AndyC

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Hey, OOC discussion is cool. That in mind...

What are your unpopular superhero/superhero media opinions?

@DocTachyon

I absolutely loved the Snyderverse movies, and the fact that I never got to talk about them without getting dogpiled for it was so demoralizing that it honestly killed my enjoyment of the superhero genre altogether.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

SPEAK TO ME

---

I've been mad for fucking years,

absolutely years,

Been over the edge for yonks.

Been working me buns off for bands.

I've always been mad,

I know I've been mad,

like most of us have.

Like you have to explain why you're mad,

even if you're not mad.

Hmmmm-hnnnh-hnnnnh-hnnn

Hnnh-hehh-hehh-hehh-hehhh

Hehh-heaa-haaa-haaa

HAAA-HAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

---

"Dr. Jeremiah Arkham recording, session 29," The thin man with sunken cheeks, thick coke-bottle glasses, and a supremely unattractive bowl cut stated into his tape recorder over the sound of muffled screams from down the hall. "Patient #42540 has been properly restrained, and after last session's incident, I have recommended he be under mild sedation for the duration of this session."

The old analog device was a relic, much like many of the implements of psychiatric care that Dr. Arkham used. Every year, millions of dollars were funded into his family namesake's hospital, with the latest and most advanced medicine and therapy available to the troubled citizens of Gotham City. Combined with generous donations from the Wayne Foundation, the Elizabeth Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled had made great efforts to shed the place's ghoulish reputation.

Efforts that were, sadly, futile in the eyes of many. For some, Jeremiah included, it would always be "Arkham Asylum." It would always be a home of monsters, a place of madness, a place where men like him did battle with the most vicious demons the human mind could conjure.

And when fighting demons, sometimes one had to rely on the Old Testament.

"How are we feeling today?" Dr. Arkham asked as he paced back and forth in front of the gaunt, pale figure strapped and chained to the chair in the center of the small, brightly-lit room.

The thin man in restraints lolled his head to one side, his eyes glazed over and distant-looking. They had been careful about administering the right amount of sedative, not so much that he would lose consciousness, but enough to prevent him from making any sudden moves, and hopefully enough that his faculties would be dimmed enough to be pliable.

"Can you understand me, Patient #42540?" the doctor asked. "If you do not have it in you to speak, a gesture of some kind would work."

Slowly, shakily, the gaunt man's lips peeled back into a grin.

_{"I'd...give yyyyyou...a gesture..."} he slurred in his drugged stupor, _{"b-but....m'hands...aren't frrrrree."}

He began to shudder in a fit of laughter, but this was quickly silenced when a heavily-armed security guard struck him hard in the side of the head.

"That was unnecessary," Dr. Arkham said, his disapproving glare focused first on the guard, and then to the restrained man, "Both of you."

Many people would find this sort of treatment of a patient unethical, inhumane, even torturous. And for an average patient, Dr. Arkham would agree. But Patient #42540 was far from an average patient. This was a man whose actions over the years were so vile that the hospital offered post-traumatic counseling just for those who read his file. After what had become of Doctor Quinzell some years ago, it was hospital policy that no doctor should tend to him without extensive peer review and strict time limits, and no one at all be allowed in the same room with him without at least one armed guard with a weapon trained on him at all times.

Patient #42540 had a name once, but whoever that person was, he was long gone. In his place was an alias, a persona that many refused to even name, as if it were speaking the name of the Devil himself.

Jeremiah Arkham, however, refused to name the alias for different reasons. He refused to be mystified by the notoriety and monstrous glamour that surrounded his patient.

In Dr. Arkham's care, he would not be "The Joker." He was, for all the danger and all the precautions, a sick man who needed healing.

"When we last left off," Jeremiah began, "you mentioned 'getting some new material.' Might I assume this means you are attempting a new approach to your....performative activities?"

