Bruce awoke. His first thought upon consciousness was a rush of realization of an absence - a pit in his stomach and soul. A vacancy in the bed next to him. A phantom limb of a body which had laid there before, to which his psyche had grown accustomed. The architecture of his emotions in waking life had familiarized itself with this presence. By its absence, a dull pain left in its stead.
Mornings were the most difficult. As if regaining consciousness were the catalyst for a flood of cortisol to course through his endocrine system. Enzymatic reactions triggered the associated responses along his nervous system. His heart rate and stress responses heightened.
Bruce had trained his adult frontal cortex to be resolute to the bleeding edge, courting obsessional. He flirted with this at the peril of a menacing crevasse either side. Obsessional mindsets lurked if he were to indulge. Was his own willpower able to play guardian to his own habits? He knew it could be a vortex, one obsessional thought bleeding into another, a quicksand exercising ever greater torque.
He wished he could do more than any mere mortal. To assume the mantle of one individual accountable for the fate of millions or billions was hubris.
Bruce knew this, yet couldn't shake the thought, as much as he'd disciplined his mind. Why? Had the heroic journeys of stories passed down immemorial inculcated his beliefs? How could he continue as a grown man to fall for such folly? Why did he insist on perpetuating this vision of vigilantes like Zorro, or the fictional pulp crime fighters of his childhood? Why was the mind of boys the world over prey to such pageantry of glory?
Long ago, he'd pledged to himself, borne of deep conviction, of a retributive justice, meted out by a form of vigilantism. He now oft-questioned such an approach, had re-evaluated his assumption, and saw a youthful folly.
Bruce had staked a claim upon the city, parlaying a privileged lifestyle to a one-man paramilitary. This journey of waging a war on crime had begun seven years ago.
Bruce felt regret for the person unable to look upon a span of their life without challenging their assumptions. An identity fused in the blast furnace of youth when revolution seems of high attraction. A hubristic outlook for a life worthy of premature extinguishment in exchange for glory. Bruce had since tempered this. A self-cast identity was an intransigent métier to part with.
He was of means, a hulking industrial behemoth at his paws. Why this extra step toward outward heroism? What was this infernal desire? Heroism, by its nature, called for fear to be extant to overcome. This was the reason for the adoption of his identity. It was of depth to him, primal - what some traditions call a spirit animal. A hero equaled fear. He couldn't sustain this conceit. If he withdrew, would fear in turn? Did he perpetuate what he looked to extinguish, one begetting the other? Would fear exist in this city in his absence? Was he harnessing it for his own ends?
Bruce turned his thoughts to the anxiety of his waking state. How sustainable could it be to carry on as he had been for another seven years? What did he achieve? If he were effective, he would have put himself out of a job. Were his ends self-serving, perpetuating an identity at the ostensible expense of effectiveness?
This deserved genuine consideration. His body could not do this forever. He could admit with honesty and a heavy heart he hadn't precluded misery for a later generation. Sustainability of his endeavors must then be of high consideration henceforth. The physical ability of his species couldn't tolerate high-impact combat and training ongoing.
It was imperative he be more strategic - a genuine evaluation, stopping reactivity in his actions.
Combat was brutish, more brawn than brain. His mind was stronger than his body; he must play to his strengths, respecting both, in tandem with his soul.
