Of all the Gothamites to be caught in this subconscious tide, the projection of a man walking along a burnt rib of a skyscraper is the one to harken no mental association with his home; instead, Bruce Wayne, dressed in an improbable mixture of textiles, runs a quiet but efficient elimination game in his head in an effort to determine where he is. Combat boots make barely a whisper over steel, long wool coat catching the night air but doing nothing to unbalance him, ash and the smell of ionized particles touching his bare face.

It's not Baedal, and it's not anywhere he's been before - not in this state, anyway. He puzzles out an approximate year and location easily, but the reality, which slim card in a loaded deck faced every which way - that's harder. His PINpoint, which he usually carries even when it's supposedly on the fritz, has vanished from his person, as have most of the other things he usually has on him. But he's calm, watchful, walking from one end of a ruined highrise to the other, fingertips brushing against the corner beam when he gets there.

So far, he's alone.