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Live-feed of this OOC when people realise I actually made a post and got in the game.
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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
Live-feed of this OOC when people realise I actually made a post and got in the game.
#1.01: Any Minute Meow...
Previously: None
Look now upon what remains of the once-powerful Falcone Empire: a shitty, back-alley drug dealer, fucked up on his own product, snoring on the floor of his one-bed apartment in the Narrows, too wasted to collect rent money. Kitrina nudged him with her foot and he groaned slightly. She sighed. Mario Falcone, her uncle, was at one time a powerful and feared man in Gotham, well-known as The Roman's chief enforcer, 6'5" and 4' wide, all muscle underneath an expensive suit, brutality wrapped in fancy silks and cashmere. Now he was a loser, terrorizing tenants for inflated rent payments in a backwater apartment block in the bad end of the Narrows, which was one big bad end already. It was all that remained of Carmine's legacy after the year of the Long Halloween, a year that saw the end of the mob era in Gotham, and the birth of a new, crazier, somehow even-more-violent era. Carmine had been killed. Her father, Alberto, had been locked up to rot in Arkham. And her aunt, Sofia, fled to Bludhaven, dropping off the face of the Earth in the process. This building was all Mario had been able to secure of the Falcone assets as the mafia disintegrated beneath the cops and the Bat.
Kitrina nudged Mario again, this time harder, and with the pointy end of her shoe. He woke with a start, growling and cradling his ribs. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.
"Not dead then, dear uncle." She spat at him, walking toward the door of the apartment.
"Shut the fuck up, brat." He spat back, picking himself up off the floor. "Do that again and you're gonna lose that leg."
"If you break my leg, who are you gonna send knocking on doors?"
"I pass 50 dropheads going to grab the fuckin' mail who could do what I ask better than you - and without that shitty sense of entitlement you're clingin' on to."
"You ain't stepped out this door in two weeks - fuck you know about grabbin' the mail?" Kitrina replied, pulling on shoes and taking her coat from off the back of the door.
"Fuck you, bitch. You're an ungrateful lil' stray." He lumbered to the kitchen, clumsily seizing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water from the tap before draining it dry and filling it again, sipping slowly. "Where d'ya think you're goin?"
To his credit, Mario was on the money with the stray comment. Born the illegitimate daughter to the un-favourite son, Alberto Falcone didn't pass for much of a father, even before his turn to maniacal homicide as the so-called 'Holiday Killer'. Her mother, a woman who Kitrina knew was named 'Anna de Luca' but knew very little else, had been...'disappeared', at some point before getting the opportunity to offer Kitrina a passable upbringing. Passed around various nannies and au pairs, and neglected by everyone except Carmine, who doted on her the way only a devoted Italian grandfather could, she grew up unwanted and very aware of it. When Carmine was shot, and Alberto incarcerated, any goodwill remaining for her was summarily severed, and now she remained homed only by virtue of child benefit payments and a lie about her age. And because Mario could send her out on drug drops and rent collections while he dozed on the sofa (or the floor), drunk and doped up.
"To my job, Uncle Mario, if you even know what a job is."
"What fuckin' job you got? Pushin' favours?" He jabbed, sneering at her nastily. Kitrina just flipped the bird.
"Wayne Enterprises, if you must know. That outreach shit Wayne preaches on the billboards. Entry-level jobs guaranteed! If you keep a clean record..."
Mario launched forward from the kitchen, outrage streaked across his face.
"Wayne?! They're going to figure out we're frauding the fucking benefits you stupid cow!" He shouted, incensed. Kitrina recoiled just from the wave of body odour and the stink of his breath.
"No they're not," she said, forcefully enough to stop Mario in his tracks and make him retreat back to the sofa, "because I gave them faked papers. To Waynetech I'm 'Holly Robinson', and Holly hasn't got the fucking name 'Falcone' that might raise a few fuckin' eyebrows."
"Whatever." Mario said, in a tone that Kitrina had come to recognise was the closest thing he would ever get to praise.
She didn't say anything else; the conversation had already gone on long enough before Mario had even opened his mouth in the first place, and she didn't care to spend any extra effort - mentally or physically - entertaining his abuse. She left, crossing her fingers as she trotted down the stairs, hoping that he'd die before she got back.
