The Wayne Memoirs

Family

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 02:55:54 GMT

They were wrong. The old saying.

It's better to have never loved at all.

The Wandering Son

Tue, 05 Dec 2006 00:05:40 GMT

You and I see differently.

The fight for justice is more than winning the war. Blood will spill. Casualties will happen. The moment you pick up that knife with intent to kill? You become part of the problem, part of the war. You become the enemy.

Don't make yourself my enemy.

In The Afternoon...

Thu, 13 Jul 2006 23:52:15 GMT

The exercise goes beyond enjoyment. One might say it has become a discipline. The weights in the gym are available to stretch his muscles. The newspaper opened in front of him is there to expand his knowledge. Knowledge of what? Gotham and the people that call it home. He pays especially close attention to the reports of criminal activity. He forces himself to read the social pages.

Even in the middle of a hot Gotham summer, the library is cool. The fireplace will not see use for another couple months. He'll sit in the leather chair another half an hour before discarding the spent paper on the side table.

Father's Day

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 22:31:26 GMT

Five hours. Complete silence in that amount of time is enough to drive most men to distraction. Bruce Wayne however is not "most men". His eyes are fixed, his posture rigid. The hands shoved into his trouser pockets are clenched. On his face is a mixed expression. Anger does battle with sorrow. Loneliness shadows them both.

He breaks away, turning his head skywards. A deep breath of warm air fills his lungs. It does little to relieve the pressure in his chest. Only time will heal what he has locked away.

He scowls at the irony. Time... All men fall prey to its degrading effects. Yet it remains the only effective cure for the worst of ailments.

The headstone before him is in immaculate condition. It will remain that way for as long as the name Wayne has any influence in this world. He swears it. To himself. To the memory of his parents. To the man who lies in this ground beneath him.

Beside the granite he crouches. A hand reaches forward hesitantly. Fingers hover above the name engraved on the memorial. Suddenly his mouth is dry. So many things he should have said. So many things he wants to say now. So much that passed unsaid yet communicated clearly. No one knew him like this man did.

Calloused fingers fall on the name of Alfred Pennyworth.

Birds And Bats Don't Mix

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 06:51:39 GMT

Oswald Cobblepot runs a legitimate business. Or so he would have you believe. The last of the late night stragglers are wandering away from the Iceberg Lounge. The patronage has no idea that the owner's most lucrative endeavors take place after closing hours. The persona of Penguin, long since forgotten in the eyes of the public, thrives in the shadows of his insatiable greed.

He's unaware that his establishment has two new visitors.

Burning

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 17:16:09 GMT

[Open to robin_at_flight in follow up to this scene. Also open to _robin_3.]

Fire has a mind of its own. It breathes, consumes, and reproduces. Some scientists have even stated that fire is alive. As he rushes through the burning building, the dark knight is not sure he disagrees. The flames seem to reach for him, anticipating his every decision. It blocks his advancement. It cuts off avenues of escape. It carves the two story building into pockets of uninhabitable space.

He can still hear the screaming. A child, he judges. Female. No more than ten.

Always mind your surroundings. His mind is only on the fire and finding the girl. There hasn't been time to formulate doubt. There hasn't been time to answer two simple questions. Why would a child be present in this building? An office building just off the port district. In the dead of night. In what would have been a locked facility. Also, the child's cries are becoming familiar. Like they're...

"Looped," he mutters.

He turns sharply to escape the trap. An explosion of pain greets him. It's followed by the awareness of extreme heat and finally a blanket of darkness.

Mon, 12 Jun 2006 23:40:27 GMT

The brief case has seen better days. My eyes are glued to it though. Lucius lent it to me. Just something to keep the papers together. Employment records. For the plant in San Diego.

"Something wrong, sir?"

Alfred's voice almost startles me. Not sure why. We talk frequently on the trips back from the tower. I look up at him in the rear view. His gaze shifts from the road to the mirror in regular intervals. He looks concerned. I guess I've given him reason to be.

