bakerstreet | the broken meme

the broken meme

The Broken Meme

You may once have been a great hero, or a modest regular person. But something has pushed you past the limit. There's simply no going back to who you used to be. To be seen now, your friends, your family, would they even recognize you? Your savior was too late. The pain was too much. The pleasure was too intense. You've been short-circuited.

You're broken.

A. Post with the usual stuff! Note somewhere if there are any options you aren't okay with.
B. People can reply, with a roll for their characters or ask if you want to roll for yours in that thread.
C. Probably some triggers involved here. Read at your own discretion, etc.

1. Pain.
You've been pushed beyond your limits and become light-headed, 'floaty'. The sight of your own blood doesn't provoke a reaction anymore, and seeing a friend might cause you to smile, or talk strangely. You might not even recognize them. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's alright now.

2. Lust.
No, no, no became yes, yes, yes. Dignity and self-respect have faded, replaced by an insatiable and alien feeling of want. You've reached a point where shame doesn't even occur to you anymore. Your eyes seem out of focus and your smile doesn't look right. Look, I've made so many friends who like me...! Do anything to me if it feels good.

3. Shock.
What has been seen cannot be unseen. A revelation about a friend, a loved one, an enemy- something has shocked you in a way you can never reverse. It may change not only the way you look at someone or something, but also the way you see the rest of your life. I saw nothing, I saw nothing, I saw...

4. Oppressed.
What's it like outside my cage? Your spirit of rebellion or confidence has been cracked, and your rescuers might not be there in time to salvage what's left of your spirits. You've long since accepted that getting away from this oppression is impossible- Perhaps you've even become attached to it as the only way to live life. Yes, sir. No, sir. Sorry, sir.

5. Corruption.
Something has eroded you. You're not like you used to be. You're obsessive, your face is darker. You may even see who you were before as weak or useless. Whether it's a magic ring or Phazon infecting your body, you're going grimdark and it's looking a little too late to pull you out of it. This power is far greater than what I had before! To think I used to believe in justice!

6. Hysteria.
When you talk, you don't make any sense. Pure Charisma Break. Maybe you were a god stripped of your might, or you've suffered a terrible defeat. Either way your ego has snapped, leaving you a total mess and unable to function. But how could this be? How could I lose?!

7. Desperation.
Where before you were airy, confident, in control of yourself, you're now a ragged and fuming pile of hopeless anger. As a fighter you may have been careful or even graceful; now you swing wildly, strike without precision. You simply cannot accept the situation, cannot accept your own fall. It's not over! I'm still in control! I can still fix everything!

You can mix/change/double-up/whatever on these. Enjoy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[Moving means running, here. He's already on the ground, and the ability to get up and grapple on or swing just isn't going to speed him up. Flat out springing through the streets, over cars, around buildings and effectively bowling over the few people still out are the best he can do.

He's within sight of Clark's location when the flash of light and sound of glass, concrete, steel and everything else goes off. He pauses for barely a second, then grits his teeth and runs toward it, and into the blast of still heated air to find Clark.

Because of course Clark is there, somewhere. Or... the pieces of him are. He's never hated his own humanity and the limits it imposes on him more.]

[when clark comes to (he hasn't had to deal with being properly concussed since he was a child. it's a strange feeling to say the least.), it's dark, the air is hot and makes him cough, and he's having a lot of trouble getting his bearings.

he remembered bits and pieces. he remembered lex. his own confusion. it was strange the way he could still show up and it almost felt like old times back in smallville with his best friend. they'd been practically inseparable before it all ended up too much. clark reluctant to accept his role in life, and lex jealous. one of the few who had figured out his secret.

he hated him for not wanting to be who he was. but then he told him once that a hero is only as good as their villain. at the time he hadn't realized it was a promise, of sorts.

a promise of pain and trials to come, and he was reminded of that conversation from so long ago when he'd brandished the kryptonite, attached to the handle of a knife. something old and ornate that looked like it came from the old luthor mansion back in smallville. clark knows his weaknesses, and he's known for a long time that lex is a big one.