Kitrina's job at Wayne Enterprises was stable, (proportionally) well-paid, offered numerous benefits, came with flexible working patterns, and provided welcoming, no-questions, judgement-free access to life coaching, healthcare support tools, and educational materials.
It was also mind-numbingly boring. For most of her shift, Kitrina moved numbers from one spreadsheet into another spreadsheet; occasionally, she got to look at the numbers and assess if there were any kind of significant pattern or grouping; and on her most exciting days, she might even be allowed to theorize - a word that here meant 'guess at, but in a way that used appropriate corporate buzzwords' - what the numbers meant.
Money going in all kinds of directions except into my pocket, is what they meant, she thought to herself bitterly. But she wasn't here for entertainment, nor was she here for the generous benefits package. She wasn't even here to gawk at big Bruce himself, when he sauntered in smelling of expensive cologne and cheap breakfast on his weekly PR puff, with bags under his eyes and a stare-through-you gaze no multi-billionaire city prince should rightfully sport. She was here for a score, something to put her back on the up-and-up - something to finally earn that piece of the empire she'd been denied by her idiot family (rest in piece, nonno) and the freaks on the street.
To that end she had initially tried to get around firewalls and passwords and other techy cybersec blockades she didn't really understand, digging for dirt to blackmail with; ideally a board member, someone who could bolster her paycheck and reduce her hours and, eventually, be buried (figuratively or literally, she didn't really mind) in pursuit of grander plans. Hell, maybe even Wayne himself - she wouldn't mind taking one of his 50-something rooms at the manor - and she was sure that butler could fix some mean cocktails. She knew it had been an ambitious goal - Wayne Enterprises were notoriously cagey about their data and it was well-known that they were, perhaps, one of the most serious corporations in America on the fronts of cyber-security - but brash arrogance had convinced her that surely it wasn't as hard as all that, and a suitable amount of clicking around would eventually yield some manner of result.
Well, far-in-excess of a suitable amount of clicking around had yielded flat nothing, except for a quizzical eyebrow from her pod lead when she'd asked a distinctly non-relevant question. Some lipstick and an extra-tight blouse had been needed the next day to smooth that particular bump over - and that, in turn, had opened the avenue to a different direction of assault, one Kitrina had heard be labelled 'social engineering' in her compliance courses during initiation, but that she preferred to think of as 'harmless flirting'.
Well, harmless to her, at least. Perhaps not-so-harmless to her pod lead's marriage.
"Hollywood!" He said, sidling up to her desk wearing a shirt with one-too-many buttons undone and cologne with one-too-many dabs done up. An irritating pet-name he'd developed for her, born from a witless remark about how '[she's] so gorgeous [she] should be in movies', but a necessary evil. She smiled, all teeth, nothing in the eyes.
"Hiya Tom!" She replied, schmoozing a bit, subtly leaning toward him in a way that wasn't outwardly noticeable, but gave the unconscious impression of gravitation. He sneaked a look down her blouse that he thought she didn't notice. She did. She pretended not to. It was all part of the game - and who did he think purposefully left the top button undone? "Board keepin' you busy, sweetheart?"
Tom nodded thoughtfully, in a way that he thought made him look noble. Of course he didn't answer to the board; he didn't answer to anyone who answered to the board; he didn't even answer to anybody who answered to those that answered to the board. But it made him feel good that 'Holly' thought he did, that she thought he could be that important. His dad never thought he'd be important. His wife never called him 'sweetheart'.
"As ever, Hollywood, as ever - you know what it's like." Kitrina's turn to nod. She didn't know what it was like. Neither did Tom. "But a bit of leeway, since we're nearing the end of peak, you know? Through the worst of it, and all that."
"For sure, Tommy. I seen how hard you been working. Keeping the team together single-handedly." She smiled, meeting his gaze. He broke eye contact first, because he was ashamed of his extra-marital fantasies, but not ashamed enough that he didn't steal a second glance at Kitrina's chest.
"Well, thank you for saying so, Holly. It's nice to know someone appreciates my hard work when they see it." Tom stood up, wheeling his chair back to his desk and he talked, and then returning to lean beside Holly's station, looming over her. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was I noticed how hard you've been working-" Kitrina stifled a laugh, masking it as a humbled clearing-of-the-throat, "and I thought I might show you how much I appreciate you - maybe by taking you out to dinner? Tonight? After work? Chez Vouz?"
