You misunderstand. They're not DOOM's patrol. They're on patrol for DOOM.
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
<Snipped quote by Roman>
Seems like a risky way to play Russian Roulette.
Take a shot for every time I used a semi-colon(DO not do this).
Take a shot for every time I used a semi-colon (DO not do this).
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
Aftermaths are rarely loud.
Crises themselves, the catalysing events, the worst-thing-that's-ever-happened-to-me's; these are cacophonic, discordant, deafening. They often involved the wrenching of metal, the crashing of concrete, blasts of gunpowder and gut-churning organic tearing and crunching and grinding. But the aftermaths - the minutes, hours, sometimes days afterwards - they were quiet. Dust settled, fires burnt out, rubble came to rest. And then, slowly but surely, the catastrophe that had first announced itself in a sudden roar rippled back out across the city in peels of tragedy.
The Batman crouched low on the building roof above an open window, out of which emanated the loudest aftermath he had ever heard, even through the torrential rain that soaked the city tonight. A little boy had been killed tonight, found dead after 3 weeks missing. The mother wailed below, hoarse and exhausted. The father was a shell, struck motionless by shock. One of Jim's boys was in the room with them, trying desperately to offer comfort that was neither wanted nor would be effective. Neither parent would ever be the same again; statistically, they'd be divorced within the year, neither able to cope with their grief. They'd have lowered life expectancy, higher rates of depression, and their standards of living would decline. Nothing Bruce could do would ease these inevitable outcome. But Batman could stop it from happening again.
Can you?
I must.
The radio in his cowl's ear chirruped as Jim Gordon made contact. Gordon had been first on scene after the body had been discovered, and Batman had watched from the rooftops as the lieutenant organised cordons, oversaw evidence collection, and arranged the body to be collected by the coroner. As the gurney was lifted into the coroner's van, Gordon tilted his head up ever-so-subtly, casting a careful eye across the roof-edge. He'd seen the fluttering of a cape, and that was enough."Batman. Body's arrived at the morgue. I've sent the team back out. Leslie can hold off processing for half an hour."
"Understood."
Batman launched a grapnel and swung into the night. The sobs got left behind; but the grief stayed.
-
Over the course of his half-decade career, Bruce never found that dealing with the dead ever got easier. Gotham's mismatched cabal of gangsters and psychopaths had left scores of bodies in their wake over the last five years, and undoubtedly for decades before that; Batman shouldered every life that was lost in his city, counting every single person that he failed to save. But the children...the children were always the hardest.
He and Jim stood silently beside the giant slab GCPD mortuary table, the body bag - the oh-too-small body bag - lying zipped up atop the metal. Dr. Leslie Thompkins lingered at the door, her eyes darting between the bag and the two men standing over it. Her mouth crinkled warmly at the edges where she pulled her lips into a smile that wasn't really a smile at all.
"I'm stepping out. Half an hour. Locking the morgue behind me." She said; Jim nodded solemnly as Leslie waved a key unenthusiastically. "Everyone knows I find children difficult. Loeb won't ask questions."
Batman didn't look up, didn't move; it was only when he heard the click-clack of the key in the lock that he unearthed a hand from beneath his cloak to unzip the body bag, in one long, steady movement.
The bag peeled open and suddenly it was unavoidable. Jim turned away, but Bruce's stony gaze somehow hardened further.
The throat was a mess; stained with blood yet to be cleaned off, scraps and tufts of feathers burst forth from puncture wounds that encircled the boy's neck. Batman took a sample of some of the cleaner feather debris to be identified once he returned to the cave; he was sure that later, Leslie would find splinters of the calamus within the wounds. Cause of death was uncertain. Exsanguination, or asphyxiation? Did he bleed out, struggling for breath through a hundred punctured holes? Or did he suffocate, while his heart relentlessly pumped blood up and out his throat?
"Jesus Christ..." Jim muttered from across the room. He was a seasoned cop, and like Bruce had seen far more morbid than the worst Gotham City had to offer. But children were always hard. "Stabbed with feathers...just when you think you've seen it all. You think this was Cobblepot?"
Batman shook his head in a micro-movement.
"Kids aren't Penguin's MO. Bad for business." Bruce produced a small torch from his gauntlet and carefully inspected the rest of the body. "He's been well-kept. Looked after."
Jim re-approached the body as Batman went over it with care.
"He's clean. New clothes. No signs of malnutrition. Hair cut recently - loose strands behind ears. Even makeup..." Batman trailed off. There was something bothering him about the body, something obvious that nevertheless eluded him.
The mouth was slightly ajar, and Bruce could see that something had been stuffed inside.
"Something in the oral cavity. I need a gag."
Jim turned to Leslie's laid out tools on the cabinet-top behind them and passed Bruce the reverse plier; carefully, Bruce eased open the jaw of the boy, muscles already stiffening. Inside was...
"Is that newspaper?" Jim asked, nearly a whisper. Batman didn't respond, just removed the scrunched-up scrap, cautious not to tear it. He moved away from the body, spreading out and flattening the paper on the worktop that lined the side of the room. As the scrap unfurled, Bruce's fist clenched and he set his jaw. Jim approached from behind, and looked over Batman's shoulder to the newspaper article that had been revealed; there was a sharp intake of breath, and then a few looks from the article to the body and back to the article, and then Jim said:
"My god. He's practically a double."