guess now he knew just how big.

he'd been too slow, partially because of who he was fighting, and what lex had. then the shock of pain, which he wasn't used to feeling, startled him enough to distract, and he looked down at the slice across his palm. it'd been enough of an opening for the knife to find it's way home into his side, and he cried out, stuttering out a breath, gripping lex's shoulder as he tried to keep his feet under him.

he'd said something, but it was hard to make out. pain and weakness making him feel dizzy and sick. something about "a friend" on the way, and lex having to run before the fireworks started.

it was a little odd, and weirdly funny that he thought that this must have been one of the reasons why bruce constantly insisted on teaching him hand to hand techniques. that was the last thing he remembered before the building rattled, and exploded around him.

he tried to shift, and immediately regretted it, shifting the knife still in his side. he gritted his teeth hard enough hurt, and stifled the pained noise, eyes stinging. he needed to get it out, but he didn't have a lot of room. he didn't know how far down he was under the rubble, or even if his comm would work. it didn't stop him from trying, though.

his voice his ragged with pain.] B---Batman? [a lungful of dust and hot air sets him coughing violently, and he groans.]

Ca---can you hear me?

[Bruce didn't know how big of one yet. He didn't have enough information about what had happened between them before, or any information about what had happened between them right before the building blew up.

He really hated a lack of information and he hated it more when facing a pile of rubble that was a friend's last known location.

'Friend'. Even thinking of Clark as that was remarkable, though it didn't really encompass all the complications.

If he's still alive.

That question is answered by the crackle of the comm in his ear, though from the sound of it he doesn't know for how much longer.]

Yes. [His voice is tense, hoarse, and gravely with more than the effort to disguise it.] I can hear you and I'm somewhere above you. You need to stay still and keep talking. [While Bruce started locating Bruce in the rubble, at least approximately, and moving debris.]

[his sigh of relief, despite the pain he's in, is easily heard. bruce's voice in his ear is a welcome distraction from a dire situation.

he's not moving, outside of breathing in short, shallow breaths, but he can hear the structures above groaning in protest, and dirt trickling down. he's about to tell him that he's not sure what it is that he should talk about, but then he remembers that luthor had been here. he might still be nearby.]

Be careful, Batman. Lex was here. [a small slip-up. he usually only referred to him as luthor. a poorly disguised attempt to hide what lex used to say was hope in his voice whenever he said it.]

---just be careful. [his side hurts. he can feel pressure and warmth there as well.]

Edited (whoops name there) 2014-12-01 01:06 (UTC)

[He can hear the way Clark's breathing and can ...extrapolate a few things from it. A few possible things, at least, though he can't know the specifics yet.]

He was here, he blew up a building and hurt you and you're calling him by a nickname?

[That's very boyscoutish. Unusually so, even for Superman. It also ticks Bruce off, though of course he's being careful in trying to shift rubble without destabilizing the whole pile.]

Is the Kryptonite with you? [Stupid question, but confirm it and keep talking.]

[the way bruce says it takes him somewhat by surprise and he gives a short, pained laugh that results in another coughing fit.]

Less---nickname just what he preferred.

[bruce was going to find out one way or another, he supposed, but clark had hoped to manage to find a way to tell him himself. to explain what it is that made lex such an easy weakness to exploit. why he just couldn't give up on his crusade to save him.]

It's---it's a long story.

[clark looks down, blinking dust and dirt out of his eyes, to look at where he'd been stabbed. the knife is still there, with the kryptonite attached to it. he's trying not to think of how weak and nauseous he feels now. trying not to think of the fact that this little green rock will kill him if he doesn't get out of there soon.]

Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.

[The coughing, the sound of Clark's voice and way he's talking sends a chill through Bruce. He can't move much faster than he is now, not safely, but is wants to. He wants to push through this mess to get to Clark and get him out of there right now. Get him away from what's poisoning him.