Under the alias of the Joker, Patient #42540 had committed crimes on both personal and colossal scales, sometimes turning half of Gotham into a war zone, sometimes taking great care and effort to ruin the life of a single person. However, apart from his fixation on the Batman and his cadre of vigilantes, there never seemed to be an underlying motivation behind the Joker's actions, beyond attention and spectacle. Crime was a performance to him, and the Batman was his target audience.

"He asked you a question, freak," the guard who had struck him snarled.

"Please," Dr. Arkham chided the guard, "Insulting him won't do any good. Besides, I believe he enjoys getting a rise out of security personnel. Treating him with hostility is what he wants."

At that, the man in straps and chains let out a snort.

"Oh yeah," he sneered, his head rolling dizzily as he spoke, "I just llllllove getting beaten up and insulted by...by wwwweekend warriors like Gregory here, wh-who don't even have the ssssstones to be a rrreal cop. Can't get enough of it."

At the mention of his name, the guard brought his weapon to bear, a compact H&K MP-5 submachine gun, the red dot of its laser sight dancing across the patient's forehead.

"Stand down," Dr. Arkham ordered sharply, "though make no mistake, Patient #42540, we will be discussing how you came to know that particular piece of information."

The patient gave Gregory a pair of big watery puppy-dog eyes and as innocent of a smile as he could manage, and the guard lowered his gun.

"Much better. Now, as to the matter of g--"

"Getting some new material, yes," the patient answered, still hazy from the cocktail of drugs. "It's.....'s all a matter of...keeping the act frrrresh, y'know? Only ssso many times you can...can tell th' same jokes...'fore they get worn out. Sometimes you'vvvve gotta....gotta retire the old gags."

Dr. Arkham raised an eyebrow.

"This would be why you've been killing your old gang?"

A long pause hung in the air between them, as the patient's head hung down.

"HEY! He asked you--"

"I heard him, I heard him," the patient spat, an edge of annoyance in his voice. "Tell me, Doc...you're thhh' exp'rt....wwwwhadda you think about 'em? Always....always good to have notes afffft'r a show."

Dr. Arkham considered the question, then decided to humor him.

"The first was, I think, an obvious choice," Dr. Arkham remarked. "Gerald 'Gaggy' Gagsworthy, one of your first associates. Found dead in his trailer, having laughed himself to death thanks to your signature laughing venom."

"Oh, haha, well, you know," he gave as much of a shrug as his restraints would allow, "what better place to begin than the beginning? Using my first gag...on my first stooge...was an appropriate touch."

"And then Moses and Samuel Horwitz, and Lawrence Fine," the doctor continued, "all three killed in rapid succession. The first via eye-gouging, the second with his forehead caved in by a swinging wooden plank, the third with his own fist smashed up through his nose. These three...I'm afraid I don't understand the methods here."

The patient looked up, gaping with disbelief.

"Really? I mean.....isss so obvious!" he said. "I mean, they're......ahhh, nevermind. Fffolks these days have....nnnooo appreciation f'r the classssics."

"I see," Dr. Arkham said curtly. "Three more after that, though if I may say so, they began to feel a bit routine. Mr. Henshaw, his throat sliced by a razor playing card. Mr. Rocco, burned with acid, no doubt from a squirting flower. Mr. Murphy, electrocuted, burns on his palm suggesting an electric joy-buzzer."

"Ahhhh," the patient sighed, "The old reliables."

"The one that confuses me is Mr. Wallace," said the doctor, "an insurance salesman in Springdale, Ohio. Killed by an explosive whoopie cushion hidden under the driver's seat of his car. Seems like a rather large departure, given he was never a member of your gang."

The patient raised an eyebrow. "Wallace? Who's--oh! You mean Charlie!" he laughed, then smiled as his eyes lit up with fond recollection. "Charlie Collins, good 'ol Chucko! He, ah, cursed me out....on the freeway once, and to make up for it...I had him do the occassssional favor for me. Oh, he tried to rrrun....even joined Witnesssss Protection...changed his name, but--well, a guy's gotta have a hobby. Fun guy, ol' Charlie. Even....got one over on me once, ha!"