The article was old, even if the crinkled paper it had been printed on wasn't. Batman seethed internally. From the page, 8-year-old Bruce Wayne sobbed at the end of a paparazzi camera, the night of his parent's death. From the slab, a perfectly painted doppelganger rested dead and mutilated. The clothes were a match; the haircut was copied to the strand. The makeup emulated young Bruce's facial structure with contour and highlight. Bruce didn't want to know how he'd missed this; so many details of that night he'd obsessed over, for years and years to this very day. How could he be his own blind spot?
Wrapped in the article was a small item: a singular bullet casing. At a glance, it matched the calibre from the Wayne murders.
"That needs to go to forensic immediately, check for prints, DNA."
Batman picked up the casing and turned it over in his hand.
"Check cold cases. Archived evidence."
"You think the killer got these from the GCPD? It's all locked away. The department's dirty, but to dig this up..."
"Not ruling anything out. Not yet."
Batman turned away from the counter and moved toward the window, lingering only briefly at the body; now that he'd seen the article, the resemblance had turned the cadaver from tragic to ghoulish, and he felt unseated, askew.
He needed to leave.
There was something he needed to check.
-
Crime Alley was quiet tonight, save for the steady drip-drop of rainwater running through the gutters and the ever-present background of Gotham at night. The ground was slick with water, and there was a wet sheen that reflected the mixed moon-and-lamp-light; but there was something else that the light illuminated, something far more concerning.
Someone had redrawn the chalk outlines of Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Batman un-melted from the shadows, spreading his own inky dark across the alleyway. He stood over the chalk etchings, unavoidably reliving the moment in his mind, each shot, each scream. He'd briefly surveyed the surrounding area when he'd arrived, but despite the freshness of the chalk - it had to be less than an hour old, drawn after the rain ended, it wouldn't have survived the downpour if done before - there was no evidence of anyone having been in the alley the entire night. Except for the chalk.
The fluttering of wings seized Batman's attention, zeroing in on the sound as he looked up sharply. Above him, from the rooftops; the beating of flight. Grapnel was already out and fired before it could end, and within seconds Bruce was above the alley atop the buildings, scanning furiously the skyline. Gotham stretched out before him, smoke and light spilling into the air, but the top of the city was as empty as the bottom. And then, a single caw, and more fluttering, and a magpie landed before him, spotlighted perfectly by the moon's light, reflecting ethereally on its monochrome coat. It tweaked its head, spying Batman in one beady eye; in its beak was a bead, brilliant white, that clattered on the stone as it was dropped by the bird and rolled its way to a stop at his boot, Batman stooping to pick it up. A pearl.
The magpie stared at Batman, eerily quiet. He started toward it, movement already futile; it was up and gone in a beating of wings before he could catch it, regardless of speed. In its place was a scrap of paper, scratched from being clutched in its talons but legible nonetheless:
ONE FOR SORROW
Batman looked up at the bird, already a barely-visible speck in the night sky. Something inside him coiled in old, dredged-up turmoil. Whatever this was, in the pit of his stomach, he knew: it was going to get worse, before it got better.
T H E B A T M A N
B R U C E W A Y N E ♦ V I G I L A N T E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y ♦ T H E J U S T I C E L E A G U E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
“Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot.”
The Batman has been operating in Gotham for five years, and while it feels like many battles have been won, the war itself is slowly being lost.
Working covertly with the GCPD through Lieutenant James Gordon, the city has struck a mighty blow against the organised crime families that once plagued it; but while men like Maroni and Falcone have been removed from their seats of power and their empires disassembled, friends were lost in the process, and replacements are eagerly stepping in - and while Gordon is a trusted ally, the GCPD at large remains sceptical of the vigilante's presence at the behest of their corrupt commissioner.
Worse than a mafia resurgence however is the looming storm of a new kind of threat to Gotham's citizens - the so-called 'super-criminal', an apparent response to Batman's existence in the ever-escalating arms race between those who wish to protect the city's innocents, and those who wish to ruin them. While Batman has dealt with a few of these individuals already in his half-decade career, more and more emerge every day, and all seek to test themselves against the Bat.
Working covertly with the GCPD through Lieutenant James Gordon, the city has struck a mighty blow against the organised crime families that once plagued it; but while men like Maroni and Falcone have been removed from their seats of power and their empires disassembled, friends were lost in the process, and replacements are eagerly stepping in - and while Gordon is a trusted ally, the GCPD at large remains sceptical of the vigilante's presence at the behest of their corrupt commissioner.
Worse than a mafia resurgence however is the looming storm of a new kind of threat to Gotham's citizens - the so-called 'super-criminal', an apparent response to Batman's existence in the ever-escalating arms race between those who wish to protect the city's innocents, and those who wish to ruin them. While Batman has dealt with a few of these individuals already in his half-decade career, more and more emerge every day, and all seek to test themselves against the Bat.
