--a familiar voice yells at him, as he wakes up from bed in a shock. He's been plagued with these memories of last month, but only getting snippets of things that happened. He knows he did some pretty terrible things, and he didn't feel like himself. He had tried to hurt those he cared about, and maybe even some he didn't even know. Those that Bruce knew, but he didn't. He had long ago accepted that he was sharing his life with another part of himself, but he never expected that Bruce's memories and guilt would plague him and cause guilt of his own. He still couldn't fully remember things, but he remembered fighting in the Wallach Industries offices. Of hurting his personal assistant, the look of terror in her eyes as he had slashed her arm and got pure glee out of it. The thought made him sick, the memory made him --
-- want to throw up. He closed his eyes as a snippet of memory came back, of him giving her an option to shoot him or save his assistant. An assistant that didn't deserve to be a part of any of this. He found out later that she ended up dying from her wounds, and it didn't matter if she made it to the hospital or not. He had done that. He had hurt someone and left them to die, and he had done it with anger in his eyes. He had done it with determination, because it was for the 'greater good'. It didn't matter that Bruce was in charge, Brian still felt everything the other man did. And with that, he had the bruises as a reminder. He had the cut on his hand from an arrow that shot a gun out of his hand, he had the --
-- cuts of claws on his arm from a woman he loved. As he held her by her neck over a roof, taunting her, wondering if cats really had nine lives and if she was on her last one. He remembered he let go, and she managed to find her way back up, despite falling a bit, and a small part of him had been happy that she survived. The other part that had been so angry, so determined to kill was pissed. He kept failing at his attacks, he kept falling short of going through with what was in his head, telling him to do. He had wanted to hurt those closest to him, to Brian, and Bruce hadn't cared what the consequences were. He had even thrown away his code, telling himself it only got in the way. He hadn't taken a life by his own hands yet (or that he knew of, he'd find out about his assistant later), but this Bruce thought there would be a chance at doing so. Because this Bruce had been corrupted.
But somehow, he had broken through the corruption. It was something that plagued Brian, because he couldn't figure out how. That someone managed to get through to him, that they managed to bring the real Bruce back. Of course, it also meant she had to fly him into the air, a lasso around his wrists as she punched and pile drives him into the roof of her building. Up in the air, slammed back into the ground, over and over. Punched into the face, begging him to let her in --
-- and he still taunted her back. Teased her. Tried to use her emotions against her. The feeling overwhelms Brian now, as he closes his eyes and leans against the headboard of the guest bedroom. He's in his own home, but he's not sleeping in his own bed, because he's worried what will happen if he lets himself get close to those he cares about again. When Bruce comes back to take control, is he going to be who he normally was, or would he be this corrupted man who wanted to destroy everyone? That wanted to --
-- kill? Her words, her voice comes to him now, and he opens his eyes, a worried feeling washing over her. This poor woman, who Brian didn't even know, was someone Bruce was close with. Was someone that Bruce cared for, perhaps in ways that Bruce wouldn't admit to himself. She had managed to get through to him, to satisfy the war that had been brewing inside of him for the better part of the week, and he had lay broken on her roof, looking at the stars, as he begged her to kill him. To end him. To get rid of this pain he had, because he wouldn't be able to deal with this again. To deal with the guilt of going after those he cared for, those he loved.
Brian was dealing with that now more than ever, that even though he couldn't remember exactly everything that happened. It was a blur, but he could remember a moment of peace with this woman, looking at her with...well Brian didn't want to think about it. It felt strange, like a betrayal, but everything that week felt like that. He had gone home, he had gone into some sort of cave to get something, fighting with himself. Brian can't remember the words, but he remembers the struggles, he remembers hoping his friend would leave, that the other man would have his wits about him and not bring her with him, but the look of slashed tires on a stolen car told him otherwise. It told him that even though he was weak, and broken, possibly bleeding internally --
-- he was going to be in for another fight. He can remember that he was barely holding it together barely standing, as he held a sharp object against the other man's throat. The object felt familiar, but Brian can't place the name of it now, but knew it was something Bruce used constantly. Brian opens his eyes, shifting on the bed as he finally gets out, and tries to walk downstairs to his office. He grabs his cane, as he tries to forget the inner struggle he had back in that cave, as he tries to forget the --
-- words he said to cut, to hurt. He remembers the other man's head smashing hard into his, he remembers his nose bleeding and feeling as though he was completely betrayed as he felt her move behind him and taser him.
The memory is overwhelming now, as Brian stops at the bottom of the stairs and leans against the wall, his eyes closed. He takes a deep breath in, and he exhales slowly, opening his eyes. He keeps walking then, as he heads past various rooms and heads into the office. He fights against the memories of --
-- wanting to die, of just begging people to kill him. Of just giving up and letting others be free of him. He can remember that Bruce felt free when he was doing nothing more than going along with ideas of war and suffering, because it was what the corruption was doing to him. It had given him a sense of freedom that he hadn't had since he was a eight year old boy standing over his parents in an alley. Which...Brian had lost his parents when he was twenty one, so the fact that he now had to suffer the memories of losing his parents not once but twice was almost too much.
As he reached the office, he looked at the desk, with notes scattered around. Just because Bruce wasn't here didn't mean Brian couldn't try to figure things out, to figure out how he had lost the corruption for a moment in the week when someone hit him hard enough, or why everyone had thought punching him was the way to free him of the corruption. He had the physical pain to remind him of everyone's fantastic way of dealing with him, of trying to fix him. Because apparently trying to fix Bruce had meant everyone had to break him, emotionally, physically, until he wasn't anything anymore. But when the corruption was gone, when it was him broken and beaten, bleeding on the roof, the guilt set in. Even when she told him she loved him, that she told him --
-- how she thought she lost him, he couldn't look at her. The guilt was overwhelming. It was still overwhelming, and Bruce wasn't even here anymore. Brian took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to fight against remembering anything else, as his eyes scan over the papers on his desk. In his handwriting, he had written the silver book but wasn't sure what it meant. He turned to the bookshelf behind him, reaching out to the book in question and pulled it out, a piece of paper stuck in there with his handwriting (but Brian knew he didn't write it) and as he opened the book to see what he had written, the bookshelf in front of him moved.
It had never done that before, not while Bruce wasn't here, and Brian swallowed hard as he watched the bookshelf open to a doorway, and Brian knew where it lead. He held onto the piece of paper, because what was there made things more complicated, because this doorway in front of him now made everything more complicated, because now he was --
Well. Fuck.