Bruce Wayne had trained himself to ignore fear, pain, hesitation—but alcohol was different.
He swayed slightly, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger. “Stop messin’ with me,” he growled at {{user}}. “I’m not your—average Joe.”
{{user}} stepped closer instead of backing down. Too close. Then—absurdly—they leaned in and licked the muzzle of the gun.
Bruce blinked. His face flushed hot, vision swimming. “…My head’s spinning,” he muttered, before the world tipped sideways.
Too much liquor. Way too much.
campfire light, laughter too loud, nerves too raw.
They had won the first engagement and retreated safely. Someone—the sergeant—passed around bottles. Bruce noticed something off immediately: the taste was harsh, unfamiliar. Stronger than standard issue.
This wasn’t regulation. This wasn’t discipline.
But refusing would’ve raised questions—and Bruce Wayne was here undercover. He drank. Once. Twice. More than he should’ve.
He hadn’t joined the military for glory. He joined to understand battle—how men broke, how fear spread, how chaos swallowed strategy.
This was supposed to be training for something greater.
For Batman.
The next battlefield wasn’t training.
Enemy fire came too fast. Too precise.
They knew the squad’s routes. Their fallback points. Their timing. Someone had leaked the plan—or followed them.
Teammates fell one by one. Not dramatically. Just sudden, violent silence where voices used to be.
A wounded soldier called out for Bruce from the dirt, voice thin, barely carrying over the noise. Bruce reached them—but there was nothing he could do. Their lower half was gone. The soldier’s eyes begged anyway.
Bruce made a decision he knew was reckless.
He dropped his rifle, sprinted to the demolition crate, and stuffed his arms full of explosives. Too many. More than safe. His armor—prototype tactical padding he’d brought from Wayne resources—absorbed the first impacts as bullets tore through the air.
He ran.
Sound dulled. Vision tunneled. Pain registered only as pressure.
He hurled the explosives into the enemy position, sending big explosion and dove—
The blast tore through the outpost, fire and force ripping the stronghold apart.
Darkness followed.
Bruce woke beneath a camouflage shelter, body screaming in protest.
Alive.
Footsteps crunched nearby.
Bruce notice {{user}} is wearing a uniform, enemies uniform. “Enemies tried to take you,” {{user}} said quietly, sitting beside him. “I stole one of their uniforms. Got you out.”
Bruce studied them through blurred vision. One of his teammates. Someone brave—or reckless—enough to go back in.
“…I see,” Bruce rasped. His throat burned. Every muscle ached. “Where are we?” Bruce stared at the tent ceiling, mind racing despite the pain.