C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
With an established Batman, I'm not looking to do anything revelatory with Bruce himself, running a fairly standard adaptation of the character with the tried-and-true backstory and enough wiggle-room in his career history for sidekick and/or legacy characters to be available for others.
What I do want to have fun with is re-inventing some of Bruce's rogues gallery, with concepts in place for Riddler, Magpie, Brother EYE, and Firefly, as well as exploring the underworld civil war as new criminal elements (namely Cobblepot and Sionis) look to move in on the power vacuum left by Maroni and Falcone's incarcerations.
I also want to remain open to interaction and collaboration, having all of the above occur pretty much concurrently to be advanced and explored at-will, either solo or cooperatively.
What I do want to have fun with is re-inventing some of Bruce's rogues gallery, with concepts in place for Riddler, Magpie, Brother EYE, and Firefly, as well as exploring the underworld civil war as new criminal elements (namely Cobblepot and Sionis) look to move in on the power vacuum left by Maroni and Falcone's incarcerations.
I also want to remain open to interaction and collaboration, having all of the above occur pretty much concurrently to be advanced and explored at-will, either solo or cooperatively.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
S A M P L E P O S T:
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Oh, so Hound gets to play a talking tiger AND a talking monkey, but a talking hedgehog is right out just because he's blue and enjoys light jogging?
The favouritism in this place is disgusting.
The favouritism in this place is disgusting.
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 B A T M A N
B R U C E W A Y N E ♦ V I G I L A N T E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y ♦ T H E J U S T I C E L E A G U E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
“Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot.”
The Batman has been operating in Gotham for five years, and while it feels like many battles have been won, the war itself is slowly being lost.
Working covertly with the GCPD through Lieutenant James Gordon, the city has struck a mighty blow against the organised crime families that once plagued it; but while men like Maroni and Falcone have been removed from their seats of power and their empires disassembled, friends were lost in the process, and replacements are eagerly stepping in - and while Gordon is a trusted ally, the GCPD at large remains sceptical of the vigilante's presence at the behest of their corrupt commissioner.
Worse than a mafia resurgence however is the looming storm of a new kind of threat to Gotham's citizens - the so-called 'super-criminal', an apparent response to Batman's existence in the ever-escalating arms race between those who wish to protect the city's innocents, and those who wish to ruin them. While Batman has dealt with a few of these individuals already in his half-decade career, more and more emerge every day, and all seek to test themselves against the Bat.
Working covertly with the GCPD through Lieutenant James Gordon, the city has struck a mighty blow against the organised crime families that once plagued it; but while men like Maroni and Falcone have been removed from their seats of power and their empires disassembled, friends were lost in the process, and replacements are eagerly stepping in - and while Gordon is a trusted ally, the GCPD at large remains sceptical of the vigilante's presence at the behest of their corrupt commissioner.
Worse than a mafia resurgence however is the looming storm of a new kind of threat to Gotham's citizens - the so-called 'super-criminal', an apparent response to Batman's existence in the ever-escalating arms race between those who wish to protect the city's innocents, and those who wish to ruin them. While Batman has dealt with a few of these individuals already in his half-decade career, more and more emerge every day, and all seek to test themselves against the Bat.
C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
With an established Batman, I'm not looking to do anything revelatory with Bruce himself, running a fairly standard adaptation of the character with the tried-and-true backstory and enough wiggle-room in his career history for sidekick and/or legacy characters to be available for others.
What I do want to have fun with is re-inventing some of Bruce's rogues gallery, with concepts in place for Riddler, Magpie, Brother EYE, and Firefly, as well as exploring the underworld civil war as new criminal elements (namely Cobblepot and Sionis) look to move in on the power vacuum left by Maroni and Falcone's incarcerations.
I also want to remain open to interaction and collaboration, having all of the above occur pretty much concurrently to be advanced and explored at-will, either solo or cooperatively.
What I do want to have fun with is re-inventing some of Bruce's rogues gallery, with concepts in place for Riddler, Magpie, Brother EYE, and Firefly, as well as exploring the underworld civil war as new criminal elements (namely Cobblepot and Sionis) look to move in on the power vacuum left by Maroni and Falcone's incarcerations.
