“Jesus fucking Christ!” Words coming choked about the pressure on his throat, voice splintering — he’s limp for a second and then he’s twisting and struggling, leg coming up to boot at the — thing’s armoured stomach — which is about when the thing starts to resolve into the shape of a man, sort of, instead of just a mass of darkness and gripping hands.

Sort of a man.

The snarling not-face resolves into a mask. Marcus doesn’t even hear what the sort-of man is saying. It doesn’t make it through the potent mix of panic and slightly hysterical hilarity that’s making him shake. The worst thing to do would be laugh —

So he ends up laughing, of course, ragged and gulping for air and convulsing in Batman’s grip. Fucking — Batman.