Holly smiled, this time in a sympathetic manner that immediately deflated Tom. There was a sense of relief between them - they both knew Tom couldn't afford Chez Vouz - but ultimately this rejection had been Holly's endgame from the start. In an act of peace-making, she stood and hugged Tom, carefully swiping his Tech Lead privilege-level ID as she did so.
"Oh Tom, that's very kind of you - and I'd love to spend a bit more time outside of work getting to know you - but tonight's not great. I gotta work late, and then my gran-mama needs me home. Rain-check me - drinks next weekend maybe?"
Tom put on his best brave smile and nodded, but didn't say anything else before slinking away, walking awkwardly to hide his semi-chub.
The rest of the working day passed by mercifully quickly; numbers were crunched, figures were punched, and Kitrina shadowed a few meetings, sitting quietly in the corner scanning faces, body language, seeing who was looking back. Eventually, the clock rolled around to 5PM, and screens started switching off and laptops went into bags and Kitrina started her performance, dutifully opening several worksheets and a database and noting down specific figures. A few differently-coloured pens, some circling, a couple lines drawn connecting this number to that - whatever she was working on looked important, and no one wanted to question her lest they get lasso'd by a plea for help. Tom, for his part, did check in, but it was less to see if Kitrina needed help and more to see if that dinner offer had any better success as an invite to the bar. No, it didn't, and oh by the way have you seen my access pass? No, she hadn't, and she was sure it would turn up. Never mind, eh? Monday's problem. Polite chuckle. Tom left.
And then the floor was empty. A soft whir came from around the corner where the Friday janitor was buffing the floors, but he didn't take the Friday janitor job for its social benefits, so he and Kitrina both understood to leave the other alone. She wasn't spending long here anyway; she waved coyly to the janitor as she passed, heading toward the toilets - but then doubled back on herself, ducking toward the elevator, riding it down to the lowest level.
Waynetech Research & Development.
Practically a blacksite.
She better find something down here, or she was royally screwed.
Kitrina nudged Mario again, this time harder, and with the pointy end of her shoe. He woke with a start, growling and cradling his ribs. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.
"Not dead then, dear uncle." She spat at him, walking toward the door of the apartment.
"Shut the fuck up, brat." He spat back, picking himself up off the floor. "Do that again and you're gonna lose that leg."
"If you break my leg, who are you gonna send knocking on doors?"
"I pass 50 dropheads going to grab the fuckin' mail who could do what I ask better than you - and without that shitty sense of entitlement you're clingin' on to."
"You ain't stepped out this door in two weeks - fuck you know about grabbin' the mail?" Kitrina replied, pulling on shoes and taking her coat from off the back of the door.
"Fuck you, bitch. You're an ungrateful lil' stray." He lumbered to the kitchen, clumsily seizing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water from the tap before draining it dry and filling it again, sipping slowly. "Where d'ya think you're goin?"
To his credit, Mario was on the money with the stray comment. Born the illegitimate daughter to the un-favourite son, Alberto Falcone didn't pass for much of a father, even before his turn to maniacal homicide as the so-called 'Holiday Killer'. Her mother, a woman who Kitrina knew was named 'Anna de Luca' but knew very little else, had been...'disappeared', at some point before getting the opportunity to offer Kitrina a passable upbringing. Passed around various nannies and au pairs, and neglected by everyone except Carmine, who doted on her the way only a devoted Italian grandfather could, she grew up unwanted and very aware of it. When Carmine was shot, and Alberto incarcerated, any goodwill remaining for her was summarily severed, and now she remained homed only by virtue of child benefit payments and a lie about her age. And because Mario could send her out on drug drops and rent collections while he dozed on the sofa (or the floor), drunk and doped up.
"To my job, Uncle Mario, if you even know what a job is."
"What fuckin' job you got? Pushin' favours?" He jabbed, sneering at her nastily. Kitrina just flipped the bird.
"Wayne Enterprises, if you must know. That outreach shit Wayne preaches on the billboards. Entry-level jobs guaranteed! If you keep a clean record..."
Mario launched forward from the kitchen, outrage streaked across his face.
"Wayne?! They're going to figure out we're frauding the fucking benefits you stupid cow!" He shouted, incensed. Kitrina recoiled just from the wave of body odour and the stink of his breath.
"No they're not," she said, forcefully enough to stop Mario in his tracks and make him retreat back to the sofa, "because I gave them faked papers. To Waynetech I'm 'Holly Robinson', and Holly hasn't got the fucking name 'Falcone' that might raise a few fuckin' eyebrows."