All he can do is keep moving carefully toward his position, clearing away best he can without compromising stability. The upper levels are, at least, easier than it will be a bit further down.]

It seems you've got time for long stories now. Start telling me. [Stay conscious, please.] I'm on my way. Hold on and tell me the story.

[clark tries to keep his breathing even, but it hitches every time he pulls one in, sending sharp pain through his side. he feels a little dizzy, but honestly he's not sure if that's from the kryptonite or if he's bleeding more than he can see. he knows better than to pull the blade out, at least. it would still be too close to him to do a lot of good with his body taking over and healing itself.]

Stories---[where does he start? he supposes the beginning is best.]---I met---met him when he ran his car into me and off a bridge. He was---[he can't help a weak laugh at remembering the note lex had written when he'd tried to give him the truck as a thank you.]---a maniac driving a porsche.

I pulled him out of the car. Gave him CPR. I saved his life.

[If Clark had tried to pull that knife out in confined quarters, even if Bruce realized there was a knife inside him, he would have killed Clark himself. As painful as it was, it was acting to keep at least some blood inside him.

The shortness of breath and stop and start talking are all he needs to know about Clark's condition. He almost doesn't even really listen to the story, just his voice as Bruce works at moving an entire building with his hands.

Carefully, but as fast as he can until Clark should, at least, be seeing tiny bits of light starting to filter down. If Clark's eyes are open and he's capable.]

It sounds like maniac is accurate. And it doesn't sound like he was grateful for being alive. He always knew what you were?

[it's less the pain of the knife, while that does hurt, and more getting the kryptonite away from him. even if bleeding out didn't do him in, the prolonged exposure will.

he hears more dirt trickling, and things shifting above him. he blinks dust out of his eyes, and sees light slipping through the chunks of concrete above him.]

It---was an accident. A truck lost part of it's cargo, he swerved, and I was---was sitting on the bridge.

[another cough, and he reaches up towards the small sliver of light nearest to him.]

He was grateful. W--we were friends, but he didn't know for a long time.

["when we first met, you inspired me. all i ever wanted was to be your friend, but all you ever did was turn your back on me."

"so you're the person you are today because of me? i tried to be your friend, lex."]

It---it fell apart. [the waver in his voice isn't from pain, at least not the physical kind.]

[Obviously it fell apart, Bruce thinks with some part of his mind not occupied with continuing to move rubble, move it aside, clear his way down. There's a sound of sirens, somewhere, moving closer and probably responding to reports of the explosion. Or maybe they're going somewhere else.

The Gotham Police aren't exactly above board. Metropolis is better. How much better, Clark would know better than he does.

He thinks he's not far, not too far, from Clark now and that's good. Because there's that part of his brain monitoring Clark's voice, too, and wishing he could hear his pulse. He really hates his humanity - or the limitations of it, at least.]

Why did it fall apart? What happened?

He---[a rasping breath, and he can make out the sirens. they do seem like they're getting closer to their location. clark hopes bruce can get him out of there before they get here. they don't exactly need an audience.]

--he was jealous. Thought I turned my back on him, but he pushed me away. He couldn't stand the secrets I had to keep. He just wanted to know the truth. C---couldn't let it go.

[he sees a sliver of light widen, and see's bruce's shadow move. he reaches up a shaking hand, grabbing onto the side of a piece of busted concrete. his hand is abnormally pale, veins showing a greenish tint from proximity to the kryptonite.]

[He sees the hand come up through the gap and immediately moves to wrap his gloved fingers around Clark's wrist. The greenish tinge to his veins is ...bad, but so is the pallor. He has to get Clark out of there, and fast.]

He sounds like me.

[That's so absent it's said without thought or concern, because he's trying to both keep a grip on Clark and assess how to move the last of the rubble that's in his way. It's more than he wants there to be.]

Where's the Kryptonite?

