12858/The one where Bruce dumps Phoebe out of a chair

The one where Bruce dumps Phoebe out of a chair
Date of Scene:	22 September 2022
Location:	Library - Wayne Manor
Synopsis:	Phoebe still needs work on her situational awareness
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, Bruce Wayne

---

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    It was not unusual for Phoebe to be awake at odd hours of the night. Sometimes she loses herself studying. Other times she needs to get an answer to a thought. And other times?

    It was chilly in spite of the early fall weather, and a fire was crackling here in the library, warded by the metal screens and chain curtains to help protect the books from a burning fate.

    It wasn't unusual to find Phoebe in the library, where typically she would hide up on landings and squeeze herself into corners to quietly research and hide. Especially after she had been silenced. Especially since she had come home and... no. Not Home. She was always very careful to not call it home in spite of even Alfred's insistence that it was as much as anywhere else.

    Home didn't exist. Home always got taken away.

    Just like parents. Just like the people she loved.

    She hadn't been sleeping well. Disjointed. No more than two hours at a time. Waking up gasping and gagging and coughing and secreting cleaning supplies in her bathroom to clean it herself to try and hide it. Hiding in the building that 'appeared' one day in the Cauldron.

    She was dozing. The warmth of the fire striking against the chair she was occupying, a Statistics book in her lap. Her glasses were mushed up and pressed half to her forehead, in danger of falling off. The pink and purple blanket she had come back from Quito with Tim was haphazardly crossed over her lap, and she was wearing an old hoodie, its cuffs broken and frayed with use, her thumbs pressed through holes to keep it down on her arms.

    There's something about her situational awareness that still needed work.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
It isn't until the edge of his hand is pressed lightly a quarter inch from Phoebe's neck that Bruce speaks. He entered the library, moved through it, and positioned himself without a sound. He wears a dark crew-knit sweater; the sort of clothes he wears aroudn the house when he is not required to keep up the appearance of playboy bachelor or big-hearted adoptive father.

The hand pressed to Phoebe's throat has been honed through a lifetime of practice. A hand that can kill with a strike, though its wielder has vowed to never let it come to that. A hand that can break bone, shatter aged oak, and strike with unmatched accuracy. He doesn't strike in this moment, however. He simply rests it there until the discomfort and danger that it presents shines through the fog of sleep.

"Your guards down," he intones in a low, emotionless voice.

Then the chair is up-ended, propelled forward to spill her out on the carpet.

"Boltholes and feelings of false safety are for the enemy," he tells her, looming over the upturned chair, "If you're going to throw yourself headfirst into danger like you've been doing, you're going to learn to keep your guard up!"

To emphasize the point, a paperweight - some trophy awarded to Bruce Wayne by one charity or another - is plucked from the side table and flung at Phoebe's head.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Yes, because precisely what Phoebe needs a sudden lesson in not sleeping. She's a soft grunt and a mute questioning sound, a click of the tongue as she feels pressure on her throat, and then she hears Bruce's voice.

    There is a variety of words that venture through her brain at just that moment as she flails, the chair upended and she's spilled to the carpet. Her stats book goes flying, and she skids down, eyes opening wide as she gives a choke of a sound.

    And then the paperweight is thrown, and she lights up her shields instinctively. Magic in the household, the slowly spinning eight-pointed stars of her magic circle, unique to her, glowing in the dimness of the library as Phoebe shakes like a terrified Chihuahua, the paperweight thudding to the ground.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Hnnh," Bruce growls, circling around the upturned chair to pick up the now-broken award-cum-paperweight and placing it on the sidetable in pieces, "Magic. A crutch - and a poisonous one. Extranormal abilities come and go. Ask Superman; there are things out there that can rob him of his abilities and turn him into a normal man. How effective would a flesh and blood man in a red cape be against the Dominators? Against Doomsday? Ask the men who died trying to stop them before the Justice League arrives."

"I know what you think. That I don't understand it. That I fear or hate what I don't understand. You're wrong. I studied it. Under the tutelage of Zatanna's father. I learned what it could do, and I learned the price it asks. It's radioactive, Phoebe. Toxic. Sometimes you need to make that sacrifice, but I brought you here so you could learn to be effective without it."

He shakes his head.

"If this is what you're committed to, I can't help you."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe drops her shields as she draws to a stand. She blinks as Bruce speaks, calling her abilities... a crutch?

    She bites the inside of her cheek. She feels weight on her shoulders as he continues, and she listens silently, and she opens her mouth, as if she were going to try and say something.

    And then that last statement. Her eyes go wide, and she feels that deep cut, and then she closes her mouth. Her nose wrinkles as she closes her eyes, and she rubs the back of her neck with one hand before she signs:

    -So I am out?-

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"No," Bruce says with a frown, brow furrowing, "Of course not. You're my daughter. This is your home whether you want it or not. You're never out. I don't operate that way. But you need to decide who you're going to be. A soldier, or fate's punching bag."

He pauses for a moment, running a fingertip over the place where the award statue broke in two.

"I won't watch you break apart. There's always an element of self-sacrifice here, but for you it seems like all you want is to hurt. I've experienced every kind of injury you can imagine. I know about pain. But there's other ways, and they're ways that involve laying down your weapon so you can forge a new one in yourself."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    -I am no one's daughter.- Phoebe signs to Bruce, and she crosses her arms, the mute magician's shoulders rising up, and she walks past Bruce to kick her book closed and right the chair that he upset, and she just sort of... shrugs off the statement.

    -Then don't watch. I am used to having to work out my feelings alone. I don't want to hurt. But my magic? It saved Dick. It's saved Tim. Diana. How can my magic be a crutch when it is who I am? It might be peice-meal but it is all I have that makes me stand out. It is the only thing I get called to do. No one is going to call on Phoebe to program a computer, or to solve a mystery. I put guts back into stomachs and waken giants from cursed sleep.-

    She picks up a lamp that had been knocked over.

    She sets it back on the side table, brushing the shade off.

    -And then I'm put away until the next time I'm useful.-