"Whatever." Mario said, in a tone that Kitrina had come to recognise was the closest thing he would ever get to praise.
She didn't say anything else; the conversation had already gone on long enough before Mario had even opened his mouth in the first place, and she didn't care to spend any extra effort - mentally or physically - entertaining his abuse. She left, crossing her fingers as she trotted down the stairs, hoping that he'd die before she got back.
Kitrina's job at Wayne Enterprises was stable, (proportionally) well-paid, offered numerous benefits, came with flexible working patterns, and provided welcoming, no-questions, judgement-free access to life coaching, healthcare support tools, and educational materials.
It was also mind-numbingly boring. For most of her shift, Kitrina moved numbers from one spreadsheet into another spreadsheet; occasionally, she got to look at the numbers and assess if there were any kind of significant pattern or grouping; and on her most exciting days, she might even be allowed to theorize - a word that here meant 'guess at, but in a way that used appropriate corporate buzzwords' - what the numbers meant.
Money going in all kinds of directions except into my pocket, is what they meant, she thought to herself bitterly. But she wasn't here for entertainment, nor was she here for the generous benefits package. She wasn't even here to gawk at big Bruce himself, when he sauntered in smelling of expensive cologne and cheap breakfast on his weekly PR puff, with bags under his eyes and a stare-through-you gaze no multi-billionaire city prince should rightfully sport. She was here for a score, something to put her back on the up-and-up - something to finally earn that piece of the empire she'd been denied by her idiot family (rest in piece, nonno) and the freaks on the street.
To that end she had initially tried to get around firewalls and passwords and other techy cybersec blockades she didn't really understand, digging for dirt to blackmail with; ideally a board member, someone who could bolster her paycheck and reduce her hours and, eventually, be buried (figuratively or literally, she didn't really mind) in pursuit of grander plans. Hell, maybe even Wayne himself - she wouldn't mind taking one of his 50-something rooms at the manor - and she was sure that butler could fix some mean cocktails. She knew it had been an ambitious goal - Wayne Enterprises were notoriously cagey about their data and it was well-known that they were, perhaps, one of the most serious corporations in America on the fronts of cyber-security - but brash arrogance had convinced her that surely it wasn't as hard as all that, and a suitable amount of clicking around would eventually yield some manner of result.
Well, far-in-excess of a suitable amount of clicking around had yielded flat nothing, except for a quizzical eyebrow from her pod lead when she'd asked a distinctly non-relevant question. Some lipstick and an extra-tight blouse had been needed the next day to smooth that particular bump over - and that, in turn, had opened the avenue to a different direction of assault, one Kitrina had heard be labelled 'social engineering' in her compliance courses during initiation, but that she preferred to think of as 'harmless flirting'.
Well, harmless to her, at least. Perhaps not-so-harmless to her pod lead's marriage.
"Hollywood!" He said, sidling up to her desk wearing a shirt with one-too-many buttons undone and cologne with one-too-many dabs done up. An irritating pet-name he'd developed for her, born from a witless remark about how '[she's] so gorgeous [she] should be in movies', but a necessary evil. She smiled, all teeth, nothing in the eyes.
"Hiya Tom!" She replied, schmoozing a bit, subtly leaning toward him in a way that wasn't outwardly noticeable, but gave the unconscious impression of gravitation. He sneaked a look down her blouse that he thought she didn't notice. She did. She pretended not to. It was all part of the game - and who did he think purposefully left the top button undone? "Board keepin' you busy, sweetheart?"
Tom nodded thoughtfully, in a way that he thought made him look noble. Of course he didn't answer to the board; he didn't answer to anyone who answered to the board; he didn't even answer to anybody who answered to those that answered to the board. But it made him feel good that 'Holly' thought he did, that she thought he could be that important. His dad never thought he'd be important. His wife never called him 'sweetheart'.
"As ever, Hollywood, as ever - you know what it's like." Kitrina's turn to nod. She didn't know what it was like. Neither did Tom. "But a bit of leeway, since we're nearing the end of peak, you know? Through the worst of it, and all that."
"For sure, Tommy. I seen how hard you been working. Keeping the team together single-handedly." She smiled, meeting his gaze. He broke eye contact first, because he was ashamed of his extra-marital fantasies, but not ashamed enough that he didn't steal a second glance at Kitrina's chest.
