[ The thing now facing him is getting worse by the second; flesh is falling from her face, her shoulders. Blood drips, pooling on the floor, threading down her torso from the gunshot wound that yawns in her chest. She's wearing pearls. They're getting ruined. ]
Sorry about this.
[ It's not to the hideous, shambling figure attempting to emulate Martha Wayne; it's to her son. He's heard that tone of voice before, half-broken, all anguish. It just about kills him every time. And if he lets it distract him now, it will kill him. Again. And then Damian will kill him. Again.
She lunges for Damian's back, for Bruce beyond him, and Dick's in motion in the next second, barreling forward to wrap an arm tightly around her throat, hauling her back even as she screeches and rakes at him with ragged nails. They open slashes in his suit; first clean, then bleeding sluggishly. The thread, where's the thread?
She thrashes in his grip, superhumanly strong, ferocious, but when she breaks free he's ready, brings an escrima stick down in a hard swing to her temple. ]
no subject
Sorry about this.
[ It's not to the hideous, shambling figure attempting to emulate Martha Wayne; it's to her son. He's heard that tone of voice before, half-broken, all anguish. It just about kills him every time. And if he lets it distract him now, it will kill him. Again. And then Damian will kill him. Again.
She lunges for Damian's back, for Bruce beyond him, and Dick's in motion in the next second, barreling forward to wrap an arm tightly around her throat, hauling her back even as she screeches and rakes at him with ragged nails. They open slashes in his suit; first clean, then bleeding sluggishly. The thread, where's the thread?
She thrashes in his grip, superhumanly strong, ferocious, but when she breaks free he's ready, brings an escrima stick down in a hard swing to her temple. ]