[CENTER][IMG]https://i.imgur.com/uNV0csR.png[/IMG][/CENTER]
[COLOR=AF7AC5][indent][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=white][I]New Mexico[/I][/COLOR][/sub][sup][right][b]A Fresh Set of Eyes – 2.04[/b][/right][/sup][/indent][/color][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][color=AF7AC5][sub][B]Interaction(s):[/B] [COLOR=white][I]None[/I][/COLOR][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][b]Previously:[/b] [COLOR=white][I][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5041888]2.03[/url][/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][/INDENT]
[indent]Waking up was a new beginning that Bruce was no longer looking forward too. These rests had only been fatigue after fatigue. Aimless, it didn’t seem to matter which direction he moved in, so maybe it was better not to move at all.

Then he caught the smell of oils of some kind, a manufactured stench. Opening his eyes, he got up, looking about to see smoke, black and noxious. Unnatural and artificial. Scampering across dust in between shrubs, he cried out as he felt pain across his foot. Looking down there was a hunk of metal jutting out of the ground. Watching his step, foot angled to avoid putting pressure on his wound, each step still testing it and making him hold back a small yelp of pain, he made it to his goal, looking at the wreckage. He felt his insides wash away, averting his gaze, not wanting to see any further.

It was an aircraft. The last sound he’d heard was that of a missile, set to destroy him. And yet now, it was he who was standing. He heard a raspy rattled gurgle from his own throat, reverberating as he tried to get away on his wobbly legs. The drumbeat of his heart matched the throbbing in his head. He couldn’t look, because if he did he’d risk seeing a body. The absolute proof he needed to know that the missile should have done its job.

Peeling away, he whined as he saw the smoke of yet another wreck, then another. The energy had been swept out of him. Buckling he feel to his knees, thrusting his forehead into the dirt. His hand gripped empty air, before clawing down scraping at the earth, but none of his pain could quell the despair at his actions, the anger at himself.

Anger, that was it wasn’t it. The linking thread between the smoke shop and Talbot. Some kind of intense emotion, like the stew of grief one felt before their death.

To invite suspicion was one thing, to invite government action was another. They knew who he was, what he was, and what he’d done, something Bruce could only imagine. Body no longer hurting, Bruce pushed himself over, resting on his rear. His foot still had blood, but it no longer bled. Wiping it away, it had healed like it was new, something he could see through eyes that had better sight then he remembered having even with corrective lenses.

It was all clear now. So very much.

[center]---[/center]

Carefully out of sight, Bruce slipped on a red and white plaid shirt, loose and oversized on his thin body. Finally in something resembling an outfit after days, Bruce skulked away from the rural home, taking to the road a little ways up. His feet had hardened, resisting the heated asphalt with only a mild discomfort. And most importantly of all, he had direction: east, away from the setting sun.

The military hadn’t bothered him again, though for all he knew they could find him at any time. He would deal with that as it came, however. If need be he’d turn himself in, though he couldn’t be certain what prison could contain him. As much as he feared being stuck somewhere cold and dark once again, it was that exact fear that drove his step eastward. He couldn’t go back, not to Betty or Rick. He could only pray they weren’t hurting, that they were still alright. But going back would risk hurting them further. He’d felt guilt and shame over his emotions, but only after the fact. That was his mistake, now he had to know himself, to keep himself restrained before he showed what he was like when he was angry.

He’d never liked when he was angry in the first place.

But as chancy as it was, in New York there might have been someone he could burden, the one with the best chances at knowing why or what exactly he was. Because one thing was certain, he was the only one alive who made Bruce, [i]Bruce[/i]. He still hadn’t ever felt resentment over his treatment, just fatigue. His step was not determined: the man could so easily make Bruce feel emotions he didn’t know he had, but maybe that was a good enough threat to keep him in line. A wave of guilt welled from within, but Bruce swallowed hit back. Even after all he’d done, Bruce still couldn’t hate him. And now he knew why. Or rather, where.

Where the one Bruce really despised had been all this time.[/indent]