"Well, thank you for saying so, Holly. It's nice to know someone appreciates my hard work when they see it." Tom stood up, wheeling his chair back to his desk and he talked, and then returning to lean beside Holly's station, looming over her. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was I noticed how hard you've been working-" Kitrina stifled a laugh, masking it as a humbled clearing-of-the-throat, "and I thought I might show you how much I appreciate you - maybe by taking you out to dinner? Tonight? After work? Chez Vouz?"
Holly smiled, this time in a sympathetic manner that immediately deflated Tom. There was a sense of relief between them - they both knew Tom couldn't afford Chez Vouz - but ultimately this rejection had been Holly's endgame from the start. In an act of peace-making, she stood and hugged Tom, carefully swiping his Tech Lead privilege-level ID as she did so.
"Oh Tom, that's very kind of you - and I'd love to spend a bit more time outside of work getting to know you - but tonight's not great. I gotta work late, and then my gran-mama needs me home. Rain-check me - drinks next weekend maybe?"
Tom put on his best brave smile and nodded, but didn't say anything else before slinking away, walking awkwardly to hide his semi-chub.
The rest of the working day passed by mercifully quickly; numbers were crunched, figures were punched, and Kitrina shadowed a few meetings, sitting quietly in the corner scanning faces, body language, seeing who was looking back. Eventually, the clock rolled around to 5PM, and screens started switching off and laptops went into bags and Kitrina started her performance, dutifully opening several worksheets and a database and noting down specific figures. A few differently-coloured pens, some circling, a couple lines drawn connecting this number to that - whatever she was working on looked important, and no one wanted to question her lest they get lasso'd by a plea for help. Tom, for his part, did check in, but it was less to see if Kitrina needed help and more to see if that dinner offer had any better success as an invite to the bar. No, it didn't, and oh by the way have you seen my access pass? No, she hadn't, and she was sure it would turn up. Never mind, eh? Monday's problem. Polite chuckle. Tom left.
And then the floor was empty. A soft whir came from around the corner where the Friday janitor was buffing the floors, but he didn't take the Friday janitor job for its social benefits, so he and Kitrina both understood to leave the other alone. She wasn't spending long here anyway; she waved coyly to the janitor as she passed, heading toward the toilets - but then doubled back on herself, ducking toward the elevator, riding it down to the lowest level.
Waynetech Research & Development.
Practically a blacksite.
She better find something down here, or she was royally screwed.
#1.02: We Kill The Flame
Previously: #1.01
Amelia's shop wasn't hard to find. It stood, dusty and dark, amidst boarded-up units and a couple of run-down bodegas; a few dive bars and a derelict betting shop stood out as the key highlights of an otherwise dead street.
A small brass bell rang dull and muted as Daimon pushed through the door that was more dirt and duct-tape than serviceable wood. He stood amongst a thrall of forgotten knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, feeling claustrophobic between tightly-packed racking shelves and glass cabinets. The low ceiling did little to help the overall oppressive atmosphere of the shop, and Daimon ducked beneath a beaded and obviously-fake mini-chandelier light-fixture - price tag faded and dangling - as he approached the counter.
"Amelia?" Daimon called out to the empty air. There was a dog-eared book laid open on the counter and half a mug of lukewarm coffee next to it; whoever was here couldn't be far. A small call-bell stood on the glass to Daimon's left; he pressed it, but instead of the expected soft 'ding' it only elicited a small and quiet crunch sound that felt distinctly organic. A few cockroaches fled from beneath the bell and disappeared out of sight, undoubtedly into the bosom of thousands of their brethren. Daimon shivered in disgust. He knocked on the countertop instead, three sharp raps echoing through the shop. "Hello?"
There was a rustling from beyond the doorway behind the counter, followed by shuffling footsteps, a few bumps, a significantly louder thump, and then the appearance of an unkempt, grey-haired woman. Her arms were laden with a large stack of books and small boxes that careened this way and that as they towered over her head, threatening to topple completely with every step. Daimon quickly moved around the counter, seizing her first by the shoulders to steady the teetering woman, before taking a sizeable chunk of the stack from her and setting them down on the counter as she did the same. The books for the most part seemed to be leather-bound antiques and collector's editions, while the boxes were non-descript, un-marked, and rattled when he shook them.