His warm smile started to fade to sadness.

"Shame about him," he sighed, "But, like I said....gotta let the old stuff go. Even....the ones that were m' fav'rites."

"So that's why you've been killing them," Dr. Arkham concluded, "to erase your past, so to speak. Sever ties with the old Joker act in order to create something new. I suppose the next question is: how?"

The light of Gregory's laser sight briefly caught the patient in the eye, causing him to flinch and squint, as Dr. Arkham paced.

"I know you have a history of slipping about when no one's looking," he said, his composure giving way to frustration. "You have a knack for escape artistry that would make Houdini blush. But we've had you under constant surveillance. Our guards inspect every millimeter of your cell on a daily basis. How on Earth did you manage to pull off these killings from here?"

The patient's head hung low, and Dr. Arkham glared at him in exasperation for a moment.

Then he began to laugh.

"Hnnnnh-hnnnn-hnnnn-hnnnnh," he chortled, Hnnnhnhnhnhnhaaaa ha ha ha ha ha.....mmmmmayyyybe.....maybe I should answer your questionnnnn....with another question, doc."

The patient raised his head, and with a piercing glare, stared Dr. Arkham in the eye.

"Whyyyyyy.......did the chicken.....cross the road?"

".....why did th--"

"TOGETTOTHEOTHERSIDE!!! COME ON, DOC!!!" He blurted in sudden anger, straining against his restraints. "That's the oldest one in the book! Everyone knows that one! And nobody thinks it's funny!"

Sucking in deep breaths to calm himself the patient continued.

"And that's because...." he explained, "It's not really a joke. It's an anti-joke. It's only funny because it's not meant to be funny. You give the setup, but instead of delivering a clever or interesting punchline, you just give a disappointing logical conclusion."

"So....these killings...." Dr. Arkham attempted to piece together what he was saying, "they're...they're your attempt at anti-jokes?"

"Ohhhh, no, no, nononononono," he shook his head. "But this one is. *Ahem.* How....am I going to get out of these restraints, and take Gregory's gun?"

Dr. Arkham stared for a moment, before Gregory suddenly turned, slamming the butt of his submachine gun into the doctor's nose. With a wet crunch and a spray of blood, Dr. Arkham collapsed in a heap.

"Simple: he's going to undo my restraints and then give the gun to me," the Joker said with a sudden bright, satisfied smile as Gregory began calmly undoing the straps that held him down.

"NNnnnnnffffgggghhh!!!" Jeremiah sputtered as blood from his crushed nose drained into his mouth. "Y----you chh--can't do this! How--"

"How am I suddenly shaking off the effects of the sedative so easily?" the Joker interrupted him, holding up his now freed arms so Gregory could unlock his handcuffs. "Another disappointingly logical anti-joke: I've been faking it. The orderly who administered the shot injected me with harmless saline fluid."

"B-b-but--"

"B-b-b-but what, Doc?" he mocked the bleeding doctor. "You hand-picked your security detail to watch me, so they can't possibly be corrupted, right? That's what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

Jeremiah was too stunned to answer.

"Well, again, prepare to be disappointed," he said, stretching his arms as Gregory now worked on the straps on his legs. "Some of them I had to blackmail, sure. Some are under the impression that I've got their loved ones held hostage-- joke's on them, haha, everyone knows I don't take hostages. And some, like good old Gregory here, are just believers in the cause. Down with the system, we live in a society, and all that jazz."

"It's all a big joke, sir," Gregory stated with the conviction of a true believer.

"Shut up, Gregory," the Joker chided. "Most of them, though, have a big and obvious lever to pull. When you've lived a life of crime as long as I have, doc, you wouldn't believe the amount of money I have to burn. All I had to do to get more than half the people here to look the other way as I walked out, was to name the right price."

"You....you don't--"

"I do," the pale man nodded as he stood from the chair, giving a long stretch before holding out his hand to Gregory, who in turn placed the submachine gun in his outstretched fingers just as the Joker had said he would. "Now then..."