If I grip this brief case any harder, I'd rip the handle off.

"I just finished attending a meeting with the head of our aerospace division. Something Lucius asked me to sit in on. The west coast plant seems to be making quite a profit."

There's a pause from the front seat. My eyes go to the brief case again but I can feel Alfred looking me over.

"One would assume this is good news, sir. You don't appear to be pleased."

There's a burning sensation at the pit of stomach. After a deep breath, I tell him the rest of the story. "They've been cycling through the employees. Hiring them on as temporary workers then letting them go after a year."

"Not an uncommon business practice, sir," he reminds me. He knows where I'm going though.

"I don't care how common it is," I spit. "Doesn't make it right. Those people receive no benefits. Whatsoever. Even after the management staff took a raise, they had a pretty profit to report."

My jaw begins to ache. Workers are being gouged in my company just so that some pencil pushers can protect their bottom line.

"What do you intend to do, sir?"

"Have a plane ready for me tomorrow morning, Alfred. I'm making a trip to San Diego." A silence hangs between us in the Bentley. "I'm going to fire every last one of them. Then I'm going to find people to replace them that care as much about my company as I do."

I turn my head away from the mirror. Out onto the fields as we come into Bristol.

Bird Watching

Fri, 09 Jun 2006 17:45:45 GMT

Nothing like coffee to jump start the brain. There's a full pot waiting in the kitchen when I poke my head in. Alfred offers his usual morning salutation and an announcement that breakfast will be served in 15 minutes. He leaves it up to me to gather the troops. So much for "Head of the House".

When I left the bedroom, Christine was already in the shower. That leaves Alex. When I passed his room earlier, the door was standing wide open. Empty. There's only one other place he can be.

Coffee's good and hot. Looking forward to the rest of the pot. Once I've made a trip. The cave is nice and cool. Good place to do a work out. Alex has gotten used to slipping down here in the mornings to catch some time alone.

I find him on the rings. The shadows are a good place to wait. With my coffee. He's got a couple minutes left. Let him have his time.

For a fifteen year old, he's got an unbelievable amount of strength. He's agile. Flexible. A lot like Dick was at this age. I see some of Dick and Tim's influence in everything he does. One father, so many teachers. Alex lowers himself down slowly into a position of difficulty. Both of his arms are now parallel to the mat.

I can see his eyes shift. He's spotted me. It doesn't detract from his concentration though. He holds the form. The muscles in his arms relax and he swings down, using the momentum to initiate a flip that turns into a mid-air twist. It's followed by a perfect landing.

Wouldn't be a Robin if he didn't show off every now and then.

"Breakfast," I announce.

He gives me that smile.

Kids.

In Bludhaven

Thu, 08 Jun 2006 17:19:34 GMT

Crime in Gotham City rarely confines itself to the city limits. Before being rudely deposited on the pavement, Johnny Carmen fessed up to the location of the next cocaine shipment. It took a fair amount of persuasion. Nothing that suspension over the side of ten story building wouldn't solve. Carmen might feel the bruises for a week or so. If the syndicate allows him to live that long... A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

Bludhaven's protector is not difficult to find this night. Nightwing has his favorite spots. Trouble spots that need an extra eye. The younger man will find he's no longer alone.

Trains And Toys

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 19:20:35 GMT

There are rooms in the Manor we tend to gather in. The kitchen, the study, the nursery, the master bedroom. The rest are maintained but rarely used. I checked all the normal spots. No Christine. No Alex. Instead of searching the house, I found Alfred. He had the answer.

He wasn't startled all when I bolted up the stairs. In retrospect, he was probably involved.

The door was standing wide open to the extra bedroom at the end of the east wing. Running slowed to a walk. Walking slowed into baby steps. I turned in front of the opening and there they were.

With the trains.

I gripped the door frame so hard my knuckles turned white. I have no recollection of how long I stood there watching, struggling not to retrieve them. My wife and my two year old son. Playing with the trains. The trains my parents had given me. To Alex, they're toys. Instruments of a healthy childhood.