"Can I help you, young man?" The woman asked, not even looking at him - she was back to her book, her eyes flicking across the page quickly as she brought the remains of her coffee up to nicotine-stained teeth. Daimon frowned, retrieving the letter he’d received this morning and putting it down over the book she was reading.
“I’m Daimon Helstrom. I think you want my help.”
The woman sported a frown of her own, eyes flicking over the words on the letter as she read and re-read the contents.
“How unusual.” She finally said, with an apathetic tone that indicated it wasn’t unusual whatsoever, and handed the letter back. Daimon sighed.
“Are you Amelia?” He asked, the beginnings of irritation bubbling beneath the surface of an otherwise calm demeanour.
“Sure am.” Amelia replied, nose still in her book.
“And your son is missing?”
“Sure ain’t.”
“So he’s been found already?”
“Mister, I don’t have any kids.”
Daimon grumbled, realising he should have seen this coming. The letter had already spoken of fleeting and mercurial memory; it should have come as no surprise that she remained burdened by some bizarre affliction.
“If you don’t have any relevant business sir, I’ll ask you to leave.”
Daimon grumbled again and seized Amelia’s face in one hand. She spluttered in surprise and protested, but Daimon held her strong. Their eyes finally met, and Daimon saw it undeniably: a fog behind the eyes, a muffling cloud that sat within Amelia, quelling this and that, preventing undesirable thoughts and emotions. It was vile magic - but magic all the same. He began to whisper gently, chanting quiet rituals as his free hand spun fingers about Amelia’s head. Slowly, Amelia calmed, her voice growing soft and her protests ceasing; the more Daimon chanted, the deeper she fell into the trance - and then, shadows appeared in the wake of Daimon's tracing fingers, smoke coalescing behind his movements and being drawn into his palm. Soon, there was a visible wreath of a thick, gray, smoke-like substance about Daimon's hand that glimmered in the light, and seemed to pulse and throb. It was the essence of a hex, and without it she was free to think clearly. As Daimon ended the chanting and spun the cloud about itself, tightening it into a compact, thread-like material, a long-absent lucidity returned to Amelia; at which point, she promptly burst into tears.
"Charlie!" She cried, screaming names through heavy sobs that wracked through her body and shook her shoulders. She looked so much smaller now, like she'd withdrawn into herself. Daimon held her by the shoulders as she wept, unsure what to do. She heaved, fat tears pooling in her eyes and pouring down her cheeks; it was several uncomfortable minutes before she began to settle, and even then tears freely flowed ceaselessly, and her words were intermingled with sniffles and spoken in a weary, cracking voice.
"My Charlie...gone, for weeks now - dead, I know it. A mother knows it! In her bones, in her stomach, in her breast. It sits deep in you, deeper than you thought you were, than you thought you had. It's the worst thing there is. All the love poured into your child, come back as pain, as absence. My Charlie's dead, and I have to keep on living."
She collapsed onto a stool that sat in the corner, and Daimon knelt in front of her.
"And I was numb to it - but you did somethin' didn't you. Took the numbness away. But you let me remember him. Let the grief in."
She paused, taking a deep, ragged breath.
"I can't tell which is worse."
Daimon took her hand, squeezing gently. He was accustomed to grief.
"I'm sorry. I'm too late to help Charlie - too late to help you - but I can help others. Charlie will not be the only one torn from his family. And your clarity - it will pass to your husband. You can grieve together."
Amelia attempted a smile, but all it did was put a new face on her woe.
"And I suppose that's the best I can ask for. I guess you - you can see his room, his things, maybe they'll help. We last- last- last saw him..."
Amelia wept again, tearing her hand from Daimon to bury her face in her palms, saltwater dripping through her fingers. Daimon waited.
"We last saw him on 8th avenue. Walking home from school. From there...it's all hazy again. That fog looms over everything."
A small brass bell rang dull and muted as Daimon pushed through the door that was more dirt and duct-tape than serviceable wood. He stood amongst a thrall of forgotten knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, feeling claustrophobic between tightly-packed racking shelves and glass cabinets. The low ceiling did little to help the overall oppressive atmosphere of the shop, and Daimon ducked beneath a beaded and obviously-fake mini-chandelier light-fixture - price tag faded and dangling - as he approached the counter.
