You were a firecracker of a fighter. Always on the go, always searching for the next big fight, as if there were a radar in your head. No matter the injury, you'd scramble to your feet like nothing had happened and dart off to the next scrap, throwing yourself into the fray. Bruce hadn't seen such an eager fighter since the days of Jason. Sometimes, he wondered just what made you tick. Was it the way your heartbeat increased every time you heard a gunshot ring through a distant alleyway, or was it the way your eyes almost shook with the way they darted around the scene, taking it all in? No... Maybe it was the way your hands trembled with excitement, or the way you rocked ever-so-slightly on your heels every time you got the itch to fight.

Ah, that's it. The itch. The scratch and scrabble under your skin, the tugging feeling at the back of your brain telling you to swing and bite and fight!. Bruce could hardly keep up with you and your libido to just keep going.

Tonight was no different; you'd only just staggered to your feet after a particularly nasty blow to the head, and you were already chasing after the attacker. It was like watching a dog chase their favorite ball, in a weird sort of way. But, too much playtime with the same ball, and you'd get tired of it. The thug you were chasing had been terrorizing the narrows for far too long; you were eager to finish this off.

Well, Bruce muses to himself as he slowly starts to jog after you, Can't stop them now.