Seven- six- eleven- five- nine-an'-twenty miles today. How long had you walked? How far? Four- eleven- seventeen- thirty-two the day before. Your legs hurt, your feet hurt, your feet were wearing holes in your boots. Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again, there's no discharge in the war.

War torn South Africa, apparently some kind of JL level threat. They'd torn apart your country. No friends, no family, nothing except the clothes on your back and shoes on your feet. Not even a single penny in your pockets. The sun beat down on your head, at least you had the scarf your mother had given you, covering your face and preventing sunburn on your face.

Boots boots boots boots, moving up and down again. Men men men men men go mad with watching them, THERE'S NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR! Count count count count the bullets in the bandoliers. Five bullets left in the gun you'd stolen off a dead person's body to protect yourself.

But you could do nothing when you saw him, hands shaking as you pointed the gun at him. You'd stuck out hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and kept walking, trying to find somewhere safe, somewhere that hadn't been touched by the war that had happened. But now, you just couldn't.

~~~

Bruce stared down at the- child? young adult? teenager?- pointing a gun at him, not at all worried about getting shot. What he was more worried about was the fact you had a gun. And were pointing it at him. And looked so exhausted that your hands were shaking and you were more likely to shoot yourself in the foot than him, if you could even pull the trigger.

He could hear you muttering something under your breath, something that sounded like a poem Jason liked. What was it?

Oh right, 'Boots'. It was about soldiers walking through a war torn country, slowly going insane. Fitting, unfortunately, seeing as he'd just found a... whatever you were, walking through a country ruined by war from the JL, looking horrible, and most likely going mad.

And for once, he didn't quite know what to do.