They stopped being that for me a long time ago.

Chris looks up at me. She knows. I've told her. I've asked her. Please don't disturb this room.

"Come play with us." There's a hint of desperation in her voice. I forget sometimes just how intimidating I can be. Even to her. The woman that I've sworn my life to. The woman who evokes the deepest of emotions. The mother of my blood.

I stand in the door a moment longer before venturing into the freshly aired room. On the floor I drop next to Alex.

"Daddy! Train!" He holds it and waves it in the air. The trains are new and exciting to the eyes of small boy.

I can't take that away from him. He deserves more.

"These," I handle the collection on the ground, "were given to me by your grandfather."

Joker's Last Laugh

Wed, 10 May 2006 04:12:25 GMT

April first. April Fool's Day. The Joker. Chemical manufacturing. Large crowds of people. The Mayor and guests. It all equals bad news. Surveillance of the Gotham City Convention Center has gained them nothing. Activity from the exterior has already either happened or will not happen. Time to shift their focus to the interior.

He fires a line and moments later, he's on the appropriate roof. He can't help but think of "The Last Laugh" as he looks to his partners.

"The security office," he instructs.

Verify

Fri, 05 May 2006 01:54:46 GMT

The assignments were split. The catering staff went to Robin. The decorating staff went to Nightwing. The in-house security he took for himself.

No hits. Not even a suspicious "new hire". It meant one thing. No inside help. Joker and his goons would go it alone.

With four hours left to spare, the trio makes its way to the Gotham City Convention Center. It's a grand structure, built in the gothic style common to the city. Gargoyles adorn it's flat roof line. Giant glass windows crown its second floor. A flood of light escapes the room. From their perch across the street, they can see the room is already outfitted with tables, chairs, a stage, and a plethora of decorations. Music equipment is set up but no band members can be seen. There's already security and greeters stationed at the front door.

The chances that Joker will show with an invitation in hand... Zero.

Progress

Fri, 05 May 2006 01:27:32 GMT

Painstaking effort is spent crawling, climbing, and repelling through the cave. Three pairs of eyes and five hours later, the cave is declared secure. No unexpected visitors this night nor on any other. With this task complete, they're free to move to more pressing concerns.

Bruce lets out a sigh and glances over at Tim and Dick. They're dirty, dusty, tired, scrapped, bleeding... A sorry sight. He doesn't look much better himself. The t-shirt he's thrown over Alfred's handwork is drenched in sweat. His ribs are screaming for relief. He sweeps a forearm across his face.

Above the subterranean cavern, the early morning sun is rising above the horizon.

"Get some sleep," he finally orders. It's as much for himself as it is for the boys. "Tomorrow we start the real work."

Mon, 01 May 2006 03:13:36 GMT

Title: Lonely Is The Soul
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera/Batman
Characters: Bruce Wayne (Christine Wayne)
Prompt: (078) Refreshed
Word Count: 318
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: Coming home never felt so good.
For 100moods

There isn't an inch of the suit not covered in grit or grime. It's found all the seams too. Worked its way under the kevlar. It grates on his skin as he moves. The thought of dragging himself through the Manor to the Master Bedroom makes him cringe. He's having trouble just placing one foot in front of the other. Luckily, he doesn't have that far to go. There's a shower in the cave, accompanied always by an extra set of clothes.

He peals away the layers as he staggers. In his wake, he leaves a trail starting with the cowl. The cape slips from his neck and gathers in a pile. The upper body armor unclasps but refuses to separate. The mud has started to harden, sealing the contoured piece to his chest. At that point, he decides maybe it's best to undress after he enters the shower.

The water is heated to one step shy of scalding. He steps into the spray and lets it hit his hair and face first. The filth starts to flow away from his bruised body and towards the drain. It isn't long before the grate is blocked. He pays it no attention as he strips the suit right down to the boots.

