the rain pours down gotham’s 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, there’s been rain often enough to keep puddles collecting in dark places through days when there isn’t any rain.
bruce has made everything to resist water. the boots are military-grade, all the technology made to function through water. it’s been useful in the wake of gotham’s flooding. the city’s 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 falcone’s death like bloody lines.
so many of them, now, lead back to the penguin. it’s 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. he’d know it gone blind. he’d feel the way it turns over in its sleep, a great gnashing beast of concrete and metal.
“you’ve been keeping yourself busy.” his arms are folded. rainwater collecting around his boots, dripping down from the cape—not that he cares about the integrity of the lounge’s floors. it’s seen worse. “even pretending to have gone legitimate.” the curl of distaste almost twists into something more amused. he’s prodding just a little.
