spite... he's like a force of nature. With a purpose and path so set, you just can't move him.
This was great. I love reading Bruce fic for the sake of Bruce fic, you know? breaking him and exploring him and just seeing what he might do. He always surprises me.
no subject
on 2006-11-18 04:19 pm (UTC)I actually stole this writing style from the original fic I write about metaphysicians, not intentionally, but it just kind of happened. It's cool that it works with his voice, being all flowery and symbolic and all. Bruce never ceases to amaze me.
He's just way too awesome. XD
Manhunter
Can't wait for your next story :3
-A Bashful Boy
Re: Manhunter
on 2006-11-18 04:13 pm (UTC)I was wicked looking forward to J'onn showing up; I watched all but the last two episodes, and man, I can't wait to see it. XD
I hope that when you do read it, it's everything you hoped for. :D
I am still writing Prophecies, but three times now I've lost all my work on it, so... little frustrating. But I added on more just last night, so it's coming. I promise. :D
no subject
on 2006-11-17 08:51 am (UTC)the idea of bruce as a meta, what it would do mentally, and what it means for him as a character is so enticing, i'm surprised nobody's really thought about it before.
and he is just so remarkable that it kind of makes sense, but still kind of makes him a little less cool.
that was really great writing, very good characterization and some great desciptions.
woot!
no subject
on 2006-11-18 04:01 pm (UTC)I'm sure glad you liked it, though. :D
no subject
on 2006-11-18 10:12 pm (UTC)Not sure I figured everything out (but then again I rarely do) but I loved the interaction between Clark and Bruce and how Bruce stays true to form after suffering such a blow.
no subject
on 2006-11-18 11:37 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I understand all of it yet, either. I just work here.
no subject
on 2006-11-19 07:40 pm (UTC)Out of curiousity, what *is* his 'super power' supposed to be?
no subject
on 2006-11-19 07:55 pm (UTC)That's the part I didn't figure out.
It's more fun to keep speculating about it. But I had quite a few ideas going in; low-level regeneration, super-charisma, all kinds of things that he does way better than other people.
This came out of stuff like the Knightfall storyarc. His doctors all say he'll never walk without a crutch again and not even a year later he's back kicking ass in tights?
RIGHT.
no subject
on 2006-11-19 08:02 pm (UTC)And doctor's are wrong all the time.
They give you six months to live and you either live a lot longer, or die two days later.
They tell you you'll never walk again and there you go running down the streets a couple of years later.
They tell you that you can't have kids and you end up with a two year old eating up all your time, money, and food. lol
no subject
on 2006-11-19 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-11-19 08:55 pm (UTC)He can breathe in space.
Such a small feet is not beyond him. XD
lol
no subject
on 2006-12-11 09:42 pm (UTC)This was absolutely wonderful. Such a fantastic idea deserves a whole series written around it (hint hint). ;) I *really* enjoyed this. Kudos.
no subject
on 2006-12-11 10:06 pm (UTC)I would play with this more, but... the implications of making Bruce a meta scare me. Fo realz. Glad you enjoyed it, though. :)
no subject
on 2007-03-29 09:53 pm (UTC)And the writing style was so pretty in this! I really loved how you dwelled on blood, and what it would mean to someone whose work is so closely tied to it, what it feels like, smells like, tastes like. It was very poetic. :) And the interaction with Clark was terrific, too. I like the idea that Clark would keep this knowledge a secret, and wouldn't hold it or use it against Bruce.
Oh, and the last line:
He'd lied to himself before, and he could do it again.
*wibble*
Anyway, this was a great read, and an exploration of a really interesting idea! Now I just hope that this never happens to Bruce in canon ... ;p
no subject
on 2007-03-30 07:37 pm (UTC)But it's still good to hear that it really does fit with canon, and could be true. But, as much as I love super-powered Batman...
I worry about being too heavy-handed with imagery sometimes, so I'm glad you enjoyed the style. Thank you. :)