[ The cityscape within Bruce's mind is unlike anything he's seen before, with the exception of the neonlit-storm that was Concordia. The shadows have deep pockets, heat rises from grates in cracked pavement, and towers ( skyscrapers, he's come to learn from his studies, are what they are called ) rise towards starless skies. Though the new host projects - he's quite good at reigning in his thoughts, and the Darkling politely refrains from commenting on what glimpses he's seen. ]

You're not the only one, [ the sharing of thought and feeling among the brood is often without consent. They project and pull, try as they might to avoid such.

Expectations, though. They're many, and equally divided among mission, nest and brood, in the end. He stars in the smallest sphere of interdependence: ]

Loyalty, in differing form and function. Consideration, of your privacy. Expectations, self-imposed, for the most part. Shared pain, when we are hurt.

[ He tics things off on his fingers, amused by the gesture. It ends, without fanfare, as Bruce doesn't need someone trying to sell him on the "wonders" of being linked mind to mind to mind from now into - death or coma, really. The book, he places to one side, folding his hands together as he leans forwards, looking curiously at the new addition. So, introductions: ]

I am called the Darkling.