the rain pours down gothamās streets. it always does. he remembers, vaguely, one time when he was young where they went a full month without rain. his mother would peer out the window every so often up towards the sky, as if expecting to see storm clouds rolling in. and every year since then, thereās been rain often enough to keep puddles collecting in dark places through days when there isnāt any rain.
bruce has made everything to resist water. the boots are military-grade, all the technology made to function through water. itās been useful in the wake of gothamās flooding. the cityās changed. he can feel it. he can look out through the grand windows of wayne tower and practically see it if he closes his eyes, the new connections running through the streets in the wake of falconeās death like bloody lines.
so many of them, now, lead back to the penguin. itās what keeps his mouth in a slight curl of distaste when he makes it back to the iceberg lounge. enemy territory. to a degree, anyway. everything in gotham is his territory. heād know it gone blind. heād feel the way it turns over in its sleep, a great gnashing beast of concrete and metal.
āyouāve been keeping yourself busy.ā his arms are folded. rainwater collecting around his boots, dripping down from the capeānot that he cares about the integrity of the loungeās floors. itās seen worse. āeven pretending to have gone legitimate.ā the curl of distaste almost twists into something more amused. heās prodding just a little.