"Wait, wait, please Joker NO--"

*BLAM!*

Gregory crumpled to the ground, a hole drilled through his forehead.

"That was for shining the laser in my eye, Gregory," he scolded the corpse on the floor. "Seriously, you can blind someone with one of those if you're not careful. Now then, Doc..."

With alarming speed and a surprisingly strong grip, the thin pale man grabbed Dr. Arkham by the arm and threw him down hard into the restraint chair.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he reassured the terrified doctor as he strapped Jeremiah down. "In fact, I'm gonna answer your big question. And I hate to tell ya, it's gonna be another disappointingly logical anti-joke."

As Arkham trembled and squirmed, the Joker leaned close.

"How did I kill half of my old gang from inside my cell here?"

The Joker's ghastly smile dropped. For the first time he could recall, he was truly, genuinely angry. The kind of seething, indignant moral outrage that fueled men to do crazy things like dress up as bats.

"I didn't."

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

*Taps microphone*

Heya, folks, is....is this thing on?

*ahem*

So....

Stop me if you've heard this one before...

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E J O K E R

---

^{_{Jack Napier Arthur Fleck Jerome Valeska Jeremiah Valeska Oberon Sexton Melvin White Patient #42540 ♦ Clown Prince of Crime Harlequin of Hate Ace of Knaves Jester of Genocide Thin White Duke of Death Super-Max Security Inmate ♦ Arkham Asylum, Gotham City, NJ, USA}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"So there's these two guys in a lunatic asylum..."}

The exact origin and upbringing of Patient #42540 remains a mystery, possibly even to Patient #42540 himself. What is known is that during the early career of the vigilante known as the Bat-Man, he encountered a costumed criminal known as the Red Hood, leader of a gang of the same name. For months, the Red Hood Gang had terrorized Gotham City, and the Bat-Man had finally cornered them in the old Ace Chemical Plant. With the other members of the gang killed either by mishaps or gunfire from the GCPD, the Red Hood faced the Caped Crusader alone over a vat of volatile chemicals. And the rest, tragically, has been part of Gotham's dark and sad history ever since.

Ever since adopting the persona of 'The Joker,' Patient #42540 has displayed extreme violent and anti-social behavior, covered in layers of performative flamboyance. This persona seems to be the purest possible distillation of the concept of the so-called 'super-villain,' a master of extravagant acts of terrorism, all in the singular goal of antagonizing the Bat-Man. Indeed, despite hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women falling victim to his acts of wanton mayhem over the years, the only common motivation behind any of his actions is an obsessive fixation on the masked vigilante. Many speculate that were the Dark Knight to be killed, crippled, or left otherwise incapable of carrying on his war on crime, the persona of the Joker would recede and perhaps disappear completely.

Even after years of both giving and receiving horrific violence, Patient #42540 remains an extreme danger to everyone around him. He is deceptively strong and fast, and while he does not display any known form of martial arts training, the finesse with which he wields weaponry suggests there is far more to his past than the various "sad, put-upon everyman" stories he tells. And that does not even begin to discuss his seemingly endless arsenal of lethal 'pranks,' from electric joy-buzzers to squirting flowers filled with acid. Perhaps his deadliest weapon, however, is his intellect, which has driven no fewer than seven psychiatrists and twelve Arkham guards to suicide-- and given what he did to Dr. Harleen Quinzell, they may have been the fortunate ones.

However, years of broken bones, spinal trauma, and skull fractures have begun to take their toll. Patient #42540's reflexes have slowed considerably. His hands have grown shaky. And orderlies have noted moments of total dissociation, possibly even catatonia. It may be that in such a perennially damaged state, his body and mind are breaking down for good. While the staff at Arkham Asylum are of course dedicated to the treatment of even their most troubled patients, there are many who are secretly hoping the scourge of the Joker is finally coming to an end.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ):

---

DRIVING CHARACTER

This is a story that I've wanted to tell for years, bits of it forming all the way back in the Superherohype days. And with MB playing an older, sadder Bruce, this is just about the perfect time to make it happen. Plus, with a fully stocked Bat-Family, there's plenty of players to bounce off of.

