VENGEANCE ,

PEOPLE NEED HOPE. TO KNOW SOMEONE'S OUT THERE FOR THEM.

an independent portrayal. inspired by the batman (2022), joker (2019), & specifically the creative works and lores of both jessie (@jokethur) & abigail (@banschivs). based largely on personal interpretation as well as original headcanons. following a post-flood timeline. assume divergency & artistic liberties. by rionach, or RIO, 28, she/they.

DARK THEMES PRESENT. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. 21+ ONLY.

sideblog ¹ visuals ² score ³

Migraines

These started in his 20s, though at the time he experienced them far less frequently as he does now in his 30s. Bruce often has difficulty anticipating an attack, due to the fact that his body is in a near constant state of fight/flight or in a substantial amount of pain otherwise from his nightly vigilante antics. When a migraine does hit him, he can be disoriented and nauseous, and it's typically very obvious that he is unwell despite his seemingly 'natural' sickly veneer.

Photophobia

Bruce's photophobia is a direct symptom of his migraines; that is, this is when his photophobia is at its most extreme. However, it is a persistent ailment that he experiences even when he is not amidst a migraine attack. He works far too often with screens though they give him the most trouble when it comes to this pain.

Tinnitus

Ringing in his ears comes and goes as a result of various injuries and proximity to gunfire and other explosives sustained throughout his years as the Batman.

Chronic pain

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ—ㅤTRENCH ( accepting! )

Bruce’s  big  brother  might’ve  wiped  his  fingers  for  him  with  a  disinfectant  wipe  if  he’d  been  quick  enough.    As  it  were,    Bruce is  two  mouthfuls  into  his  cheeseburger  and  he  thinks  he  might  have  been  too  hasty  if  the  wad  of  paper  wrapping  caught  between  his  teeth  is  anything  to  go  by.    Bruce  swallows  it  anyway,    sparing  Arthur  the  displeasure  of  his  chewed  up  food  had  he  elected  to  spit  it  out. He doesn't even grimace.

The  youngest  Wayne  currently plays  passenger  princess.    On  his  side,    he’s  hunched  his  shoulders  like  some  sort  of  wild  animal  and  not  at  all  the  finely  bred  billionaire  prince  he  is.    He’s  never  had  to  hunt  for  his  food  in  his  life,    but  he  looks  like  he’s  wary  of  @jokethur  stealing  one  of  the  fries  in  his  lap.    Bruce  isn’t  even  aware  that  he’s  doing  it;    he’s  onto  his  second  cheeseburger  now.

“Irinka!” before his three-year-old bolts toward the parked vehicle that Nix spent the past three months fighting with a Belgian collector to repossess for a small fee of thirteen-thousand dollars to ship it back to the states, Joker slides his cigarette between his lips and scoops Lilac off the concrete by her waist. She giggles and swings her feet as if it were gymnastics practice as he flips and shelves her on his hip. Lilac loops an arm across the backs of her father’s uneven shoulders and rests her crown against his. He’s regretting giving her pigtails. The elastic cleaves a trench in his scalp.

Now that his toddler’s bulldozed what should’ve been a surprise, Joker pivots on one heel and adjusts his hold on Lilac so she bumps higher up his right hip. A red polyester curtain falls behind her as she waits for her father to sashay backwards without a sound across the concrete that took him, by him he means Gary, an obscene amount of time to coordinate logistics so it’d arrive unspoiled.

“There’s…” Joker pauses to lower Lilac.

She sprints toward the DB5 and wrenches the passenger door open. Its bright red leather interior pops even under the cave’s scarce light. The child disappears inside the passenger seat and waits for her father and uncle to approach. In the meantime, her iPhone slips from her coat pocket so she can set the PopSocket on its dashboard and track their Grubbs delivery.

Joker tosses a glance over his shoulder to ensure his little daughter’s staying put, then plucks the cigarette from his mouth so he, still walking backward like a tour guide, can punctuate with it, “Only 899 of the model left on Earth…so…” he clears his throat, “Naturally…” Werewolf gestures inside the vehicle once he stands parallel to it, “Your three-year-old birthday twin carved the dashboard with a rock she found on the way in.”