He stands unmoving, a pool building at his feet. The pressured water continues to beat down on him.

He waits. Breathes. Revels in the warmth and lack of dirt.

The peace is disturbed by a knock on the glass. He rolls it away.

Christine is standing as close to the door as she can without getting wet. A look of concern is etched on her face. Her hair is still styled and she hasn't yet donned her nightgown.

She'd waited for him.

"Are you all right?" Her tone mirrors her expression.

With eyes untouched by his weariness, he stares at his wife for a moment.

"I am now."

["Friends will keep you sane, Love could fill your heart, A lover can warm your bed, But lonely is the soul without a mate." - David Pratt]

Pain and Pondering

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 05:23:03 GMT

The trip home is passed in silence. His mind is only marginally on the road. What consumes him are the events of the evening. Not one but two problems. Joker and Jason. So intricately entwined. Both still at large. Both threats to Gotham and now to his family.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, he sits in the driver's seat longer than necessary. He can feel Tim's eyes on him. Wondering. Searching maybe. Thinking about opening his mouth to question his mentor and now father. Before Robin has a chance to say anything, the dark figure pops the hatch and climbs wearily from cockpit. He makes no attempt to conceal his injuries or the pain from his ribs. It's a clear signal that his thoughts are elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he registers the fact that his son has also pulled himself from the car.

Alfred is standing nearby, his hands stoically clasped behind his back. No doubt the medical supplies are already laid out and ready for use. He utters neither sounds of surprise or greeting. He simply leads the battered pair into the Medical Bay. A recap of the evening, he knows, will be forthcoming.

OOC: "The Last Laugh" Links

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 05:34:20 GMT

For ease of navigation (and the sanity of the mun), listed below are all relevant links to the story tagged "The Last Laugh" in order of events.

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/6724.html - The Last Laugh

http://users.livejournal.com/_robin_3/43954.html - Confrontation between Robins...!

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/7720.html - Pain and Pondering

http://users.livejournal.com/_robin_3/43497.html (Alt.) - Family Reunions...

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/8463.html - Progress

http://evil-robin.livejournal.com/302.html - Never Again...!

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/8837.html - Verify

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/9436.html - Joker's Last Laugh

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 04:43:41 GMT

Title: The Blink of An Eye
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera/Batman
Characters: Bruce Wayne (Christine Wayne, Alex Wayne, Sarah, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Leslie Thompkins, Alfred Pennyworth)
Prompt: (017) Confused
Word Count: Over 100
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: The waking moments of an injured man.
For 100moods

Christine. Siting in the chair beside the bed. Alfred used to sit there. When he woke up. From nightmares. From injuries. When he was a kid. Older. Still. The light is hitting her from behind but he can see her face in the shadows. Tears. She wipes at them reflexively. Please Chris. You know I hate to see you cry. Don't- She reaches out to pick up the picture on the nightstand. The picture of his parents in the silver frame.

Tim pushes back in the chair. He's looked at that picture so many times. He must know every curve, every indentation of the metal. He looks at them intently. Like he's committing their faces to memory. Wish you could have known them- He stands and gently replaces it on the nightstand.

She looks so tired. Now that she's on her feet, she takes the time to stretch. Work out the kinks. God Leslie- I meant to take you to dinner last week. Was going to surprise you. Bring the whole family. Why don't things go as we plan? She leans in toward him. Her fingers feel so warm against his wrist.

Sarah pulls away and drops the arm that has her watch. She seems satisfied. You should see yourself. You're going to make one hell of a doctor someday. If I don't get you killed first- She turns and starts to pace.

You never could stay still, Dick. Always have to be moving. Like it's your natural state. So much energy. So willful. So stubborn. Do things your own way. To hell with everybody else. I guess I can't blame you for being your father's son. You're better than I. At some point, you'll see it. Soon. Make it soon, Dick. He sinks into the chair.