The Clown Prince of Crime is getting frail, having been on the losing end of a hundred fist-fights with the Dark Knight. His body is falling apart, and he's not quite as sharp as he used to be. Like any artist, he's looking back on his body of work, and wondering if it was all worth it. With the clock ticking, Mister J has decided that it's finally time.

Oh, he's had hits in the past. Shooting Jim Gordon's wife in the face. Breaking Dr. Quinzell's mind and sculpting her into Harley Quinn. And the ever-popular murder of Jason Todd. This, though, is the big one. The Joker's working on his Sistine Chapel, his Statue of David, his glorious Ninth Symphony, his Dark Side of the Moon. His masterpiece.

First, though, he's got other issues to deal with. Someone's been picking off some of his old favorite henchmen, and if he's going to get the band back together for the big hoorah, he's got to make sure there's at least some semblance of a band left. So for the first time in his life, the Joker is going to have to try and stop a string of murders.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Joker is largely going to be contained to Gotham City, of course, but given his long and notorious career in supervillainy, I can imagine he's had his fair share of interactions with the other heroes and villains of the setting. He's almost certainly had run-ins with the Justice League and the Avengers, either by himself or as part of a Legion of Doom/Masters of Evil/whatever sort of team-up, so if you want to say your character has encountered him in the past, I'm going to abide by the cardinal rule of improv comedy and say "Yes And."

The primary arc I've got in mind, while large in scale, is going to be somewhat limited in duration. It's got a very definite beginning, middle, and end. While he's going to be a driving force in Gotham for a while, well....you'll see (assuming I get approved).

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

What's everyones favourite Superhero film?

@Sep

In terms of an actor bringing a character to life perfectly: Hellboy, Iron Man 1, Wonder Woman 1, and Superman The Movie.

In terms of capturing the essence of a character and the world he lives in: Spider-Man 1 and 2.

In terms of creating a memorable style and doing something interesting with well-established characters: Into the Spider-Verse and the actual version of Justice League.

In terms of sheer popcorn entertainment: the first Avengers, The Suicide Squad, and Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

In terms of just overall "this is a good movie regardless of genre conventions" quality: nothing comes close to The Dark Knight.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

What time of year is it?

@Enarr

I assumed it's roughly the same time of year in-game as it is in the real world.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

While it's technically an anime and stretching what exactly qualifies as the superhero genre, Devilman has probably the only theme song that actually makes me want to get up and dance.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

While we're talking animated themes, in addition to being my favorite iteration of Spidey all around, The Spectacular Spider-Man's theme was an absolute BOP.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Discussion Time Baby: If you want not everyone is getting involved in these: what's your favourite Superhero-related OST (Original Soundtrack) of all time?

@Sep

For all of the multitude of issues that the DCEU/Snyderverse may have in terms of writing and tone, I think people sleep on how goddamn fantastic the scores are.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

@AndyC your posts are always visual and very easy to picture in my head, and honestly I just wanted to point this out to pay you a compliment.

@Sep

Athankyew. And might I say, I've been thoroughly enjoying Hulk and Cap Director Steve as well.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Mercury Square, Upper West Side
Central City, Kansas, USA

KRA-KOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!

Thunder roars over the steel and glass canyons of Central City's financial district, the handful of bank headquarters and corporate office towers the only real concentration of actual high-rises in the city. Above the offices of the old Central City Citizen, the sky is black, and a hard heavy rain pulverizes the grass in Mercury Square to a muddy mess. The rain is so hard, in fact, that it's almost impossible to see more than a few feet into it.

Not twenty yards away, it's bright and sunny out, the air maybe just a bit parched from a long late summer afternoon.

Lines of squad cars have cordoned off the area, a small army of officers with weapons at the ready for whatever is going on inside that storm. Behind them, armored cars with SWAT team officers idle, ready to roll in and engage directly.