Lilac points out a very long, sad horizontal line that she’s hashed out at the end. Venting a plume of smoke from his nostrils, Joker lifts his eyebrows so the false comma-like pair painted on his forehead vanish.

He clarifies, “She says it’s you.” Another feature catches his eye. Joker throws a finger toward the gearbox on Lilac’s left and further explains, “Apparently Dad swapped the automatic out for a manual. It’s um…” his mouth quirks, “Road-ready, though…” out the side of his mouth he adds, “Not the way you drive. I…”

The placard on the dashboard spells, ‘Thomas Alan Wayne.’ Joker’s hands go up, tossing a smoky thread between the brothers.

As he says, “I-I’m not…exactly…the president of Dad’s fan club either,” Joker’s free hand, though trembling beyond his control, slips a long dark strand behind his little brother’s ear, “But…” His eyes avert, tracking the concrete as if any stagnant shadow might somehow lunge and tear what remains of his throat apart. When no such respite arrives, he blinks until he can feel Melpomene’s elongated diamond begin bleeding blue down his cheek. He shifts his torso and shoulders in a subtle oscillation that ripples from his trunk to his nape and reinvigorates him enough to admit, “He gave me you. And for that, I can’t hate him.” The cigarette returns to his lips. Joker’s thumb roves the slope of his little brother’s cheek as his fingers burrow deeper in his scalp. “I won’t.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ—ㅤHAPPY BIRTHDAY, BROOSE!

Bruce  clocks  the  model  just  as  soon  as  he’s  got  the  whip  in  his  sights;    Lilac  takes  precedence,    of  course,    and  her  uncle  anticipates  a  launch  in  his  direction  with  all  the  steady  foundation  of  a  base  gymnast  prepared  for  his  flyer  to  somersault  in  the  air  above  his  head.    She’s  not  exactly  interested  in  practicing  her  parkour  so  much  as  she’s  proud  to  show  off  her  vandalism,    but  Bruce  stays  ready  on  the  very  high  chance  that  she’ll  change  her  mind.  

Arthur  swings  into  focus  next,    though  it’s  difficult  for  Bruce,    a  steadfast  gearhead,    to  listen  so  intently  when  he’s  more  hands  -  on  than  he  is  interested  in  an  instruction  manual.    Or  a  lecture.    @jokethur  probably  knows  it,    but  if  he’s  put  off  by  Bruce’s  split  attentions,    he  doesn’t  ever  show  it.    Maybe  that’s  the  wound  of  brotherhood,    particularly  the  eldest’s.    Or  maybe  that’s  just  Arthur.    Bruce  wouldn’t  know  either  way;    he  only  knows  what’s  being  taught  to  him  now.  

The  coupé  is  pristine  barring  his  niece’s  artistic  upgrade.    Bruce  can  see  that  without  having  to  pop  the  hood  or  get  under  the  chassis.    He’d  like  to,    though.    For  now,    he  settles  for  following  his  big  brother’s  lead  in  this  orchestrated  dance  and  forgets  to  ask  how  he  got  away  with  getting  it  here  without  his  notice.    He’ll  remember  later  when  his  eyes  don’t  burn.  

Bruce  came  in  on  his  bike.    Removing  his  helmet  reveals  the  caked  black  caught  in  his  lashes  and  smeared  past  his  eye  sockets.    He  drops  his  utility  pack  somewhere  along  the  path  he  tracks  along  behind  Arthur  and  continues  to  eye  the  DB5  like  he’s  half  caught  in  a  dream.    It  isn’t  suspicion,    but  his  veneer  is  too  tempered  with  emotion  to  parse  it  one  way  or  the  other.    Either  way,    he  doesn’t  sniffle  because  he’s  allergic  to  anything  in  the  Cave.  

❝    Did  you  drive  it  in?    ❞  Bruce  poses  this  question  to  Lilac  when  he  ducks  down  to  admire  the  interior.    His  graffiti  -  style  portrait  plucks  a  wince  from  him  prominent  enough  to  dry  his  eyes  for  a  moment.    ❝    Nice,    ❞  is  all  he  offers.    And  then,    his  mouth  quirking,    ❝    Thanks.    I  like  my,    uh,    hair.    ❞