I also want to remain open to interaction and collaboration, having all of the above occur pretty much concurrently to be advanced and explored at-will, either solo or cooperatively.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
G C P D P E R S O N N E L
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Lieutenant, James 'Jim' Gordon
◼ Detective, Harvey Bullock
◼ Junior Detective, Renee Montoya
◼ Senior Detective, Crispus Allen
◼ Coroner, Leslie Thompkins
◼ Police Commissioner, Gillian Loeb
G O T H A M P U B L I C O F F I C E S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Gotham Mayor, Aubrey James
◼ District Attorney, Janice Porter
◼ Editor-in-Chief, Gotham Gazzette, Jack Ryder
◼ Field Reporter, Gotham Gazzette, Vicki Vale
◼ Gotham University Professor, Edward Nashton
◼ Gotham University Researcher, Diedre Vance
G O T H A M C R I M I N A L C I T I Z E N S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Head of Roman Mafia, Don Carmine Falcone (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Head of Maroni Crime Family, Boss Salvatore Maroni (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Roman Mafia Hitman, Victor Zsasz (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Former District Attorney, Harvey Dent (Incarcerated, Arkham Asylum)
◼ Industrial Espionage Agent, Garfield Lynns
◼ Head of False Face Crime Family, Roman Sionis
◼ Heir to Cobblepot 'Fortune', Oswald Cobblepot
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Lieutenant, James 'Jim' Gordon
◼ Detective, Harvey Bullock
◼ Junior Detective, Renee Montoya
◼ Senior Detective, Crispus Allen
◼ Coroner, Leslie Thompkins
◼ Police Commissioner, Gillian Loeb
G O T H A M P U B L I C O F F I C E S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Gotham Mayor, Aubrey James
◼ District Attorney, Janice Porter
◼ Editor-in-Chief, Gotham Gazzette, Jack Ryder
◼ Field Reporter, Gotham Gazzette, Vicki Vale
◼ Gotham University Professor, Edward Nashton
◼ Gotham University Researcher, Diedre Vance
G O T H A M C R I M I N A L C I T I Z E N S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
◼ Head of Roman Mafia, Don Carmine Falcone (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Head of Maroni Crime Family, Boss Salvatore Maroni (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Roman Mafia Hitman, Victor Zsasz (Incarcerated, Blackgate Penitentiary)
◼ Former District Attorney, Harvey Dent (Incarcerated, Arkham Asylum)
◼ Industrial Espionage Agent, Garfield Lynns
◼ Head of False Face Crime Family, Roman Sionis
◼ Heir to Cobblepot 'Fortune', Oswald Cobblepot
S A M P L E P O S T:
Set the scene.
Gotham docks. Off-stage, yet his presence felt: ‘The Penguin’. Deposed heir to the Cobblepot crime family; now destitute, he grows desperate and ruthless in pursuit of the empire he’s lost.
The empire I have ripped away from him.
Tonight he brings drugs into my city, balaclava-clad men hauling wooden crates off of shipping containers and loading them into trucks. The cargo and containers are unmarked, but I have already seen the shipping manifesto; these crates may have come from overseas, but their purchase has been made through holding companies and shell corps that one can, when looking in the right places, trace back to a property development and construction contracting company based in New York City.
Fisk is attempting to purchase a stake of Gotham using Cobblepot as a figurehead. They will both be disappointed.
From my vantage point I can see eleven men.
Three loading crates; they are strong, but fatigued, and the hard work on a humid night has aggravated them; they demand help from the others, but are ignored. Tempers flare.
One in the truck cab; he is overweight and chain-smoking. His windows are closed and the stereo is loud.
Four dock workers, all paid off. Whether by Cobblepot or Fisk doesn't matter; what does is three of them are concealing light firearms, judging by their uneven gaits. The other is young and nervous, and wraps his hand around a single set of brass knuckles in his jacket pocket.
Two security guards, once again paid off. One guards the entrance to this pier - he's jumpy, and carries his hands together, awkwardly low and in front of him: he is holding what is likely to be a shotgun. The other is casually patrolling; he is openly carrying a pistol, with a heavy torch in the other hand. The patrolling guard is not jumpy, and he grips his pistol loosely. Carelessly.
The last man is the lookout; he is stationed atop the gantry crane assigned to this pier. He is holding an automatic rifle and has binoculars, an open-broadcast two-way radio, and has even been equipped with night-vision goggles, because he is here to look for me, and I operate from the dark.
He will not find me. I am above him. I was on this gantry crane first.
I begin tonight's work.
I have nine minutes and forty seconds before the lookout fails to report at the next check-in and the men are alerted to my arrival. The guard at the entrance to the pier is sequestered in his booth, too far from the operation to be useful; the driver is not the fighting type. That leaves me a little over a minute to incapacitate each man.
Doable.
I leap from the crane, gliding softly towards the patrolman who has entered the furthest section of his route.
The patrolman had been at odds with the job since the night began; I’d checked his record, and for a docks guard, it was as clean as they came. A little history, to be expected. But this was his first time being bought. He’d taken to it all too easily. They all do.
I lean over him and lightly wave a small bottle of solvent beneath his nose; the glue blocking his nostrils melts away, and I hear him subconsciously take a full breath, but he doesn’t wake up. He won’t for at least half-an-hour; the glue includes chloroform in its makeup to sedate the victim. I bind his hands behind his back, retrieving the batarang, and then head inwards towards the truck.
There are seven men left: the three loaders, and the four dock workers. The loaders are unarmed, but the workers aren’t, and the three with concealed pistols need to be tackled first. They’re mostly milling around, but one wanders away to urinate. I take him out first; emerging from the dark like a beast of the nine circles, enveloping him in terror’s embrace and smothering him until he stops struggling. I set him down and bind his hands, too, and then I take the pistol from the belt of his trousers. Well made. American. Probably Fisk again; Oswald’s no arms dealer, and doesn’t have the underworld clout to source firearms like these. I disassemble it easily enough, regardless of its manufacturer.
The pieces go clattering around the corner towards the remaining men; everyone ceases their tasks to watch as the sections of pistol slide in their direction from where their comrade had rounded the corner mere seconds ago. They all freeze; every single man on the pier tonight now knows their operation has ended, but none want to say it aloud. Instead, the two workers wielding pistols draw them and hold them tight and outstretched, and then heckle the worker with the dusters to investigate. He protests, meekly, then does what is demanded of him, slipping the brass knuckles over his fist as he approaches my corner.
He rounds it and see his colleague unconscious. He does not see me. I reach out and seize his wrist, bringing my elbow down across the top of his forearm, breaking his elbow sharply; he screams and I let him. I want them to hear his pain. I want them to fear the pain they are about to feel. I slip the dusters off his fingers as he whimpers, cradling his broken arm, and then deliver them to the side of his face; he slumps over, out cold, gums bleeding. I toss the dusters towards the remaining men too; now I hear them shouting. The shake and inflection in their voices indicates panic.
Five left. Two armed. Terror beginning to strangle their minds and cloud their judgement. Time to end things.
I launch a smoke capsule at the ground in front of me; gas explodes forth and lays down cover; I step into the fog, unseen, and then carefully approach the outer edge of the cloud, allowing the men to barely glimpse my form; I hear one shout and know I've been spotted, and immediately back away, invisible again, before dropping prone to the ground. Shots puncture the gas as bullets whip past above me. The two with pistols are aiming torso-level. They both miss; then they pause to reload. I stand and step forward again, in one smooth motion parting my cloak and flinging two batarangs out; they both find their marks, cutting across the hands of the workers as they're scrambling to load a second clip. Both pistols are dropped, and the men let their fear get the better of them. They turn and run. I throw out my other arm; bolos fly forth and ensnare their ankles. they hit the ground head-first and hard.
Three left. I step out of the smoke completely, letting my cloak cover me again. They stare; I wait. I let the tension build.
Finally, one snaps and charges me; he throws a wide fist, too much wind up, too slow to connect; I sidestep and jab the wrist, breaking it easily, and then drive my other arm into his ribs; he folds around my fist, winded, and a follow up to his kidney has him wheezing and stumbling. I spin and bring my leg around; my greaves connect with his ear and he goes flying.
Two left. They rush me at the same time.
The driver ran. I’d anticipated it; he didn’t have the look of a fighter. By the time he reached the guard booth at the entrance to the pier and pointed frantically down the way towards me, I’d already set the charges on the crates; as the last guard sprinted towards me, I melted back into the shadows of the docks, and triggered the explosives.
By the time the guard picked himself up off the floor, Fisk and Penguin’s budding enterprise was cinders, and I was gone; another story of the night.
The evening was yet young. There was much work to be done.
Gotham docks. Off-stage, yet his presence felt: ‘The Penguin’. Deposed heir to the Cobblepot crime family; now destitute, he grows desperate and ruthless in pursuit of the empire he’s lost.
The empire I have ripped away from him.
Tonight he brings drugs into my city, balaclava-clad men hauling wooden crates off of shipping containers and loading them into trucks. The cargo and containers are unmarked, but I have already seen the shipping manifesto; these crates may have come from overseas, but their purchase has been made through holding companies and shell corps that one can, when looking in the right places, trace back to a property development and construction contracting company based in New York City.
Fisk is attempting to purchase a stake of Gotham using Cobblepot as a figurehead. They will both be disappointed.
From my vantage point I can see eleven men.
Three loading crates; they are strong, but fatigued, and the hard work on a humid night has aggravated them; they demand help from the others, but are ignored. Tempers flare.
One in the truck cab; he is overweight and chain-smoking. His windows are closed and the stereo is loud.
Four dock workers, all paid off. Whether by Cobblepot or Fisk doesn't matter; what does is three of them are concealing light firearms, judging by their uneven gaits. The other is young and nervous, and wraps his hand around a single set of brass knuckles in his jacket pocket.
Two security guards, once again paid off. One guards the entrance to this pier - he's jumpy, and carries his hands together, awkwardly low and in front of him: he is holding what is likely to be a shotgun. The other is casually patrolling; he is openly carrying a pistol, with a heavy torch in the other hand. The patrolling guard is not jumpy, and he grips his pistol loosely. Carelessly.
The last man is the lookout; he is stationed atop the gantry crane assigned to this pier. He is holding an automatic rifle and has binoculars, an open-broadcast two-way radio, and has even been equipped with night-vision goggles, because he is here to look for me, and I operate from the dark.
He will not find me. I am above him. I was on this gantry crane first.
I begin tonight's work.
-
'Eyes' is a dumb nickname, Eyes thinks, but these are dumb men and it is simple and effective and makes his role in the operation clear. They are obviously expecting interference tonight - but that is why he is here. His radio crackles - the voice coming through is filled with static, and is loud and grating. Ten minute check-in.
"[WALKER TO EYES. CHECK IN]"
"Eyes to Walker. Eyes clear."
"[WALKER TO EYES. OARLESS CANOE.]"
"Eyes to Walker. Western Fjord."
The radio crackles again and falls silent. Check-in clear. Eyes thinks he'll take another walk around the crane; the lights of Gotham's business district over the dock-water on a clear night is oddly beautiful. There's a good view of Wayne Tower too, the imposing skyscraper with its iconic 'W' fascia nestled among bank and media logos. He can lean over the railing and gaze out over the pier for five minutes, then walk back around for the next check.
Eyes barely has time to register what little noise comes from behind him before his forehead hits the metal railing and he bounces back, reeling - but not before his leg is kicked into the lower set of railings and his kneecap shatters. He would scream in pain, but as he twists around in his fall, the jagged, black shape that towers above him lashes out with one of its uncountable limbs and strikes him across the throat, silencing him as he sinks to the floor. Eyes' has one last sight before he fades out; terrible, inhuman horns, sitting atop a snarling black face, blasphemously haloed by demonic wings.
"[WALKER TO EYES. CHECK IN]"
"Eyes to Walker. Eyes clear."
"[WALKER TO EYES. OARLESS CANOE.]"
"Eyes to Walker. Western Fjord."
The radio crackles again and falls silent. Check-in clear. Eyes thinks he'll take another walk around the crane; the lights of Gotham's business district over the dock-water on a clear night is oddly beautiful. There's a good view of Wayne Tower too, the imposing skyscraper with its iconic 'W' fascia nestled among bank and media logos. He can lean over the railing and gaze out over the pier for five minutes, then walk back around for the next check.
Eyes barely has time to register what little noise comes from behind him before his forehead hits the metal railing and he bounces back, reeling - but not before his leg is kicked into the lower set of railings and his kneecap shatters. He would scream in pain, but as he twists around in his fall, the jagged, black shape that towers above him lashes out with one of its uncountable limbs and strikes him across the throat, silencing him as he sinks to the floor. Eyes' has one last sight before he fades out; terrible, inhuman horns, sitting atop a snarling black face, blasphemously haloed by demonic wings.
-
I have nine minutes and forty seconds before the lookout fails to report at the next check-in and the men are alerted to my arrival. The guard at the entrance to the pier is sequestered in his booth, too far from the operation to be useful; the driver is not the fighting type. That leaves me a little over a minute to incapacitate each man.
Doable.
I leap from the crane, gliding softly towards the patrolman who has entered the furthest section of his route.
-
Walker’s name is actually Walker, although he hasn’t let anyone know - to do so would be to defy the point of the codenames in the first place. William Walker. William after his father; he knows that much of the man, but little else. He spent much of his youth fighting ‘Willy Junior’ as a nickname, but eventually, gracefully, Bill stuck. Bill’s trying to be a better dad to his kid than William Senior was - not hard, as Bill’s mere existence in his son’s life is a step above the standard the old man set.
Bill’s a security guard at the docks, has been for 4 years. He knew what kind of world he was stepping into when he took the job - record turnovers, Gotham Docks, for all manner of reasons both sinister and benign - but there was little else in his skill set he was suitable for, and the job paid well for what it demanded of him. Tonight was the first time he’d been involved in anything explicitly illicit. The first time he’d been actively involved, at least, approached by a man in a suit with a roll of bills that totalled 3 months wage. 3 months wage for one night protecting whatever was coming off those containers - cargo that would have been coming in anyway, Bill thought, cargo that’s probably come in unawares on many of his shifts over his career. A quarter-year of pay for one night’s overtime. He could pay off his son’s braces with some left over for a real knock-out birthday present with what he was earning tonight. He felt good. A little dirty, but good.
There was a noise in the shadows to his left and Bill snapped out of his ruminations and whipped around, torch held out first and his pistol low and close to his body. He’d not fired a gun once in his four years on the docks, and didn’t even own the one he was holding now.
“W-Who’s there? Show yourself!”
There was another sound, behind him. He whipped around again, swearing under his breath and shaking a little. Still nothing. He took a few steps forward.
A quiet, sharp little noise rushed through the air towards him and something pierced his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol. It clattered to the ground, but Bill paid no attention; even before he’d yelled out in shock, there had been another small noise and a gummy, viscous substance had splashed across his mouth and nose, muffling his shout and blocking his air. He slowly sunk to the ground, losing consciousness, back against a shipping container as his legs gave way beneath him.
Ten feet away, across the path, the shadows shift and split and some cursed figure melts into reality; Bill can recognise a head connected to shoulders, but the rest of the body is an inhuman mass that bleeds into the floor, no limbs or torso or recognisably human features to speak of.
Consciousness fades. The darkness descends. The figure envelopes him; and then Bill cannot keep his eyes open any longer.
Bill’s a security guard at the docks, has been for 4 years. He knew what kind of world he was stepping into when he took the job - record turnovers, Gotham Docks, for all manner of reasons both sinister and benign - but there was little else in his skill set he was suitable for, and the job paid well for what it demanded of him. Tonight was the first time he’d been involved in anything explicitly illicit. The first time he’d been actively involved, at least, approached by a man in a suit with a roll of bills that totalled 3 months wage. 3 months wage for one night protecting whatever was coming off those containers - cargo that would have been coming in anyway, Bill thought, cargo that’s probably come in unawares on many of his shifts over his career. A quarter-year of pay for one night’s overtime. He could pay off his son’s braces with some left over for a real knock-out birthday present with what he was earning tonight. He felt good. A little dirty, but good.
There was a noise in the shadows to his left and Bill snapped out of his ruminations and whipped around, torch held out first and his pistol low and close to his body. He’d not fired a gun once in his four years on the docks, and didn’t even own the one he was holding now.
“W-Who’s there? Show yourself!”
There was another sound, behind him. He whipped around again, swearing under his breath and shaking a little. Still nothing. He took a few steps forward.
A quiet, sharp little noise rushed through the air towards him and something pierced his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol. It clattered to the ground, but Bill paid no attention; even before he’d yelled out in shock, there had been another small noise and a gummy, viscous substance had splashed across his mouth and nose, muffling his shout and blocking his air. He slowly sunk to the ground, losing consciousness, back against a shipping container as his legs gave way beneath him.
Ten feet away, across the path, the shadows shift and split and some cursed figure melts into reality; Bill can recognise a head connected to shoulders, but the rest of the body is an inhuman mass that bleeds into the floor, no limbs or torso or recognisably human features to speak of.
Consciousness fades. The darkness descends. The figure envelopes him; and then Bill cannot keep his eyes open any longer.
-
The patrolman had been at odds with the job since the night began; I’d checked his record, and for a docks guard, it was as clean as they came. A little history, to be expected. But this was his first time being bought. He’d taken to it all too easily. They all do.
I lean over him and lightly wave a small bottle of solvent beneath his nose; the glue blocking his nostrils melts away, and I hear him subconsciously take a full breath, but he doesn’t wake up. He won’t for at least half-an-hour; the glue includes chloroform in its makeup to sedate the victim. I bind his hands behind his back, retrieving the batarang, and then head inwards towards the truck.
There are seven men left: the three loaders, and the four dock workers. The loaders are unarmed, but the workers aren’t, and the three with concealed pistols need to be tackled first. They’re mostly milling around, but one wanders away to urinate. I take him out first; emerging from the dark like a beast of the nine circles, enveloping him in terror’s embrace and smothering him until he stops struggling. I set him down and bind his hands, too, and then I take the pistol from the belt of his trousers. Well made. American. Probably Fisk again; Oswald’s no arms dealer, and doesn’t have the underworld clout to source firearms like these. I disassemble it easily enough, regardless of its manufacturer.
The pieces go clattering around the corner towards the remaining men; everyone ceases their tasks to watch as the sections of pistol slide in their direction from where their comrade had rounded the corner mere seconds ago. They all freeze; every single man on the pier tonight now knows their operation has ended, but none want to say it aloud. Instead, the two workers wielding pistols draw them and hold them tight and outstretched, and then heckle the worker with the dusters to investigate. He protests, meekly, then does what is demanded of him, slipping the brass knuckles over his fist as he approaches my corner.
He rounds it and see his colleague unconscious. He does not see me. I reach out and seize his wrist, bringing my elbow down across the top of his forearm, breaking his elbow sharply; he screams and I let him. I want them to hear his pain. I want them to fear the pain they are about to feel. I slip the dusters off his fingers as he whimpers, cradling his broken arm, and then deliver them to the side of his face; he slumps over, out cold, gums bleeding. I toss the dusters towards the remaining men too; now I hear them shouting. The shake and inflection in their voices indicates panic.
Five left. Two armed. Terror beginning to strangle their minds and cloud their judgement. Time to end things.
I launch a smoke capsule at the ground in front of me; gas explodes forth and lays down cover; I step into the fog, unseen, and then carefully approach the outer edge of the cloud, allowing the men to barely glimpse my form; I hear one shout and know I've been spotted, and immediately back away, invisible again, before dropping prone to the ground. Shots puncture the gas as bullets whip past above me. The two with pistols are aiming torso-level. They both miss; then they pause to reload. I stand and step forward again, in one smooth motion parting my cloak and flinging two batarangs out; they both find their marks, cutting across the hands of the workers as they're scrambling to load a second clip. Both pistols are dropped, and the men let their fear get the better of them. They turn and run. I throw out my other arm; bolos fly forth and ensnare their ankles. they hit the ground head-first and hard.
Three left. I step out of the smoke completely, letting my cloak cover me again. They stare; I wait. I let the tension build.
Finally, one snaps and charges me; he throws a wide fist, too much wind up, too slow to connect; I sidestep and jab the wrist, breaking it easily, and then drive my other arm into his ribs; he folds around my fist, winded, and a follow up to his kidney has him wheezing and stumbling. I spin and bring my leg around; my greaves connect with his ear and he goes flying.
Two left. They rush me at the same time.
-
Larry McCoy has driven nearly anything that’s been built with a wheel and two pedals. Never drove stick, but never needed to; never had a licence neither, but never needed one. With an auto all you needed was a foot for ‘go’, a foot for ‘stop’, and hand for ‘where’. Larry had all those, and he made do just swell. Tractors early on - ploughing fields and harvesting crops. Taxi for a while, tried buses too, although eventually he pined for the quiet solitude he’d enjoyed in the cab of heavy farming machinery; he’d long left corn behind him, but found long-haul lorry driving suited him just fine. There was something comforting about a long road in front of him and a radio that was just a fraction static, where the only things that existed were Larry, the cargo he was hauling, and the journey that took from where he came from and where he was going.
That’s why he hated nights and jobs like these; no mystique, no romance, no subtle beauty. Here, the ugliness was laid bare, and he had to dip his hands deep into the muck. After jobs like these, Larry didn’t feel clean for days. But Larry’s wife had cancer, and hospital bills don’t pay themselves. So he played the music loud and stayed in the cab. That was his condition; he’d drive, and he’d drive whatever they wanted, and he’d do it better and sometimes cheaper than most. But he stayed in the cab.
So when Larry saw The Batman, a creature he believed was just Gotham urban legend - fuck, to Larry, the Batman may as well have been the Jersey Devil - appear out of darkness and smog, having done some unseen, unspeakable horror to at least three men, more likely eight, and then proceed to effortlessly incapacitate three more, seemingly untouchable, ethereal, intangible...
Larry got out the cab and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
That’s why he hated nights and jobs like these; no mystique, no romance, no subtle beauty. Here, the ugliness was laid bare, and he had to dip his hands deep into the muck. After jobs like these, Larry didn’t feel clean for days. But Larry’s wife had cancer, and hospital bills don’t pay themselves. So he played the music loud and stayed in the cab. That was his condition; he’d drive, and he’d drive whatever they wanted, and he’d do it better and sometimes cheaper than most. But he stayed in the cab.
So when Larry saw The Batman, a creature he believed was just Gotham urban legend - fuck, to Larry, the Batman may as well have been the Jersey Devil - appear out of darkness and smog, having done some unseen, unspeakable horror to at least three men, more likely eight, and then proceed to effortlessly incapacitate three more, seemingly untouchable, ethereal, intangible...
Larry got out the cab and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
-
The driver ran. I’d anticipated it; he didn’t have the look of a fighter. By the time he reached the guard booth at the entrance to the pier and pointed frantically down the way towards me, I’d already set the charges on the crates; as the last guard sprinted towards me, I melted back into the shadows of the docks, and triggered the explosives.
By the time the guard picked himself up off the floor, Fisk and Penguin’s budding enterprise was cinders, and I was gone; another story of the night.
The evening was yet young. There was much work to be done.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.
S O N I C T H E H E D G E H O G
S O N I C T H E H E D G E H O G
S O N I C T H E H E D G E H O G
"What you see is what you get. Just a hedgehog that loves adventure."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Given Middle Surname _________________________________________________________ Age | ♀/♂ | Species _________________________________________________________ Marital Status | Occupation P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S | C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T This is where you outline your vision for the character including any notable changes or differences from the regularly accepted canon. This should be a short summary that provides insight into where the character is in terms of their overall progress and development. You could also include any notable differences from the standard canon you've added to your character. D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E A full physical description to compliment your face claim and physical profile. In addition to physical attributes, this section can be used to flesh out personal mannerisms such as how the character carries themselves, do they talk with their hands or other such notable details. A sense of personal style can also be described here along with any other elaboration needed to complement the physical profile such as a description of tattoos, coloured hair etc. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? For a driving character, there should be enough of an outline present to interest other players along with specifications towards how many players you're looking to involve or available roles. For supporting characters, this should indicate either a plot you've arranged to be part of or the type of plot you're looking to be involved in. Roaming characters have the privilege of doing either or simply stating a roadmap for the character to exemplify how you'd ideally like them to move between plots. |
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
“Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot.”
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Bruce Wayne _________________________________________________________ Caucasian | Vigilante | Independent _________________________________________________________ Gotham | New Jersey | United States of America C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G | C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T The Batman has been operating in Gotham for five years, and while it feels like many battles have been won, the war itself is slowly being lost. Working covertly with the GCPD through Lieutenant James Gordon, the city has struck a mighty blow against the organised crime families that once plagued it; but while men like Maroni and Falcone have been removed from their seats of power and their empires disassembled, friends were lost in the process, and replacements are eagerly stepping in - and while Gordon is a trusted ally, the GCPD at large remains sceptical of the vigilante's presence at the behest of their corrupt commissioner. Worse than a mafia resurgence however is the looming storm of a new kind of threat to Gotham's citizens - the so-called 'super-criminal', an apparent response to Batman's existence in the ever-escalating arms race between those who wish to protect the city's innocents, and those who wish to ruin them. While Batman has dealt with a few of these individuals already in his half-decade career, more and more emerge every day, and all seek to test themselves against the Bat. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) With an established Batman, I'm not looking to do anything revelatory with Bruce himself, running a fairly standard adaptation of the character with the tried-and-true backstory and enough wiggle-room in his career history for sidekick and/or legacy characters to be available for others. What I do want to have fun with is re-inventing some of Bruce's rogues gallery, with concepts in place for Riddler, Magpie, Brother EYE, and Firefly, as well as exploring the underworld civil war as new criminal elements (namely Cobblepot and Sionis) look to move in on the power vacuum left by Maroni and Falcone's incarcerations. I also want to remain open to interaction and collaboration, having all of the above occur pretty much concurrently to be advanced and explored at-will, either solo or cooperatively. |
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