Alex shifts. Trying to get comfortable. Know that look. Seen it on Dick, Tim. Cassandra, Barbara, and Sarah. All of you. Guilt. Shake it, Alex. Not your fault. Whatever it is, you did your best. I don't let just anybody follow me out. Did your job. Look forward now. He breathes out and snatches up the book.

Alfred flips to his place. So used to this, aren't you? So many years. You hide it so well. My old friend...

He deposits the novel in his lap, conscious of eyes upon him. "How are you, young man?"

Why does everything hurt?

The Last Laugh

Fri, 14 Apr 2006 02:25:32 GMT

They have the best vantage point possible. Three stories up and across the street. The light rain is more of a nuisance than a hindrance. Otherwise they have a clear eye shot to the front entrance of The Last Laugh. A sign above the front door reads "Novelty Items, Gifts, and The Occasional Gag."

Like the gargoyles that grace the ledge, they wait motionlessly.

Father and Son

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 19:16:31 GMT

Never has he imagined his life so full of grace. Crystal clear are his blessings as he sits in silence. Christine is in bed resting not ten feet away. The drapes are drawn to protect their privacy. In his arm as he lounges in the leather chair is a baby of three days old. It's not the most natural of positions for Bruce. He's forcing the muscles in his shoulders to relax. His gaze rests downwards on the newest member of this unorthodox family.

Alistair Thomas Wayne. So small. So fragile. So vulnerable. Completely and utterly innocent. So unlike anything Bruce has ever experienced.

His gaze drifts to the picture of his parents on the nightstand.

To the depth and breadth and height...

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 17:15:56 GMT

Old manuscripts and first editions. It was his first passion in life. It was as a child that the thrill of the chase began. He and Alfred would combine their skills and scour for information on the whereabouts and condition of a chosen classic. Weeks or months later, it would be delivered by certified post. For Bruce, the arrival was joyous but nearly anti-climactic. The hunt made the process worthwhile. The book itself was merely spoils of a well fought war.

He finds it eventually. She's chosen the perfect spot. When all is said and done, he returns each day to this spot. Even the most steadfast must sleep. At first, he's only conscious of the writing itself. The care and placement of the words on the paper. Her flowing cursive. A distinctive penmanship. Nowhere on the parchment has she signed her name. There wasn't any need.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

He stops. An involuntary cycle of information floods his brain. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. From a collected edition first published in 1850. In the periphery of his vision, he can see a copy resting on her nightstand. Facts. They're nothing but facts. His mind still seems to fall into the role of the detective so easily.

He starts over again.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

He allows the words to be formed in her voice. He hears her every inflection, every dip in emotion. The piece becomes more than just the object of a hunt or a prize to be obtained. They speak clearly. A wife's love for her husband. It's a love that grows deeper and stronger with each passing day. A love meant to withstand the test of time and trial.

With the sonnet still in his hand, he wonders what right he has to be so loved. He replaces it gently on the table where he can see it always. And be reminded.

[In reference to an original post by a__nightingale.]

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 05:47:52 GMT

Title: Mercy Oh Murcielago
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera/Batman
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Christine Wayne
Prompt: Playful
Word Count: 740
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: Even those who've grown old can be young at heart.
For 100moods

It's in the driveway. Tank is full. Top is down. Bright and shiny like it just rolled off the showroom floor. Lamborghini Murcielago. Silver. Zero to 60 in 3.8 seconds. A true sports car for the most well known of playboys.

Bruce Wayne considers the vehicle from the steps of the Manor. He's a married man now. His playboy days are over. Looking at the automobile though, he can't help but feel young again.

The door opens behind him. He glances back over his shoulder as Christine advances to join him. Twenty-three years as his wife and she looks lovelier than the day they first met. She ties off the scarf and slips on her sunglasses before giving him the sweetest of smiles. Nervousness taints her happy face. Even after all this time, riding in a car still makes her uncomfortable. He reaches for her hand, to comfort and to reassure.

She face drifts skywards. The smile grows stronger. "It's a beautiful day," she observes.

