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His back had started to ache. The slouching was habitual at this point. No matter how focused, how attentive he might have been at the start of this extended period of screen-staring, Bruce Wayne was slouching. Old pains were resurfacing, and a migraine loomed large on the horizon.
The unforgiving glow of the Batcomputer’s towering screen created an almost ghostly light as it washed over his armor. It always made him think of the old suit, the royal blue attire of the halcyon years. He’d see it if he had the energy to turn his unmasked head, encased in its honorary glass display case. Like a slice of solid time.
He sighed, a familiar weight pressing down on his shoulders. Getting lost in reminiscence was counterproductive, and years of self-scrutiny had led him to resent the idea of wasting time... Yet here he was. Reminiscing.
Everything was so personal nowadays. It was all about striking at family. The battle for Gotham’s heart. Personal history, and… revenge.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, then sighed once more as he moved to push back his night-black hair. He stood, rolling his shoulders and bending his neck to either side. This was doing him no good. He had… more constructive ways of processing grief. Of distracting himself. There was no doubt that someone, somewhere, needed him. Needed the Bat.
Then again, he supposed, he understood revenge. Or at least… a part of him did. The part of him that cried in the rain. The part of him that could hear the clatter of pearls on the ground. The part of him that was still in that alley.
Rumination was a killer.
“Enough,” muttered the Bat, “no more. Not tonight.”
He blinked, pushed those thoughts aside, and turned his back on the light.