[Maybe if he can get it out and away, Clark can help.]

No. [it's rasped, and he coughs again, hand wrapping around bruce's gloved one as tightly as he can manage. it isn't much.]

You're nothing like him. Tha---that means everything. [to me. he can't manage to finish it.]

It's---[he offers a weak laugh, and his grip falters. his breath stutters.]---it's attached to the knife.

How---how close to dawn? [if they can get the knife out. if they can get him to sunlight---he needs sunlight.

[Bruce isn't so sure why Clark would say that, aside from the fact that Luthor turned out the way he did. Now isn't the time to discuss that or to take Clark to task for not sharing this before.

God knows he has his own secrets. They just rarely get him so nearly killed.

Well, sort of. His secrets from Clark. His secret, the big one, nearly gets him killed very night.

Not important now.]

Less than a half hour. What knife? [He doesn't wait for an answer.] Give it to me. Now. [Yes, even if it's inside Clark. This is going to be much faster if he can get it the fuck away. Or at least it can happen in one go.]

[he says it because of how lex turned out. he says it because bruce is the best and truest friend he's had in a very long time. he says it because bruce wayne and batman mean the world to him.]

One---he stabbed me with. [pull it out? that seems like a spectacularly bad idea, but he's quickly losing the ability to keep his thoughts streamlined and coherent. if it goes on much longer, he won't be of any use to the other man whatsoever, but he isn't much even now.

he relinquishes his hold on the other man's gloved hand, and shifts under the rubble to where he feels the knife.]

Okay. [he grips the hilt of it, gritting his teeth hard enough to hear them grind briefly, and pulls in a sharp breath. he knows this is going to hurt. he doesn't give himself the chance to rethink or argue the point.

he pulls on the knife, struggling with the proximity to the kryptonite, and a pained noise escapes his gritted teeth. he stops, breathing too heavy, and hand uncooperative, but readjusts his grip to try again. he finally pulls the knife free (it feels like forever), and it pulls a choked cry of pain out of him. he very nearly drops the knife then, but forces himself to focus enough to hand it up through the rubble to bruce.]

H---here. [his hand is shaking, and his eyes are stinging but it isn't from the dust and dirt. his breathing is still too fast, too much on the labored side of things.]

[He won't be much use even now, no, but continuing to be poisoned is outweighing the effects of reduced blood loss, if Clark is showing green and pale. One of the two has to go and Bruce can't stop or staunch the bleeding from here. What he can do, and does, is rip the kryptonite off the hilt of the blade as soon as he has it, and shut it back safely in the lead-lined compartment of his belt and then rapidly as he possibly can move the rest of that rubble, so he's able to get a grip on most of Clark's arm and haul him up.]

Don't you dare lose consciousness. [He checks to see where the sun is going to hit first and then moves Clark enough to be able to pick Clark up and move him to it.]

[he's been exposed too long now to have the effects of dissipate as soon as the kryptonite is sealed away in the lead-lined pouch where bruce keeps it on his utility belt. it does offer a slight bit of relief, and he doesn't feel like he wants to get violently sick, and the greenish tint to his skin is lessening.

his hand drops back down almost as soon as he hands the blade up, and he barely manages to grip the slab above his head, close to where bruce's gloved hand had been before. bruce manages to shift the rubble quicker than he thought he'd be able to (or clark is losing time, he's not sure which), and then he's grunting in pain as he's hauled up out of the rubble.

the new position puts strain on his side, and he flinches, a sharp, pained noise escaping him. the quick movement is enough to make him dizzy all over again, and he's having a hard time focusing on much of anything. he barely makes note of what it is that bruce is saying.

it's a little funny that bruce is picking him up, carrying him because he's wounded, and he'd laugh if the idea alone didn't make him hurt. his gaze travels slowly, landing on bruce for a few moments, and sliding away, not really focusing on much for too long.]