Beams of cerulean and flares of red-orange dance with bolts of cloud-to-ground lightning, matched with another ear-splitting crack of thunder. The men and women of the CCPD each swore an oath to serve and protect the people of this city, but every one of them knows that if they get the order to advance, they're walking into a massacre.

Lucky for them, that order's not gonna come today.

The run from the CCPD forensics lab to downtown is a bit of an annoying one, since the city was never really planned to grow to its current size. So instead of lots of nice neat rows like you'd get in a New York or a Metropolis, it's a knot of ramps and cloverleafs on and off the highways, streets and avenues intersecting at ungodly angles, and no real main through-line to connect one end of the city to the other. Moving at my fastest "city speeds"-- that is, as fast as I can move without worrying about shattering glass and ripping up pavement everywhere I go-- it takes me a whole four and a half seconds to cover the distance.

If I ever remember to attend a city council meeting, I'll make sure to lodge a complaint about how long it takes to get around town.

KRA-KOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!

As lightning crashes, I arrive on the scene, making my presence known by sprinting right through the CCPD barricade, slowing down just enough that they can see me break through the police line tape like the finish line of a marathon.

I really wish someone could have gotten a picture of that; I just know it looked awesome.

"Sorry I'm late," I say as I turn with a shrug, the sonic boom that accompanies my arrival honestly kind of pathetic after the massive thundercracks coming from the heart of the storm. "You know how traffic is this time of day."

The officers vary between giving me an annoyed stink-eye and sighing with relief, before I charge in to the wall of rain. The ground is muddy enough that I accidentally skid a good twenty feet before coming to a stop in the middle of Mercury Square.

"Heya fellas!" I call out over the continuous roar of the heavy rain. "Y'know, I'm normally not a fan of surprise parties, but if you went through all the effort to break out of prison and stage this get-together for little old me, then what the heck, let's do this! The six of you, against the one and only, the FLLLLLLLASH!!!!"

I puff my chest out, hands on my hips in the same sort of heroic pose I've seen Superman do a hundred times, before I deliver the follow-up.

"And if you think I drew out the name too much, don't worry," I continue, "it's just so I can hand each one of you an L today!"

The rain continues to pour.

A stoplight creaks in the wind.

Other than that....nothing.

"Oh come on, that was a good one!" I protest, all the while trying to see through the thick sheets of rain to where they might be. "I mean, if you're not going to play along and banter back with me, then this isn't going to be any fun for anyo--"

FRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!!

"Bingo," I smirk to myself as a pencil-thin ray of cerulean lances through the air towards me, and time slows to a crawl. Those all-too-familiar arcs of yellow dance across my body as I skim just a tad into the Speed Force, a barely-known facet of extradimensional reality that warps space and time, among any number of other screwy things. And it's a good thing I tap into it when I do, because that thin ray of blue is millimeters from hitting me square between the eyes.

Leonard Snart, alias Captain Cold, and the de facto leader of the Rogues. He's the only one of them who resembles a "professional" criminal, a former bounty hunter before deciding there was more money on the other side of the law. His gimmick is built around his Cold Gun, which is some kind of "anti-laser," in that it somehow slows down the particles of anything it hits to Absolute Zero, freezing them cold instead of heating them up. He's a hell of a shot with it, too, and usually comes up with all sorts of creative ways to angle his beams or freeze the area around me to negate my speed advantage.

By shooting straight at me, though, all he's done is give away his position.

Casually side-stepping the tip of the Cold Gun's ray, I start to follow the beam through the rain, weaving around the raindrops that had been frozen into spear-point in its wake, working my way to its point of origin.

"Lenny, Lenny, Lenny," I shake my head with a tsk, "you just couldn't--"

I cut my banter short when I realize that Cold isn't going to be annoyed by it.

Because Cold isn't there.

There's just a....a ripple in the air. And the Cold Gun ray is leaping out of that ripple, like a pencil pushed through a sheet of paper.

