Post by Bruce Wayne on Apr 9, 2020 13:25:50 GMT -8
The thugs were expected: men wearing wifebeaters and carrying crowbars, metal pipes, and a few with handguns. The crates full of illegal drugs stuffed into teddy bears were expected. The flickering lights of the old building were expected. The curses of the men as his batarang sliced through the air, disarming several of them, were expected. The grunt then cry of one as Batman sent an uppercut into his jaw and a kick that dislocated the man’s kneecap was expected.
The truck that came crashing straight through the wall of the decrepit building and slamming into his body was not expected.
He’d had just enough reaction time to push the man with the dislocated knee out of the way before the breath was leaving his lungs and there was a crack in his bones. He blacked out—less than a second, really, but enough time for him to suddenly find himself on the ground, pinned beneath the front end of the truck and leftovers of the wall. Dammit.
“Old man, this is what we kids call being ‘royally screwed.’” Jason’s voice invaded his skull unbidden and he grit his teeth. It’d been some time since he’d last heard the ghost of his lost son—no, the voice by his side recently was more quiet, timid, but not without spark. Perhaps it was the absence of that voice that brought forth the old one.
He'd have to dwell on that later. For now, the remaining men were picking their weapons back up and advancing toward him.
The truck that came crashing straight through the wall of the decrepit building and slamming into his body was not expected.
He’d had just enough reaction time to push the man with the dislocated knee out of the way before the breath was leaving his lungs and there was a crack in his bones. He blacked out—less than a second, really, but enough time for him to suddenly find himself on the ground, pinned beneath the front end of the truck and leftovers of the wall. Dammit.
“Old man, this is what we kids call being ‘royally screwed.’” Jason’s voice invaded his skull unbidden and he grit his teeth. It’d been some time since he’d last heard the ghost of his lost son—no, the voice by his side recently was more quiet, timid, but not without spark. Perhaps it was the absence of that voice that brought forth the old one.
He'd have to dwell on that later. For now, the remaining men were picking their weapons back up and advancing toward him.