"You made a real nice mess of the place," the man holding the gun says in an icey cold tone that is all too familiar to Bruce "well done sir, you have the fashion of a real homicidal maniac."
Bruce doesn't bother responding, but he didn't move either, the pressure of the gun's barrel pressing into his skull was beginning to give him a serious migraine.
"You know," the man calmly continued "you must be one crazy son of a bitch. What a waste of talent. Pity."
Bruce makes a half snort half grunt noise in reply, to which the gun is jammed a bit further into the back of his head to the point that Bruce is almost positive that the barrel is going to puncture the outer layer of his skull and pierce straight into his soft and defenseless brain matter. He glances into the reflection of a long slender white gold arm of the fallen chandelier, the man behind him appears to be wearing a red hood that covers his head, Bruce can not make out the mans face though he already knows who the man is. He could never forget that voice.
"Yeah?" says Bruce, "Is that so?"
"Hahaha! Yeah that is so! And your just a regular old clown aren't you? Come prancing in here going ape shit like someone has been pissin in your Wheaties everyday since birth!" harsh laughter, " blew the place into splinter's real quick too! ...But did you really think you'd get away with it?"
"I am getting away with it."
"Is that so!? I'll tell you what I am going to do then," the gunman says angrily, "I'm going to empty your brains onto the floor, and when my boss wakes up, he's going to give me a bonus... besides... there is only room for one caped freak in Gotham, and that's going to be me!"
"Your forgetting one thing." Bruce replies.
"..oh yeah? ... and just what is tha-" the gun-toter is interrupted mid sentence by a heel to the groin and an elbow to the solar plexus at the same time, causing him to double over which when he does, an insanely strong hand grips him by the neck and pulls down, flipping him forward and onto the floor. A steel toed boot comes down on his chest, before he is even entirely landed, and removes what little air had been left in his lungs.
"That I'm going to make you pay for your crimes." Bruce says and promptly kicks the red hooded figure in the temple, knocking him out cold. The pounding of the heavy foot steps had finally reached the 7th floor just a moment or so before he had flung the now unconscious Joe Chilton over his shoulder and kicked his lights out. Bruce flings his trusty bullet proof cape around himself fending off the bullets that are now flying his way from the submachine gun toting thugs who have opened fire on him from the massive rift in the front of the office.
In a brutal whirlwind of action Bruce back flips, somersaults, and spins his way towards the newly arrived grouping of thugs. He seems like something out of a nightmare. His pistols are flashing from both outstretched arms as he goes, and by the time he reaches them only one is left standing, the legs and knees shot out from underneath all of the others. He reaches out with well trained ninja like reflexes and hits the man half a dozen times in the chest quick, fast, and hard like lightning strikes before spinning back to face the center of the room. The thumping sound behind him lets him know the final thug has collapsed onto the floor.
Bruce returns to the center of the room and ties the red hooded figure to the other two criminals. Underneath the mask his face is a stone cold grimace.