Those Who Fall Down the Rabbit Hole | Batjokes |

Part One

"Do not blame god for having created the tiger, thank him for not having given it wings"

— Ethiopian Proverb

He feels sweat prickle down his skin beneath the cowl. But he keeps punching, the man at the receiving end of the attack going limb on Bruce's grip from the continuous impact on his bloody face. He's unconscious, Bruce realizes, but his actions don't cease at the realization. It had been a dry night, tonight was. With Batman keeping the criminals at bay, thugs were temporarily off the streets— which was the whole point of all of this in the first place, he reminds himself. Bruce had started all of this, this masked vigilante thing, so that he could decrease the number of criminals terrorizing the city; his city. And, sure enough, it was working. Thugs feared the dreaded bat running around at night, which, in other circumstances, would've been an utterly absurd concept— except it was working.

And together with people like Harvey Dent—who seemed to have good intentions— and Rachel Dawes —who was fighting crime in her own way— the city became quieter, the streets safer.

It was good.

It should be good.

Except that it wasn't. The lack of action had made Bruce jittery, anxious. His hands were longing for something to grab, to bring into justice, to right. It had been days since he had an actual fight, and the absence of conflict was getting to him.

Who was he without it?

The random thought entered his mind, and before he could dwell on it, he spot it.

Finally

A hard-ass-wanna-be cornered a girl in an alley. From the roof he was watching the confrontation happen, Batman didn't think twice before sweeping in. At a chance of escape, the girl had fled, and the only thing the thug had done was take out a flip blade with a shaky hand before a tall, black figure smacked it away and went at him.

It was too similar. Way too similar. And Bruce was loaded with energy and anger he didn't know he had. As his fist met the mugger's almost disfigured face once more, he wasn't only beating this particular person. He was beating all of them. He was beating the piece of trash that'd had his finger on the trigger, the one that had left the bodies on the cold floor.

He was beating himself.

He heard himself laugh, a particularly heavy punch was followed by a crack and he made his body stop. It might've been the guy's nose, it might've not. Breathing heavily, he lets go of the mugger's shirt, the body harshly falling to the ground. Bruce pants as he takes his time examining the man. He should be disgusted, with the sight that meets his eyes and with himself for allowing his rage to get ahead of him. But he's not. He's glad, that the man's face is unrecognizable, that as long as he's out cold he won't have the chance of hurting any more people. And as violent as that thought may be, Bruce is okay with it. Because trash like that isn't worthy of being recognized to begin with.

Within his erratic breathing, and adrenalin high, a distinct streak of blood catches his attention. The man lies on the concrete unconscious, and Bruce ignores all of the injuries he inflicted on him in favor of a line of blood emanation from the man's hair matted head. The sleek red liquid almost resembles the stroke of a brush, as it undulates from the man's forehead to his eyebrow. It continues all the way to his closed, already plump, eye.

It doesn't look right, Bruce thinks in his weird daze— every trail has a destination, every stroke has a point. He thinks of last year, when he'd gone to Oregon for some kind of business meeting and somewhere along the line he'd seen Thor's Well . The hole in the pacific ocean had seemed almost sacred, the way it swallowed the water that never drained. That was a more appropriate image.