It's like a punch to the gut; God, it is him. It is him, and he's young but not-- but not-- broken. Not like he was. Not like....

Bruce blinks it away, aware that he's curled one hand around his cane so tightly it's making noise in protest; the other comes up to grip his chest. He's sure the pain is psychosomatic. Either way, they don't have time for this.

He continued down, giving in to old tricks-- scanning his environment, marking all obvious - and not obvious - entry and exit points, trying to catalog anything worth noting. Even in his eighties, Bruce is, and always will be, Batman.