I feel strange. [it's exactly what he said on zod's ship, breathing in their kryptonian atmospherics. it feels much the same. there's a coolness that makes him feel weighted down, heavy and sluggish. his skin feels ---numb. he'd felt the slight warmth from the blood at his side before, and he doesn't feel much, outside of the pain from being jostled and moved.

his head lolls to the side, and he finds it suddenly difficult to keep his eyes open any longer.]

I bet you do.

[It's a flippant statement, but delivered grimly and that's the last thing he says since he's pretty sure Clark just defied orders and passed out. All he can do is keep walking away from the smoldering pile of rubble and toward the dawn with Clark in his arms.

He's not sure Superman is even alive by the time he gets out of the shadows and shade to meet the sunlight, but he stops once he's in that patch of light and drops to his knees so he can put Clark down relatively more easily than dumping him. Then moves his hand to Clark's chest, looking for a pulse.

if Clark is dead, Bruce really might lose his shit. He's distantly, but acutely, aware of that.]

[he hears the grim statement, and that's the last thing he does hear before the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his own heartbeat drown it out. he'd tried to stay conscious, do what bruce had told him to, but he hadn't been able to.

he doesn't react when he's put on the ground in the growing patch of light slipping between gotham's skyscrapers. there's no miraculous leap to his feet. there's not even a twitch.

but there is the soft rasp of his breathing, and a relatively steady beat under bruce's hand.]

[There's really nothing else Bruce can do for Clark at this point. He can find a hospital, or call for an ambulance, but Clark's an alien. Bruce knows more about him than any nurse, doctor, or paramedic. That doesn't amount to a lot and there's still a matter of secret identities.

So he does what he can and that's keeping Clark in the sun, and keeping the pressure of a gloved hand against the wound in his side, feel him breathe and the beat of his heart against that hand and wait.

Wait and not think about all the terrible what ifs. He actually does think about them of course, but... he puts a lot of energy into trying not to. It would be easier if he were at all an optimistic person.

This is his fault. He's not thinking about that, either. Except where he is.]

[despite the injury he's already sustained, a hospital would be pretty useless. their needles would break. their machines would malfunction, depending on what they used. the only real cure for him now is time and sunlight and hoping his body takes over and does the rest.

eventually, they'll have to leave that small little patch of light. they'll have to disappear before the emergency services arrive, and when that time does come, clark is still dead weight.

it's takes the better part of a week, four days to be exact, before clark comes around. when he does, he's groggy and out of sorts. he at least has his wits about him enough to know that he's in one of the rooms in wayne manor, the heavy curtains on the windows are all thrown open, and he's bathed in the bright glow of the morning sun.

he shifts up slowly in bed, giving a soft groan as his body protests it after being immobile for so long, and realizes he's been changed out of his uniform to pajamas. he thinks they are bruce's but he's not sure.

he opens his mouth to call out for bruce or alfred, voice rough and scratchy.]

[Bruce hasn't really left Clark since he, with some help from Alfred, brought him to Wayne Manor. He called him in sick for work, laughingly promised a good story when he returned, and mostly - sat in the upstairs bedroom with the curtains drawn back for days. When he left it was to go to the bathroom. He dozed off and on, but nothing more.

He really needed a shower and shave. His clothes (civillian ones) were rumpled as anything and it took nothing more than the sound of his name for him to open his eyes and say:]

I'm here.

and, yes, those are his pajamas, which means they are black. ]

[clark will have time, it seems, to work on whatever crazy story he'll have to tell perry and the others after all of this.

once he realizes that bruce is next to the bed, he stops trying to sit up, and leans back against the headboard. his hand goes to his side, feeling the bandage through the pajamas. he looks down at himself.]

Do you own anything that isn't black?

[it's a tease, of course.]

[It's a tease and Bruce is relieved enough that Clark is conscious to accept it in relatively good grace.] Yes. I own white shirts. I also own a limited number of navy and dark gray casual ones. [Otherwise, no.]

How are you feeling?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject