Roman

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

All right, well. Bleh. Here. A character in the middle of an origin story because I like origin stories.

One Who Is All

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

B A T G I R L

---

^{_{C A S S A N D R A C A I N ♦ W E A P O N ♦ G O T H A M ♦ L E A G U E O F S H A D O W S}}

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.

Cassandra Cain cares! That’s the best part about her. She’s going to be a bit older before she breaks free of her father’s control, at 17 instead of 8. And I was thinking that she would actually do it during this RP. So at the very beginning at least, this will be pre-hero Cassandra who is sent to Gotham by the League of Assassins for her first kill. She’ll do it, and come to realize that she’ll never be able to do it again and flee.

Her development mentally and vocabulary wise is going to be forever stunted by her upbringing and training. She’s going to be mute for the foreseeable future of this RP until there is a timeskip, and she won’t be able to read or understand the vast majority of spoken words at the beginning. And her fighting is going to be limited and unimaginative, a highly trained assassin doesn’t make her a good superhero.

However her martial skill and her body reading is going to be geared strongly to the high end of her feats and into the supernatural, soul reading, calculus-of-the-universe level skill. One Who Is All, that’s what they call her, the best martial artist in the world.

So throughout the course of this RP she will go from the world’s best/worst assassin, to vigilante, and then Batgirl, once she sees the symbol of the hero of Gotham and seeing how people react to it. How it gives good people hope, she’ll want to adopt the symbol herself.

And Gotham is a weird place, full of weird people, so the places of Gotham that Cassandra is going to go too will be weird and lively and surreal, because that’s my favorite interpretation of Gotham.

Cassandra’s first mentor/ Asian Grandma will be Jackie Fujikawa from Shadow of the Batgirl.

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:

---

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?

Cassandra Cain is my favorite member of the bat family tied with Batman himself. She’s a true believer, and I love how focused she is about redemption. And since this RP is freed from the necessary status-quo of comic books, Gotham can actually, y’know, get better! And Batman will be proven right, and the Joker won’t escape 20 million times and kill 2.5 thousand people every issue.

Cassandra Cain believes redemption is possible because if it isn’t, she’ll always be the weapon her father was going to use to take control of the world from the shadows. But she’s not all about the bad guys, she’s about saving the good guys, too. She’s going to try and build something special and fight crime and corruption at the source, not just the symptom. Some people need to get their heads knocked together for sure, but ultimately violence breeds violence, even the non-lethal kind. There’s gotta be love and humanity there, too. But of course, Cassandra, though she does have a good heart, has been separated from those two things for almost her entire life. David Cain, her father, will be present in the RP and I’m also going to go into their relationship in some arcs, and have stuff done with the League of Shadows.

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

---

I’m not exactly sure who Cassandra is going to kill yet. I could just make up a new character that only is for Cassandra like in the comics, but it could be someone else too if any of the other writers are up for that. To get her more involved in a plot line. I really do just kinda free style these kinds of things because I like it when other people's stuff throw curveballs at me. But yes she is going to be Batgirl and save the day and be the innocent angel/feral goblin child hybrid she's always meant to be.

In the meantime, I’ll write about some of Cassandra’s misadventures while she worked for the League.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

Cassandra Cain stared at her reflection in the river. She dipped her scarred hand into it and felt the cool spring water wash over her hand, and the air drift over her face. A fish swam in the river. She observed how it saw the world around it, and as it hesitated in the waters, she narrowed her eyes and saw its intentions like one might detect a scent. As it darted carefree through the water, it found her hand waiting for it. Scooping it out of the water, she held it within her hands and considered its green scales and how they shimmered in the morning sun. How it had lived an entire life before this, and how, if she so chose, it could live an entire life more.

In another time, in near darkness, Cassandra wielded her curved blade. Shadowy figures moved from place to place, imperceptible. But Cassandra knew where they all were, and she knew where they were going. She could see their forms, hear their breathing, feel their will. It was as if she was seeing herself through their eyes. How they feared for their lives, how eager they were to prove themselves. Redemption. Redemption was all they sought. For one reason or another they had been sentenced to death, and if they could prove themselves worthy by striking her down, they would be welcomed back into the league of shadows with open arms. They loathed her, they were jealous of her, they thought her a monster and an invalid all at once. But she knew that on the other side of one-way glass watched her father, and he knew that this was no deadly challenge- this was an execution. Nothing more than practice. Cassandra was better than them. She would win. In her mind’s eye she had seen her bloody victory like an artist captures a muse. Now all she had to do was paint her work upon the world with masterful strokes. Masterly, Cassandra, she thought to herself in images and concepts. She saw how proud her father would be of her, of how he carried himself, of how admirable and heroic his strength and skill were. And in that moment, she felt him on the other side of the glass. Watching the encounter through enchanted glass that let him and his investors witness his weapon at work.

“Cassandra Cain is no mere martial artist. She is not a girl with a sword. She is death incarnate.” David said, watching her keenly. “She is far, far beyond such small ideas as ‘weight class’ and ‘reach.’” The other investors watched closely.

“Her first language is violence. She knows no words other than her own name and select key words an assassin could use to direct and command her.”

“She has no wants or desires except to make me proud.”

A little girl with her hairs tied up in pigtails carefully rose from her straw mat bed. Scaling the walls like a spider she went to her secret spot in the ceiling that she had poked, one night at a time, with her finger. Pressing her eye against the hole in the ceiling she saw the sea of stars above and wondered what was out there.

“No ambitions. No dreams beyond those of death.”

A young teenager took a stick to the gravel and sand and with a few quick strokes, created an image of a face. A girl with pig tails. Glancing over her shoulder, she hunched over her secret and added a bird. A deer. A fish. The sun. One of her keepers approached and she dashed her work away, concealing it safely within her memory.

“She only knows that she is treated well when she kills. When she does as I say. And thus, when she does as you say.”

A cool night on the shale roof. Her father had discovered her hidey hole and covered it up, beat her for it. And yet here she was, up here, with him, on the roof. And with him he had brought drawings of lines and dots, and when he put them into the sky Cassandra could see the artistry of the stars and the Gods themselves. When she gasped with child-like wonder, she felt strange things pulse through her father’s body. Doubt. A pinch of regret in a sea of dark ambition. Swallowed whole by cold, steely resolve. A rough hand took her by the shoulder and back into the complex below. The girl would never forget that. She never forgot anything.

“She is the perfect weapon, and nothing more.”

A rain of bullets. Her skill is an umbrella. For her father it was like he was shooting at a shadow in the corner of his eye. The gun was kicked out of his hand and a blade was pressed against his throat, and despite himself he smiled as he looked into her eyes. Nothing could be hidden from those two perfect blue spot lights. In that moment he saw her as an heir, a successor, but he had to shove those treacherous thoughts away because no one would accept his grand, monstrous experiment as a leader.

“Watch as she works. Behold her majesty.”

The doomed assassins came at her all at once, but it might as well have been one by one. Their blood was painted upon the dark wood with precise, geometric arcs. A single metallic tone as one of their blades was granted the honor of coming into contact with hers. One by one they fell, but it might as well have been all at once.

“She knows no fear. She knows no love. And she knows no mercy.”

Cassandra considered the fish in her hands and the life it had yet to live. How it wanted to breathe again, and how it didn’t know where its home was anymore. Its simple feelings were written in its eyes plain as day. It didn’t see her, but she saw it and everything its simple soul was made of. As she saw the soul of everyone and everything, and felt the roots of people and knew the hearts of trees. Carefully, gracefully, she submerged the fish in the water and watched it swim away.

Because how could one who knows the souls of others not see the one in herself?

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

Silence, for now.

@Zoey Boey

Hi!

Love your sheet, love your Cassandra from the last time you played, looking forward to having you onboard.

HOWEVER, currently I'm planning for Barbara Gordon to be a currently-active Batgirl in Gotham as an independent vigilante to Batman and Robin (Jason Todd).
While I know in your sheet you don't plan to have Cass starting the IC as Batgirl, I just wanted to highlight where my current thoughts for the Batfamily are, so we may have to work together to figure out who holds what title.

I'm working on a timeline this evening to add to my sheet to clarify who's active and under what capacities to try and straighten this all out, as I know I'm playing the character with probably the biggest known legacy-pool in canon.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

Also i thought about gotham for real, but how could you be impressed by batman if you also had green lantern? Felt it would be uncool of me

@Alternax

Yeah...Green Lantern is waaaaaay cooler than Batman...

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Alternax>

I'll tag @Roman but I don't think we have a Bat Signal in this continuity yet. The general sense in Gotham seems to be that Batman's a problem, not a solution.

@Bounce

I've honestly been tossing this back and forth the last couple days because I thought about using the signal in my next post. The attitude in Gotham is still very divisive on Batman, and while many people believe and trust he's an effective (if violent and un-governable) force for good, many more believe he's one guy spending what is obviously a lot of money on a personal crusade that has ended up inviting - or being first-hand responsible for - even worse criminal elements into the city. Plus, there are those in public offices who are paid not to like him because the people lining pockets are the people he's waged war against.

I think I will likely end up having a signal, but it won't be approved by the city officials and it certainly won't be on the GCPD Headquarters. It'll probably end up being set up in some private and/or abandoned city lot, much like Reeves' signal in The Batman.

Yoooo @Roman, how do you feel about a giant lantern lighthouse signal being mounted on top of gcpd?

@Alternax

As a result, based on the above, I don't think the GCPD are going to want intergalactic space-cops stepping on their turf when they're already struggling to deal with/control Batman's street-level vigilantism. Apologies!

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N

Screams echoed around Garfield Lynns, bouncing off the walls of the corridor as he made his way to the doors at the end of the hall. He was underground, beneath the renovated old Sionis place. At one time a grand high-rise town-house, it had burned down a few years ago when Lynns was a fire-bug teen in the Gotham Narrows; in the last year, Roman Sionis, the surviving heir miraculously unscathed by the fire, had resurfaced after time spent recovering from his tragedy, and had had his old family home rebuilt and renovated. On the surface, it was near-identical to its pre-blaze glory, but there were a select few - a handful, no more than 7 or 8 men - who knew of a hidden bunker beneath the residence, secreted away from the public eye. Roman Sionis lived in the house above. It was Black Mask who inhabited the bunker.
"Watch yerself, kid. Boss got his tools out. Real edgy tonight."
Garfield nodded nervously at the advice of the hired muscle on the door, and then pushed through the doors to Black Mask's personal play room.

The smell hit him first; copper and rust, but behind that the distinct ammonia of piss, and behind that the salt and stink of sweat. The source of this olfactory miasma was plainly apparent; some poor wretch, strapped to an upright gurney in the middle of the room, skin slick with blood from cuts and gouges across his figure. Bloodied and gored tools lay strewn across the floor in the immediate vicinity, and a selection of smaller implements on a mobile cabinet. Black Mask hovered over him, his own arms stained crimson, and with a chill that ran through his bones Lynns could see he was gripping onto a pair of pliers that were stuffed in his victim's mouth.

Without warning, Black Mask yanked, and there was a wet 'pop' as a molar came forcibly loose. The victim gave a guttural grunt of agony and breathed heavy, exhausted from pain. Black Mask dropped the tooth into his open palm, holding it up for inspection. Satisfied with some invisible criteria, he set the pliers down and moved his other hand up to his palm, and then, carefully and deliberately, flicked the tooth. It struck the bound man square on the forehead, leaving behind a little imprint of saliva and blood. The man's body shuddered as he broke down sobbing, tears streaking through the bloodstained skin of his face. Above the weeping, Lynns could hear Black Mask chuckling to himself, darkly amused.

This was the worst part of Black Mask's torture sessions; not the carefully planned tour of agony from top to tail, nor the creative methods of sadism employed. It was the pettiness of it.

Lynns waited patiently, quietly, wincing slightly at the sight of the victim's condition, wincing more that he knew this was still early in the night for what Black Mask usually had planned. Sionis turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Lynns in his peripheral, and slapped a torn piece of duct tape over his victim's mouth as he gave him a fond pat on the shoulder and turned away to address his new guest, gesturing back to the door. Lynns nodded politely and stepped outside, holding the door for Black Mask to follow behind.
"I got a job for ya, kid. Needs doing tonight." Black Mask said. His eyes, dark and steely, bore holes in Lynns from behind the skull-plate mask. Lynns had heard a rumour Sionis had hewn it from the ebony stone of his father's sarcophagus. Others said it had been whittled from blackened, charred chunks of wood from the ashes of the fire that had left Sionis an orphan. Whatever stories were attached to that mask only distracted from the evil that lurked behind it. Maybe that's what Sionis wanted.

"Shitstain back there I'm workin' on thought protection money was optional. Fuck got his lofty ideals in the empty skulls of his neighbours, and now they think since Falcone and Maroni got themselves strung up by the Bat like the pair of washed-up old men they are, they don't gotta listen to authority no more."
Lynns nodded along, trying his best to appear deferential. Despite the harsh fluorescent lighting of the bunker corridor, Sionis' pupils were a yawning abyss, dilated beyond reason. They flicked about wildly beneath the mask, and there was a shake to his voice that betrayed his otherwise even tone. Lynns knew it was what he was doing in that room to that man that had Sionis...Lynns had no other word for it. Black Mask was high.
"Burn his place to the ground. Then they'll see what they're paying for." Sionis said, producing a small piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket. Lynns opened it up and read the address, committing it to memory; having done so, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and dangled the paper over the flame until the ashes drifted to the floor. Sionis had already turned, but stopped to turn back to Lynns as he held the door open. Lynns could see the 'shitstain' barely clinging to consciousness in the room.

"Oh, I should mention - when we picked this guy up, wifey and the kids were still home, above the shop." He said loudly, loud enough that the victim roused and thrashed when his family were mentioned.
Lynns nodded. "You want me to arrange them to clear out before I torch?"
Lynns wasn't sure how he could tell, but beneath the mask Sionis smiled a sickening, wide-toothed grin.
"I want you to seal the doors." He answered. His victim screamed, wild-eyed and muffled through the tape; as Garfield Lynns walked away, he could hear the screams through the closed door, and hear them twist in suffering as Black Mask went back to work.

-

The shop stood on the edge of the Narrows, a garage used for quick swap auto-parts and the occasional chop job, where no-names could bring joy-rides to have plates sheered off and parts stripped, a quick buck paid out to the hooligan for a profit to be made on the flip. Above the workshop was a dead-end flat, the kind that had a feature-piece microwave instead of an oven, and needed a camping stove to replace the hob that had never been installed. But it came with the property, and meant you didn't have to double up on your city zone tax.

You did still have to pay your street dues, though, thought Garfield Lynns as he approached. Gloved, masked, his heavy jacket zipped up and goggles in place, he cut an intimidating figure as he crossed the dark street, barely-lit by dingy, burnt-out street lights that splashed a grimy yellow across the brickwork; but in truth, he was a bundle of nerves, jittery and anxious. The job from Black Mask was a big step-up for him, and it paid, it paid, money Garfield thought he'd never see in his life. But though he'd torched before - extensively, prolifically, his fires well known, and this was why Sionis had sought him out - he'd never killed. His fires had been on abandoned property, out-of-hours units, defunct warehouses; all carefully selected to produce the grandest blazes will the smallest collateral damage. That was how he stayed 'low-priority' on the lists you didn't want to be at the top of. Tonight would change everything for Garfield Lynns. There was no backing out now, no backing out since the moment Black Mask had asked his men to ask around about where to find Lynns. Just get the job done and get out and try not to think about the woman and children asleep upstairs. Just hope they died of smoke inhalation before the flames reached their beds.

The jerry-can of gasoline in one hand sloshed as he set it down, looking for the doors. There were three ways out of the property from the ground floor - a front and back door, and the garage shutters themselves. The doors were simple; the key had been 'acquired' from its owner and passed to Lynns before he'd set out, and it slid smoothly into the locks and clicked them shut without trouble; after the fire had been set, it would be too thick with smoke to see where the spare key was, and the flames would prevent passage to the doors anyway. The garage door was trickier, but far from an impasse. It was already locked, bolted to the ground; Garfield however poked around the building, finding and cracking open the fusebox before severing all the wiring. With power to the building cut, the few standby lights in the garage flickered off, and the electric motor that lifted the shutters up was useless.

The only way off the property now was from the roof, which Garfield tossed around in his head while he set to work with the jerry-can and hobbyist's assortment of accelerants. Knowing what he knew about fires and burns, and thinking of the patches of mottled skin that speckled his arms and legs, he eventually decided on roof.

He stepped back, mentally reviewing everything he'd prepared, and then nodded. The fire had him now, thoughts of the family above were ejected in favour of anticipation of the blaze; he always got this way as he prepared, every new splash of gasoline or carefully stuffed roll of newspaper letting him map out the path of the flames before he set them, an inferno amuse-bouche. It worked up inside him and made his hands shake. He was excited, on a level he'd not been by previous fires. He didn't think about it, but he knew why. And then it was time.

Lynns used a match to flick on his blowtorch, an old-school kerosene tool, something he'd picked up for cheap in a military surplus store; the match sizzled against his tongue as he put the light out, and then, listening to the low roaring hiss of the torch, hefted the molotov he'd prepared in his other hand. He knelt to set light to the various trails he'd made around the garage, each one a dragon's tail leading back into the building, pilot lights feeding the beast within - and then, with practiced aim and a strong arm, lobbed the molotov square through the second-story window. Flames belched out the window as the grenade exploded within and began the fire on the top floor.

The screams started not long after.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

While I work on Black Panther post #3 I'll go ahead and drop this:

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

D A R E D E V I L

---

^{_{M A T T H E W M U R D O C K ♦ L A W Y E R ♦ H E L L ' S K I T C H E N ♦ I N D E P E N D E N T}}

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

---

^{"Ain't nobody born bad, it takes a whole lotta hurt.
Therein lies one of life's biggest lessons: ain't got nothin' to do with deserve.
Just pray to the Saint of Lost Causes."}

Matt Murdock is a "bad guy." A slightly twisted life has turned our blind lawyer into one of the city's best mob lawyers and a reviled figure in the criminal justice community of New York. Then at night, he becomes the Devil. The Devil is feared in the underworld as a violent criminal who is slowly climbing the ladder to become the city's kingpin.

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

---

Supporting Characters:

Karen Paige - Secretary and legal aid
Franklin "Foggy" Nelson - Assistant US Attorney
Dakota North - Investigator, driver, bodyguard
Wilson Fisk - Kingpin
Silvermane - Crime lord and client
Arthur Blackwood - Outlaw biker and racist

Potential Arcs:

Casus Belli - A shaky alliance between the mob and the Crusaders MC is in tatters after a drug deal gone bad ends with dead men on both sides and a missing briefcase with a million dollars in it. While Matt Murdock tires to prevent a gang war between his clients, Daredevil tears up the city in search of the perpetrators of the attack and the missing money.

Hostis Humani Generis - A vigilante has come to the city, reigning down death and destruction to those in need of punishment. Among the killers targets is Matt Murdock, the city's number one criminal lawyer.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

Sample

Manhattan Criminal Courthouse
Part 21
Lower Manhattan
11:21 AM

"Mr. Murdock, do you plan on a lengthy cross-examination of the witness?"

"No, Your Honor," I said as I stood. "I'll be brief."

I couldn't see it, but I could hear the muscles in Judge Sandra Young's face form into a smile. Noon was fast approaching and Judge Young likes her smoke breaks. I was honestly surprised that she had allowed the current session to run now for over three hours without breaking.

"You may proceed," she said.

I made my way from the defense table, passing by Assistant DA Blake Tower on my way towards the lectern facing the witness box and the jury. I heard Tower's right eyelid flip in a wink at me, a force of habit I assume. His gait was that of a man who was confident on the point of cocky. And who wouldn't be cocky after the testimony he had just withdrawn from his witness?

With Tower holding his hand, Detective Sergeant Michael Tork had just delivered an hour's worth of testimony that guided the jury through his investigation. Working out of the NYPD's 33rd Precinct, Tork and his four-man narcotics unit conducted a two month investigation into the suspected drug dealing activities of one Jesus Reuben Martinez, resident of Washington Heights and a known member of the Puerto Rican Army.

Jesus sat at the defense table, looking on while his heart raced a mile a minute. I could probably have smelled the sweat beading on his forehead from outside the court room it was so pungent. He had every reason to be worried. Tork's testimony was solid. He had explained in that clear and clipped cop-speak that his unit had observed Martinez in and around the Wilson Terrace Housing Projects where he lived, but they could never get concrete proof that he was dealing. He was careful on the street, conducting his business in the housing project where the cops couldn't go without arousing suspicion. Martinez would take the train somewhere downtown, but they always lost him in the shuffle of the commute. Close to packing up the case, they turned instead to the eye in the sky.

Jesus Mendez had the honor to be among the first targets of the NYPD's new drone surveillance program. The drone in question caught Jesus taking a re-up from a supplier and then meeting with the dealers who worked for him to move his product. Jesus had eluded police ground surveillance thanks to his keen observations. But he hadn't thought to look up into the sky.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here, Sergeant Tork," I said a I prepared for the cross.

"You're welcome," Tork said tightly.

A genuine hater. I figured the cop for one of those right off the bat. Now my suspicions were confirmed by the stand-offish answer and the increase in his pulse. A lot of cops make no effort to hide their contempt for defense attorneys. Instead of seeing what we do as a necessary check on the system, they instead see us as quasi-criminals who are just a few steps above the scumbag clients were represent. Not that he would be completely wrong in that assessment. But if he didn't hate defense lawyers now, he sure as hell was about to hate them after I was through with him.

"Sergeant Tork," I said with little to no delay. "Who operated the drone that took the surveillance photos of Mr. Martinez?"

"Officer Pierce," said Tork.

"And he's a member of your narcotics unit?"

"Yes, he is."

"I've been told that the photos you took are of good quality." I turned towards the jury with a half smirk. "I wouldn't know for myself."

I've found that self-deprecating humor can go a long way to disarm juries. Especially given my reputation over the years, playing up my blindness offsets my other less desirable qualities.

"They can clearly make out your client dealing drugs," Tork replied.

"Move to strike that from the record," I asked the judge. "It's inflammatory."

"So noted," said Judge Young. She looked down at Tork from her perch. "And I would remind Sergeant Tork to stick to simpler answers."

"Sergeant Tork, did you write the warrant that led to the use of the drone on my client?"

"No," said Tork. "We didn't have to write a warrant."

I smirked and squared my glasses up. Tork's heartbeat was steady, but starting to rise. He was telling the truth -- a refreshing departure from a lot of cops on the stand -- but he was beginning to get nervous. He knew something was up. With this cross, I was setting the fuse on the bomb that would destroy the prosecution's case.

"Drones and the use of them are relatively new in law enforcement, Sergeant. Are you up to date with all the rules and regulations?"

"I know how to do my job if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, so you know about the rules on surveillance distance with drones? They're much more restrictive with them than they are with planes and helicopters. If you're less than a thousand feet away from the target, you need a warrant. Anything without a warrant is considered an illegal search."

I held up the photographs, making sure they were the right side up and facing Tork.

"From how far would you say these photos were taken, Sergeant Tork?"

Now Tork's heart was racing. I could smell the sweat on him. Along with his change, I heard Tower groan under his breath from the prosecution table and Juror #4 laugh under his breath.

"I'm not an expert on distances," he said defensively.

"No, you're not," I said with a nod. "I'll have one of those come up when the defense presents. No more questions for Sergeant Tork, your honor."

And just like that, the seeds of acquittal have been sewn. Is Jesus Martinez guilty? Of course. The photos prove that. But they weren't obtained legally. That, more than anything, is my job. I have to make sure the cops play fair. I have to test the state's evidence and make sure it holds up. I am a necessary part of the threshing maw that is the American criminal justice system. I poke and prod and pull threads. Better that a guilty man go free on a technicality than an innocent man be convicted on faulty evidence.

At least, that's what I tell myself to make it through the day.

At night I cope a different way.

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.

@Byrd Man

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

For probably the first time ever in one of these games, I can honestly say I'm caught up on the entirety of the IC.

Now, no one else post so I can keep that true.

@Retired

Finally, an IC posting target I can reach.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Roman>

About how old is Mr. Grayson? Asking for a potentially interested orange alien friend.

@AndyC

Operating-as-Nightwing-in-Bludhaven-years old.
Make of that what you will.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

On the topic of using legacy characters, and with the understanding that I'm actually playing a big-ticket character with an extensive portfolio, rather than a c-lister I can pretty much do what I want with, I have plans to involve Barbara Gordon as Batgirl and Dick Grayson as Nightwing in upcoming posts.

They will be effectively cameos, one-and-done guest spots of each character that won't have a lasting impact on the status of either, but if anyone was thinking about a sheet for them, or had other ideas or plans for where they were in their respective careers, do let me know so we can hash something out.

I don't have anything in the works for any other member of the bat-family, so they're free-reign (but please do consult).

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

If anyone is finding it hard to read do let me know and I will adjust for readability as best I can.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N

Only the wan green of the console screens illuminated the dingy room, throwing a sickly glow across Edward Nashton's face as he pushed back his slick and unkempt hair and replaced his glasses before diving back into the mainframe, his typing rapid and feverish as he approached his goal. He was close, oh-so-close, but something eluded him, some final key to the puzzle, an infinitesimal but paramount element that was the otherwise-missing glue to hold all the framework together. He'd worked for months, years even, at first in theory, but now putting it all together in practice, making it real, making it tangible; he felt giddy, frantic, but also frustrated. He'd never stumbled like this before, never hit this kind of roadblock. He wasn't used to his mind being bested.

"What has a bed, but never sleeps?" Came a voice from the far side of the room, as Eddie was suddenly blinded by bulbs sparking into life overhead; Deidre Vance, his research associate, strode across and raised the blinds that covered the university lab's windows, further flash-banging him with the early-morning sun cresting over Gotham's skyline. Eddie looked out over the university campus and saw students slowly beginning to trickle in, ready to start a new day of academia, and realised he'd worked overnight once again. He turned to Deidre, who looked at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation, and chuckled as he removed his glasses to rub his eyes that were undoubtedly bloodshot.

"A river, Dee." He answered, and she smiled and shook her head, shoving a paper cup of faculty-lounge coffee into his chest as she walked past him to look at the consoles he had plugged himself into for the last nine hours.
"EENH." She said, imitating the harsh noise of a gameshow buzzer, "I'm sorry, the answer we were looking for was 'Professor Edward Nashton'. Better luck next time!"
Eddie threw a hand to his forehead in mock tragedy as she chuckled watching him in the reflection of the screen, and then he took a greedy slurp of the coffee, letting the scalding and bitter drink splash into his empty stomach.
"God, I'm starving." He said, mostly to himself, but Deidre nodded her head and gestured to the counter top by the door. She'd brought breakfast - a few pastries from the cafeteria - and next to those, a fresh shirt and change of tie. Eddie dutifully ate and changed while Deidre typed away, finishing a few lines of code she'd interrupted Eddie working on and then saving before shutting the console down.

"You can't keep doing this Eddie, you're running yourself ragged." She said, that well-practiced tone of voice, not unlike a mother scolding her child, creeping back in to her words. "Besides, it's too cold this time of year to sleep alone..." the mother-tone was completely gone with this addition, and Eddie smirked, raising his eyebrows at Deidre. He moved to peck her cheek, which she made a big show of graciously permitting.
"It'll be worth it, Dee." He said, moving back towards the pastries. "We're so close! You've seen the code. I just need to figure out the final piece."
"Well, Eddie, maybe it would be easier to work things out with 8 hours of rest powering that massive melon, instead of..." Deidre picked up assorted discarded junk food from the floor under the desk. "Funyuns and Mr. Pibb? Really Eddie? I pity your students."
Eddie patted his stomach, which groaned seemingly on cue as soda, onion rings, pastry and coffee coagulated in his gut. "I pity my intestinal tract more." He joked, and Dee just groaned, binning the trash and moving to sip her own coffee.

The two sat in silence, with only the soft whirring of the computer servers backdropping their quiet contemplation of caffeine.
"Anyway," Deidre said with a start, jolting Eddie who'd nearly began napping over the rim of his cup, "it's not your students that'll be suffering today." She put on a wry smile, watching the over-worked cogs in Edward's head kick back into gear as he turned over dates, agendas, appointments in his head.
"No, no! Not today! Surely not today! Next week!"
"Today, Eddie." Deidre said with inarguable finality, weary but amused. "He's coming today."

-

The air still smelled of petrichor as Bruce Wayne stepped out from the car, door held open dutifully by Alfred, who picked lint from Bruce's collar with one hand as he closed the door with the other. Bruce smoothed himself down, shaking away enduring memories of the night before. Foundation had done wonders to hide the bags under his eyes, but what lingered behind his eyes was harder to conceal.

"Remind me once more, Alfred?" Bruce asked, and if there was even a hint of exasperation at what would be the fifth repetition this morning, you couldn't tell from Alfred's stone-faced demeanour.
"The Wayne Foundation has been funding Professor Nashton's research efforts for some time, sir, through the 'City of Progress' grant program that you set up a few years ago. Unfortunately, while I don't doubt the good professor has been working tirelessly, Wayne Enterprises' board members are becoming somewhat antsy at his dearth of practical output."
Bruce looked up at the university buildings. "And I'm here to check on what he's been doing with money the board believes belongs in their pockets?"
Again, if Alfred found amusement in Bruce's wit, he didn't show it. "Quite, sir. Better Bruce Wayne, philanthropist and CEO of Wayne Enterprises, than some board stooge already paid off to shut him down."
Bruce double-took at Alfred's candour; he was rarely this vocally critical of the Enterprises boardroom. "You believe Professor Nashton does good work?"
"I do, sir. He is the finest mind in the city, perhaps the country; and he has afforded himself his position through keen intellect and a work ethic that rivals those in present company. He is the kind of man Gotham needs to help lead the city into a bright future. I am loathe to think that those work-shy lackadaisicals would shut down his projects for what amounts to pocket change to them."
Alfred cleared his throat, and this time, he allowed a flash of ignominy to cross his face. Bruce waved away the incoming apology.
"I trust your judgement, Alfred. And you're right, when it comes to the board. But there are deeper things wrong with this city."
Alfred nodded solemnly. "I saw your report. Ghastly business. Let us hope that the good lieutenant can keep the more concerning details from the press."
"Gordon is doing all he can; only he and Leslie know the true details around the body. Still, though - someone in the GCPD is connected."
"One thing at a time, Master Bruce." Alfred advised, opening the driver-side door and taking a seat, a copy of the morning's Gotham Gazette and a filled thermos ready and waiting on the passenger seat. Chauffer was one of the many roles Alfred was a seasoned professional at.

Bruce looked towards the main campus gates, and the central research building beyond. He rolled his shoulders, and slipped on the mask.

-

"-and so you see, Mr Wayne, the idea is not for us to develop an artificial intelligence - instead, to allow an artificial intelligence the space to develop itself!" Nashton concluded, having talked excitedly about his work from the university reception all the way up past his office and into his main research laboratory. Bruce stood in the doorway as Edward hurriedly set to booting up the mainframe, eager to show his investor his life's work. Bruce was impressed; from what Nashton had explained, and what he could see of the server capacity, this was a massive project, in a near-experimental field, that the professor seemed to have been making un-impeded strides in for months. There was some real weight to what Nashton sought to accomplish; however, there were equally heavy concerns.

"What about the risk of losing control? True AI has only ever been discussed in theoretic - once it's online, there's no way to control what it might be capable of." Bruce asked, and Eddie nodded carefully.
"Of course, there is always inherent risk in all forms of progress; but we do what we can to mitigate - without compromising. Is an artificial intelligence any more dangerous than an organic one? Under the right conditions, either can be as destructive as the other. Living in Gotham, Mr. Wayne, has taught me that lesson well enough."
Bruce cocked an eyebrow, but chose not to comment. There was some validity in Edward's argument. "Please, Professor, Bruce is fine - how have you worked to mitigate the risks?"
"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication, Bruce. As impressive as the network is, it remains - since its conception - a closed circuit. There is no, nor has there ever been, an existing connection to the wider university network - nor Gotham's, nor the world. We drip-feed information in through manual upload, directly to the server. Together with basic guidance code, we simply create an environment in which a developing mind takes the right...direction. Like raising a child."
Bruce extended a hand, which Eddie eagerly shook. "Well, I must say I'm impressed, professor. And you can rest easy that Wayne Enterprises is confident that the grant money is going towards true breakthroughs. It'll certainly ease the minds of the board to know you're on the cusp of release."

Eddie's grip loosened slightly and he cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, on the cusp indeed..." he trailed off, and Bruce gave him a quizzical look.
"Hit a roadblock, professor?"
"Not so much a block as a minor stumble, Mr. Way- Bruce. It's close to completion, close enough to see it, but there's one missing piece of the puzzle, something eluding me. It's smart - so smart - but it still 'thinks' like a computer."
"How do you mean, Edward?" Bruce pressed, keen to help if he could offer advice.
"How to explain...computers think vertically. Logically. If x, then y, resulting in z. You can tell it to solve an infinite amount of calculations, but it can only do it with the right amount of starting data, and then extrapolating it out to logical conclusions and solutions. But a computer doesn't have any imagination, and if you ask it to make 2 and 2 into 5, it can't do it, because the logic doesn't work."

Bruce took a moment of thought.
"When I was a boy, Alfred used to distract me with riddles. I got good at solving them, so they weren't much of a distraction at all, and so the riddles had to get harder. And then, one day, Alfred told me a riddle I couldn't solve. It pestered me for days, buzzing around my head. I lost sleep over that riddle."
Edward's face lit up, his own adoration of puzzles and brain-benders plain as day. "Do share, Bruce."
"Two men walk into a restaurant. They are seated at the same table, order the same dish, and are served at the same time. After they both take their first bite, one man leaves the restaurant and kills himself. Why?"
Edward's previously elated face crumpled under the weight of disappointment that he could not offer an answer to Bruce's riddle. "Why?"
Bruce smiled his own wry smile. "Years previous, both men had been marooned on a deserted island. Starving, the second man had managed to provide food, and told the other it was swordfish he'd speared from the sea. Having ordered swordfish at the restaurant, the first man realised he'd never tasted swordfish before, and that what he'd eaten on the island had instead been the flesh of his son who had died in the accident that had marooned them. Consumed by grief and guilt, he killed himself."
Eddie raised his own eyebrow. "That's rather dark, Mr. Wayne."
"I was a rather dark child for a time, Professor Nashton. The riddle distracted me well. The lesson I learnt - if an answer doesn't present itself from the given information, you may have to invent your own. Lateral thinking is a skill as important as any other - thinking around the problem. Perhaps there's a way to teach it to your digital mind."

Edward turned to look at the mainframe console, sleep-deprived gears working on overtime as he turned the ideas over in his mind.
"Food for thought, regardless." Bruce said, dismissing the conversation. "Riddles are fun, but I'll leave the truly difficult problems to great minds like yours." He clapped a hand to Eddie's shoulder, taking his arm in a handshake again. "But tell me - when you unveil your great accomplishment - what will be its name?"
Edward smiled the biggest smile he'd give that day, and answered proudly: "The Encrypted Network Intelligence Grid and Mainframe Archive."
Bruce chuckled. "Clever, Eddie." He looked at the console screen, glowing softly green, awaiting input. "Very clever."