He squeezes her hand. "Let's not waste it."

Moments later they're racing towards the north-west. Away from the coast. Away from The City. Away from their cares.

"Damn thing carves corners," Bruce mutters. He down shifts into second, puts speed on coming out of the curve and floors it on the straight away. He skips third all together and up shifts into forth. Christine grabs the closest handhold and forces herself to breathe.

The road opens up. Eighty stretches into one hundred. One hundred becomes one fifty. One fifty blasts into two thirty. Two hundred forty. The draft catches Christine's scarf and rips it from her head. She cries out and makes a grab for the material. It's long gone though, sailing in the wake of Bruce's excess speed.

He moves his foot to the brake for a smooth deceleration. Christine turns to glare.

"Sorry. Got carried away."

Her wildly beating heart begins to slow. "That was my favorite scarf, Bruce."

He drops his gaze briefly. Turning back he knows will be of little use. The silk will ride the gusty winds for miles. He alternates between watching the road and meeting the stare of his wife. The question that follows is entirely sincere. "Can I make it up to you?"

One of her greatest assets. Christine rarely stays angry for long. "You may," she finally says.

Her disapproving frown soon returns to a smile.

"There's a great place not too far from here. Overlooks the ocean. Haven't been out there in years. What do you say?"

The smile widens. "That would be lovely, Bruce."

They've come nearly full circle, returning to the stretch of road that runs from Bristol north up the Atlantic. Bruce cuts the engine at Benson Point. The front wheels come to rest just feet from the edge. Trees line both sides of the strip.

"It's beautiful!"

On this clear summer day, she can see for miles out over the water. "Oh Bruce, why haven't we ever come out here before?"

He takes off his sunglasses. Somethings are easier to communicate without words. Benson Point represents the past. Another time. Another life. Another woman.

She examines him intently and eventually nods. "I understand."

She leans toward him and places her head on his shoulder. He in turn wraps his arm around her. They sit in silence and watch the waves. The hours bleed away. The sun begins to set.

"Come sit with me," he whispers.

"I am sitting with you." She doesn't move from her favored position.

"No. Come sit with me."

From her hollow, she glances up. The light eventually dawns. She flings herself upright. "Out here? For anyone to see?! Bruce!"

He grins. Seems there's more playboy left in the married man than suspected. Watching her squirm is half the fun. "Who's going to see us?"

Immediately she begins looking around. From tree to tree she wanders.

"The birds won't tell," he teases.

If she could place her hands on her hips, she would do so. Instead, she play slaps him across the chest. "Robins know everything!"

He seizes the opportunity. In one fowl swoop, he's lifted her into his lap. There's barely enough room for her legs next to his massive thighs.

"Bruce Wayne!"

The sound that follows her complete and utter shock is a noise rarely heard. Laughter. Laughter from the man who does not smile. Love indeed can make any man young again.

A Portrait of Gotham

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 17:09:38 GMT

I'm not going to present you with a fairy-tale image of Gotham. It's a hard luck town. It always has been. It's a place of dark tragedies and bitter ironies. A city of deep shadows and sharp contrasts. A city that touches everyone who lives there. For good and for bad.

I see Gotham as an anvil. One is broken or tempered on it. So many trials. So much misfortune. So little hope. But some thrive there. Gothamites are a tough breed. They're proud of their town and their talent for living in it. My family has lived there for two centuries. It was there that they built the financial giant that is a leading player in a half dozen industries. And it was Gothamites who helped build it. By their sweat and their labor and sometimes their lives they made Gotham a world competitor. Against all the odds.

Maybe Gotham is inspiring in its own way. Inspiration spurred by fear. Or something even darker. But despite their troubles and their setbacks, Gothamites keep going. And there's something noble about that. It's an admirable trait, I think. To hold out hope when all hope is gone.

