Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear

[restingstitchface]

WHO: Batman and Scarecrow.
WHERE: De Chima.
WHEN: February 13th, 9pm.
WHAT: Exchanges of words.
WARNINGS: Heated discussions. Nothing worth noting.

An old borough courthouse in the middle of a historic neighborhood. Too costly and complex to repair outside of being stripped and picked clean of asbestos. They called it a local icon. He didn't. After what he had done, he believed it a place where power dwelled. Absorbed in examining its vandalized interiors, its stone granite walls, lavish stairways and stained glass windows, all vandalized with graffiti, all he thought of was being in his court. In a hall grander than these, acting without inhibition and doing as he pleased.

He haunted the destroyed corridors, an eerie image caked in dust. Workmen had closed all doorways and windows with concrete blocks, leaving the court dormant and covered for a couple of decades. It made him inhale deeply. The dust! The musky odor! Truly, nobody else appreciated such timeless beauty. An indulgent smile, and he flexed his left hand and ran it across the wall. Removed some grime. Shook it off his fingers and wiped it against his tattered gown. Gotham had been dying like this. Poisoned with created chaos. Turned upside down and left to rot - but he had flourished in the face of his inevitable end.

His feet fell silent when he knows he's being watched. Such a violent end had never frightened him them. It wasn't going to frighten him now.

Comments

[chiroptophobic]

Face to face, Crane said, so for once Bruce comes in his full regalia to a meeting with Crane. He wears his cowl, his cape, and he doesn't travel with anything but his own shadow.

When Crane trips his remote camera, Bruce gets a live feed back at the house, and so he doesn't arrive any earlier or later than he ought to, stepping through what he sees, emerging into the shadows but not taking his shape yet.

He watches Crane instead. Crane is older, a little haggard, something a little madder in his eyes than there had ever been before. Time had changed him--and not a little time, either. He moved with him, soundlessly, watching him drinking in his surroundings.

And then he emerged, took shape.

"It's been a while." Not for him, but for Crane. How long, though?

[restingstitchface]

A familiar chill jolts his spine. He cranes forward, rocking on the balls of his feet, stretching, holding his breath, staring down from the bench at someone that isn't here for either of them. His court in Gotham had been so, so soon ago - he remembers it clearly, the roaring of the people as he elegantly wielded his power. Administering justice, banging his gavel, calling for silence and demanding order before offering defendants a simple yet beautiful choice.

He clasps his hands behind his back. Tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement, exhibiting a short-term patience that hadn't been there before. Chin up. Chest out. Shoulders back. Setting up his boundaries against this monster in the dark.

And then his lips curl at the cruel irony that Bruce Wayne had made it all possible. A death sentence for the rich pampered braggard feels appropriate. Tens of thousands of people like him had been in this position. There might be some relief at that.

He unfolds his hands, gesturing one in a flourish as he slightly tucks in his chin and asks, not turning round, hyped on his own power:

"Death or exile?"