"....huh....." I say as the beam collides with a tree, freezing the entire thing solid in an instant.

"Is something wrong, Flash?" I hear the voice of Dr. Wells, the director of Central City's branch of S.T.A.R. Labs, in the earpiece built into my cowl. On top of being the guy kind enough to design my suits, Wells and his team are usually in my ear providing vital intel.

"Don't know if it's wrong," I answer as I watch the ripple fade away, "But it's definitely weird. Captain Cold just took a shot at me, but uhhh, he's not here. There's some kind of--"

FWWOOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHH!!!!!

The ground beneath my feet ripples, then erupts into a geyser of superheated plasma. I throw myself a safe distance from the blast, and as I tuck into a roll and come up, I find myself bobbing and juking around a resulting shower of fireballs.

"And it's getting better," I tell the S.T.A.R. Labs team as an orb of plasma detonates to my right, scattering shrapnel hotter than the surface of the sun in my direction. I put a safe distance between myself and the debris, then have to do it again to avoid another molten geyser. "This has gotta be Heat Wave's schtick...."

That would be Mick Rory, a pyromaniac who wields an arsenal of incredibly nasty plasma projectors, and likes to make me play "the floor is lava" for real.

Well, like I said, it would be Mick Rory.....but apparently he's not here. Again, as another molten fissure in the ground vomits up orange liquid death, I see that same ripple in the air.

"Okay, forget 'weird.' Something's definitely wrong here," I remark, more to myself than to Wells and his team. "No Heat Wave, no Cold, and despite this lovely weather being pretty obviously the work of our friend Mark, I'll bet we're not gonna find Weather Wizard here either."

"We're trying to scan the area," Dr. Wells assures me. "We've got one of our satellites over the area, and --zzzshhhhh--ew sensor drones en route. If there's --zzzzttt-- trace of spatial distortion from, say, a wormhole, or trace radiation from Zeta Beams or Bo--zzzttt-- or other teleportation technology, we'll be able to hone in on it and find its location."

"Well, ah, emphasis on the word trying" Cisco chimes in. "We're --zzzsshhh--ting a lot of electromagnetic interference from the storm, and --zzzzttshhh--- thing's filling the area with chaff."

"You're starting to break up," I tell them, tapping my earpiece. "What kind of chaff are we--"

K-PAFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!

Right in front of my face, the air ripples, and what looks like an old-timey cartoon bomb floats in the air for a split-second before bursting. Tucking into a tight roll to avoid the explosive debris, I'm surprised to see the area filled not with gunpowder and shards of iron, but with clouds of shiny metallic glitter.

"Of course," I grumble. "Glitter bombs from the Trickster. I'll bet good money that it's getting spread on the wind thanks to Weather Wizard, and making a makeshift Faraday cage around the site. We might lose comms before too much longer. Means it's going to be just them and me in--"

ZZZZZZNNNNNNNGGGG!

A trio of glowing disks emerge from more ripples in the air, one in front of me, and one on either side. With a deadly singing hum, they quite literally slice through the air, the blades so impossibly thin they can actually carve electrons off of atoms.

I say "disks," but they only look like that to someone who perceives the world at normal speed. I, on the other hand, can see them for exactly what they are, the spinning blades in their distinct bent shape a dead giveaway.

"Aaaand there he is," I say as they curve and whirl around me, "can't have the Rogues without good old Captain Boomerang."

George "Digger" Harkness, a smash-and-grab bank robber with a ridiculous gimmick, who somehow managed to make himself properly dangerous. Once he figured out that he'd fare better by stealing exotic tech instead of jewelry and cash, Boomer made a pretty useful arsenal for himself. Hypersonic boomerangs, explosive boomerangs, sensor boomerangs, invisible boomerangs, big boomerangs that shoot out dozens of smaller boomerangs. He even made a giant rocket-powered boomerang and, uh, strapped me to it to try and launch me into space once.

I'll say this for the guy: he's committed to his act.

