This isn’t how reasonable gangsters treat hostages they intend to return safe and sound. These assholes aren’t affiliated with any of the unionized Gotham gangs; if they were they’d know better than to mess up the merchandise. It’s not the money they’re after—it’s the infamy. They’re the wrong kind of professionals—the worst kind. Bruce gives up all pretense of detachment; he wrestles madly, kicks out until they pin his legs down too, then he pinches and twists and claws whatever he can reach, skin shredding beneath his nails in the scuffle. It’s not—no, it’s not enough, the flat tang of his own stress, the curtain of scarlet over one eye from the laceration over his eye. Too much adrenaline. Too much energy expenditure. Too much.
“I am a private citizen. I am a civilian. This is a goddamned act of piracy and a violation of safe conduct! I do not concede to this. No! No!” His body is struggling, squirming, fighting. They only bother to open him up so he won’t bleed out; frankly the lube is more than he’d expected but he can’t bring himself to be thankful—he’ll never thank them for it. They’re going to get away with this; there’s no justice in the world that can make it right.
There is no justice in the world but what they make. Bruce grits his teeth. “When this is over, I swear I will break you.” His promise is low and sure enough that the man putting his weight on him pauses in surprise. Bruce’s focus is on the pulse of blood in the jugular over him, and how much slack he needs to get his teeth in that neck. He lunges.
He’s slapped again, lazily across the mouth. His teeth clack together and he arches, jerking and thrashing. Not enough to harm, but damn sure enough to hurt him. He spits his pain right back into their fucking faces. When Clark gets here, he’s going to wipe the floor with these punks, with whatever Bruce leaves him to wipe up. Bruce shoves away the voice inside that tells him how little that matters.
Talkative Guy is, unsurprisingly, still talking. “Not as stupid as they say you are, but boy, buddy-o, do you have things backwards. I know who you think you are, richboy, but you’re just meat to me. You are too pretty to share, which is too bad, cause it’s gonna happen anyway. Still gonna fuck you good, right in front of all your rich friends, and the city’s gonna pay double what you just offered if they don't wanna see the rest’a your friends get it too. I like your fire - you keep them pretty eyes open. I wanna see em when I open you up. Then we’ll see who breaks first, deal?”
“No.” It means nothing to them, but he says it anyway. He goes on fucking record. “No. NO!”
There’s a flash; a camera. Bruce can’t push the thought aside: there’s a camera. They’re filming this. Everyone will know.
They’re professionals, but they’re arrogant and brash. His wrists burn; the electrical cord they used to tie his hands is slippery with sweat from his struggles. Bruce jerks hard, feels his skin split and uses the extra lubrication to scrape a hand free.
“Get off, get off me dammit, no!” He swings, vision half-blinded by fury and sweat, hits as hard as he can, barely registers one falling off of him before another comes in low, rifle-butt cracking across Bruce’s collarbone. There’s too many; god no, there’s too many. He has to calm down, he has to control the situation.
He’s not in control, the situation is fucked, Bruce is about to be—
They’re—
Ugly, wretched sounds for an ugly, wretched act.
He has to put each and every one of them into traction.
“Nobody’s comin’ for you, bitch. You’re nobody.” A bone snaps. He doesn’t care, he’s fighting—fuck witnesses, fuck their camera, he’ll rip them apart, he’ll maim every last one of them. “Settle down and we might make it easier on you.”
To hell with that. He flails an arm free again. Dislocates a jaw and hooks his fingers into a vulnerable kneecap, adrenaline pounding through him and sapping his composure. Fuck that. He rakes a face, grabs an errant hand and twists viciously, feels bone and tendon crush before he’s swarmed. No.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 4/?
No. He won’t! He won’t.
This isn’t how reasonable gangsters treat hostages they intend to return safe and sound. These assholes aren’t affiliated with any of the unionized Gotham gangs; if they were they’d know better than to mess up the merchandise. It’s not the money they’re after—it’s the infamy. They’re the wrong kind of professionals—the worst kind. Bruce gives up all pretense of detachment; he wrestles madly, kicks out until they pin his legs down too, then he pinches and twists and claws whatever he can reach, skin shredding beneath his nails in the scuffle. It’s not—no, it’s not enough, the flat tang of his own stress, the curtain of scarlet over one eye from the laceration over his eye. Too much adrenaline. Too much energy expenditure. Too much.
“I am a private citizen. I am a civilian. This is a goddamned act of piracy and a violation of safe conduct! I do not concede to this. No! No!” His body is struggling, squirming, fighting. They only bother to open him up so he won’t bleed out; frankly the lube is more than he’d expected but he can’t bring himself to be thankful—he’ll never thank them for it. They’re going to get away with this; there’s no justice in the world that can make it right.
There is no justice in the world but what they make. Bruce grits his teeth. “When this is over, I swear I will break you.” His promise is low and sure enough that the man putting his weight on him pauses in surprise. Bruce’s focus is on the pulse of blood in the jugular over him, and how much slack he needs to get his teeth in that neck. He lunges.
He’s slapped again, lazily across the mouth. His teeth clack together and he arches, jerking and thrashing. Not enough to harm, but damn sure enough to hurt him. He spits his pain right back into their fucking faces. When Clark gets here, he’s going to wipe the floor with these punks, with whatever Bruce leaves him to wipe up. Bruce shoves away the voice inside that tells him how little that matters.
Talkative Guy is, unsurprisingly, still talking. “Not as stupid as they say you are, but boy, buddy-o, do you have things backwards. I know who you think you are, richboy, but you’re just meat to me. You are too pretty to share, which is too bad, cause it’s gonna happen anyway. Still gonna fuck you good, right in front of all your rich friends, and the city’s gonna pay double what you just offered if they don't wanna see the rest’a your friends get it too. I like your fire - you keep them pretty eyes open. I wanna see em when I open you up. Then we’ll see who breaks first, deal?”
“No.” It means nothing to them, but he says it anyway. He goes on fucking record. “No. NO!”
There’s a flash; a camera. Bruce can’t push the thought aside: there’s a camera. They’re filming this. Everyone will know.
They’re professionals, but they’re arrogant and brash. His wrists burn; the electrical cord they used to tie his hands is slippery with sweat from his struggles. Bruce jerks hard, feels his skin split and uses the extra lubrication to scrape a hand free.
“Get off, get off me dammit, no!” He swings, vision half-blinded by fury and sweat, hits as hard as he can, barely registers one falling off of him before another comes in low, rifle-butt cracking across Bruce’s collarbone. There’s too many; god no, there’s too many. He has to calm down, he has to control the situation.
He’s not in control, the situation is fucked, Bruce is about to be—
They’re—
Ugly, wretched sounds for an ugly, wretched act.
He has to put each and every one of them into traction.
“Nobody’s comin’ for you, bitch. You’re nobody.” A bone snaps. He doesn’t care, he’s fighting—fuck witnesses, fuck their camera, he’ll rip them apart, he’ll maim every last one of them. “Settle down and we might make it easier on you.”
To hell with that. He flails an arm free again. Dislocates a jaw and hooks his fingers into a vulnerable kneecap, adrenaline pounding through him and sapping his composure. Fuck that. He rakes a face, grabs an errant hand and twists viciously, feels bone and tendon crush before he’s swarmed. No.