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Gotham High 66
The next day, Bruce was tired but pleased with himself as he parked in the school lot. His first night out had been a success, a very popular one at that. The whole school was talking about that shadow-man that attacked the school bullies, one of them must have talked about it.
"Bruce!" Oswald called as he and a few others rushed to him. "Did you hear?"
"The Bat Man," Victor answered. "Wayde kept talking about it, an individual wearing a bat suit attacked him and his partner last night."
"Made total fools of them too," Edward added.
"Well, I guess that taught them a lesson," he shrugged.
"How can you be so impassive to this?" Oswald asked. "I know you've only been here a short while but I thought you had developed the same animosity towards them."
"I just think it would have been better if we taught them a lesson, not some loon in a bat suit," Bruce answered opening his locker.
"I agree," Harvey added. "Noble as this vigilante's intentions may be, we should be the ones
Gotham High 33
Dr Strange was right, he had to face his fear. Wearing a full gear, even though it was a bit loose for him and he had to adjust it carefully, Bruce tied the rope to a tree then went to the old well on the estate. The light did not penetrate more than a few feet inside but he still climbed on the edge then slowly lowered himself in. After a while he had to turn on the flashlight attached to his helmet to see, every little sound seemed amplified in the dark, damp tunnel. In less than ten minutes he reached the bottom, ending up in part of a cave complex. He was a bit nervous and kept looking from left to right but because of the flashlight he disturbed an entire colony of bats that flew off the walls and surrounded him, turning into a flurry of black, leathery shapes. Bruce's first instinct was to duck but he tripped on the rope and fell, his helmet went flying into a rock, the flashlight breaking on impact. He was left alone in the dark but slowly he noticed there was light after all,
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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