These, though, are his standard-issue razor boomerangs: incredibly lethal, but only if he manages to hit you with them. And without some major trickery up his sleeve, those things don't have a chance of hitting me.

"Okay, guys," I call out, casually sidestepping boomerangs any time one gets close, and hoping they can hear me from whatever control center they're doing this from, "I'll admit, using your powers to attack me remotely is pretty cute. Downright impressive, even. I didn't think you had enough brain cells between you to come up with something like this. But, of course, there's a pretty big fundamental flaw in this little thunder-dome of yours."

Another boomerang whizzes towards me, right at neck level. I bend down to mock tying my shoe as it passes harmlessly overhead.

"In order for me to fall for this trap," I continue as I stretch my legs, once again just barely avoiding a razor-sharp projectile, "I have to stay in the trap. So if you don't mind, I'm gonna go ahead and bust out of here, figure out this deal from the outside, then track you down and send you back to Iron Heights."

I put on a burst of speed, leaving Digger's boomerangs in the dust before--

KSSHHHHHH!!!!

I run headlong into myself, the kinetic energy from speeding forward now hurling me backward just as fast, and I go tumbling into the dirt.

"Flash, l--*tzzzt*--out for--"

"Mirror Master, right," I groan as I start to pick myself up. "Should've figured. He's walled off the area, so I can't get out without getting bounced back in."

"Hang on, Fl--*zzzzttt*--getting a hold of K--*ZZZZZZZSSSSHHHH*--ee if we can g--*ZSHHHHHHTTTTTT*"

The comms go completely to static as Weather Wizard's storm intensifies.

"Oh man," I mutter to myself and get ready to run, "This is really gonna suck."

More ripples in the air.

Another Cold Beam in front of me.

Another heat geyser behind me.

More boomerangs zooming around me.

Poison-tipped jacks from Trickster suddenly litter across the ground.

Each time one goes wide, they bounce off of an instant Mirror to redirect it right towards me.

FRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!!

FWWOOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHH!!!!!

ZZZZZZNNNNNNNGGGG!

K-PAFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!

KSSHHHHHH!!!!

KRA-KOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!

It's all I can do to stay ahead of the combined assault, tapping deeper and deeper into the Speed Force to duck and weave my way through the Gauntlet. Even with time at a near standstill, they fill the air and the ground with so much deadly crap that I'm having to twist and turn, duck and jump, squeeze through tight gaps and stop dead short to avoid running into something that will take my face off.

Eventually, though, they start to funnel me in, start closing off my options. Fire on one side, ice on the other, lightning ripping up the ground behind me, and boomerangs nipping at my heels like a pack of wolves running down a deer.

"Oh crap, oh crap, ohcrapohcrapohcrapoh--wait, nuhh--" is what I manage to sputter as another ripple of air appears directly in front of me, and I have no choice but to run right into it. And I don't get burned, or frozen, or sliced to bits.

Instead, I hear....flute music?

As the soothing tunes fill my ears, my senses start to dull. Everything gets....heavy, slow. Comfortable, even.

Like I could just lie down and take a nap. That actually sounds....pretty great.

"Whuh--hang on..." my rational, alarmed brain protests as waves of comfort and sleepiness wash over me. "Is...izzat..._{Pied Piper? Since when wuzee partuvv....of...th...}"

I let out a loud yawn, and the Speed Force starts to drain from my body.

Beams of Cold bounce back and forth between Mirrors, creating a cage around me that's starting to grow tighter and tighter.

The ground is starting to warm up again, meaning that it's about to erupt into another geyser of lava.

Stink bombs filled with nerve gas scatter all around me.

A dozen atom-sharp boomerangs all whizz towards their target.

And in the clouds above, a charge is gathering for a bolt of lightning that will fry me to a crisp.

But right now....all I want to do....is sleep it all off.

"_{..if...anyunn hearsszis...}" I blearily slur over the Justice League communicator as the last bits of my consciousness start to fade to black. "_{...stay....outta the storm....issaa....issa trap....}"

Then sleep takes me.