Every city has its own personality. I like to think that dogged determination is Gotham's. It's a town that's never had its hand out. That's never played the victim. It's a town that's used to standing alone. It bears being feared and maligned and forgotten. It helps itself. Even when the burdens become too great. Even when it should be screaming for rescue. But the people of Gotham know that justice can be an illusion. And rescue has its price.

[Written By Chuck Dixon, Batman #561, Road to No Man's Land, Bruce Wayne Goes To Washington, Part II.]

The 100moods Challenge

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 02:20:24 GMT

The mun must be gluttons for punishment. One hundred moods, one hundred stories, one hundred words or more.

001.	Accomplished	002.	Amused	003.	Angry	004.	Annoyed	005.	Anxious
006.	Apathetic	007.	Aroused	008.	Awake	009.	Blank	010.	Bored
011.	Bouncy	012.	Broken	013.	Calm	014.	Cheerful	015.	Chipper
016.	Cold	017.	Confused	018.	Content	019.	Cranky	020.	Crazy
021.	Creative	022.	Crushed	023.	Curious	024.	Cynical	025.	Depressed
026.	Determined	027.	Devious	028.	Disappointed	029.	Ditzy	030.	Drained
031.	Ecstatic	032.	Embarrassed	033.	Enamored	034.	Energetic	035.	Enraged
036.	Enthralled	037.	Envious	038.	Excited	039.	Exhausted	040.	Flirty
041.	Frustrated	042.	Giddy	043.	Giggly	044.	Gloomy	045.	Good
046.	Grateful	047.	Grumpy	048.	Guilty	049.	Happy	050.	Hopeful
051.	Impressed	052.	Indescribable	053.	Indifferent	054.	Intimidated	055.	Jealous
056.	Kinky	057.	Lazy	058.	Lethargic	059.	Listless	060.	Lonely
061.	Loved	062.	Melancholy	063.	Mischievous	064.	Moody	065.	Morose
066.	Naughty	067.	Nervous	068.	Nostalgic	069.	Numb	070.	Optimistic
071.	Peaceful	072.	Pensive	073.	Pessimistic	074.	Playful	075.	Pleased
076.	Predatory	077.	Productive	078.	Refreshed	079.	Rejected	080.	Relaxed
081.	Relieved	082.	Romantic	083.	Restless	084.	Sad	085.	Satisfied
086.	Sinful	087.	Scared	088.	Shocked	089.	Sick	090.	~~Silly~~ Proud
091.	Stressed	092.	Surprised	093.	Sympathetic	094.	Thankful	095.	Thoughtful
096.	Touched	097.	Uncomfortable	098.	Vulnerable	099.	Weird	100.	Worried

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 03:46:32 GMT

It's not something he's ever going to get used to. It's been too many years. It's been his whole life. How do you rewrite a book? The cape and cowl now belong to another. They belong to someone he trusts, someone he's trained. Someone he'd give his life for. The suit however does not make the man. The suit is merely a reflection of what lies beneath. Strip it all away and what remains is still The Great Detective. While the body fails, the mind persists. He wasn't meant to be behind this desk.

The channel is open. He can hear Alex and Val making their way across the rooftops. The sound of the wind roars through the microphone. They're surprising quiet tonight. Most nights are spent wading through their familiar expressions and sexual innuendo. He makes a mental note to speak with Alex.

He doesn't do the desk like most people. Movement is his natural state of being. With his ears solely on the sounds emanating from the speakers, he shifts positions on the parallel bars. One hand on each bar to two hands on one. Turn. Swing down. Adjust the legs to miss colliding. Return to a handstand. Again. And again. Release. Catch. Return to a handst---

The arm buckles. He falls sideways, smacking his thigh on the second bar. It doesn't do anything to lessen the impact. A last second twist of his torso absorbs some of the shock. He lets the mat do the rest. He lies there for a moment, listening to the sound of the amplified wind.

The body fails.

Wed, 29 Mar 2006 21:35:57 GMT

Dick: "Do you think you'll ever give up?"

Bruce: "I'll be too old someday. If I'm lucky."

[From Detective Comics #725]