"Amelia?" Daimon called out to the empty air. There was a dog-eared book laid open on the counter and half a mug of lukewarm coffee next to it; whoever was here couldn't be far. A small call-bell stood on the glass to Daimon's left; he pressed it, but instead of the expected soft 'ding' it only elicited a small and quiet crunch sound that felt distinctly organic. A few cockroaches fled from beneath the bell and disappeared out of sight, undoubtedly into the bosom of thousands of their brethren. Daimon shivered in disgust. He knocked on the countertop instead, three sharp raps echoing through the shop. "Hello?"
There was a rustling from beyond the doorway behind the counter, followed by shuffling footsteps, a few bumps, a significantly louder thump, and then the appearance of an unkempt, grey-haired woman. Her arms were laden with a large stack of books and small boxes that careened this way and that as they towered over her head, threatening to topple completely with every step. Daimon quickly moved around the counter, seizing her first by the shoulders to steady the teetering woman, before taking a sizeable chunk of the stack from her and setting them down on the counter as she did the same. The books for the most part seemed to be leather-bound antiques and collector's editions, while the boxes were non-descript, un-marked, and rattled when he shook them.
"Can I help you, young man?" The woman asked, not even looking at him - she was back to her book, her eyes flicking across the page quickly as she brought the remains of her coffee up to nicotine-stained teeth. Daimon frowned, retrieving the letter he’d received this morning and putting it down over the book she was reading.
“I’m Daimon Helstrom. I think you want my help.”
The woman sported a frown of her own, eyes flicking over the words on the letter as she read and re-read the contents.
“How unusual.” She finally said, with an apathetic tone that indicated it wasn’t unusual whatsoever, and handed the letter back. Daimon sighed.
“Are you Amelia?” He asked, the beginnings of irritation bubbling beneath the surface of an otherwise calm demeanour.
“Sure am.” Amelia replied, nose still in her book.
“And your son is missing?”
“Sure ain’t.”
“So he’s been found already?”
“Mister, I don’t have any kids.”
Daimon grumbled, realising he should have seen this coming. The letter had already spoken of fleeting and mercurial memory; it should have come as no surprise that she remained burdened by some bizarre affliction.
“If you don’t have any relevant business sir, I’ll ask you to leave.”
Daimon grumbled again and seized Amelia’s face in one hand. She spluttered in surprise and protested, but Daimon held her strong. Their eyes finally met, and Daimon saw it undeniably: a fog behind the eyes, a muffling cloud that sat within Amelia, quelling this and that, preventing undesirable thoughts and emotions. It was vile magic - but magic all the same. He began to whisper gently, chanting quiet rituals as his free hand spun fingers about Amelia’s head. Slowly, Amelia calmed, her voice growing soft and her protests ceasing; the more Daimon chanted, the deeper she fell into the trance - and then, shadows appeared in the wake of Daimon's tracing fingers, smoke coalescing behind his movements and being drawn into his palm. Soon, there was a visible wreath of a thick, gray, smoke-like substance about Daimon's hand that glimmered in the light, and seemed to pulse and throb. It was the essence of a hex, and without it she was free to think clearly. As Daimon ended the chanting and spun the cloud about itself, tightening it into a compact, thread-like material, a long-absent lucidity returned to Amelia; at which point, she promptly burst into tears.
"Charlie!" She cried, screaming names through heavy sobs that wracked through her body and shook her shoulders. She looked so much smaller now, like she'd withdrawn into herself. Daimon held her by the shoulders as she wept, unsure what to do. She heaved, fat tears pooling in her eyes and pouring down her cheeks; it was several uncomfortable minutes before she began to settle, and even then tears freely flowed ceaselessly, and her words were intermingled with sniffles and spoken in a weary, cracking voice.
"My Charlie...gone, for weeks now - dead, I know it. A mother knows it! In her bones, in her stomach, in her breast. It sits deep in you, deeper than you thought you were, than you thought you had. It's the worst thing there is. All the love poured into your child, come back as pain, as absence. My Charlie's dead, and I have to keep on living."
She collapsed onto a stool that sat in the corner, and Daimon knelt in front of her.
"And I was numb to it - but you did somethin' didn't you. Took the numbness away. But you let me remember him. Let the grief in."
She paused, taking a deep, ragged breath.
"I can't tell which is worse."
Daimon took her hand, squeezing gently. He was accustomed to grief.
"I'm sorry. I'm too late to help Charlie - too late to help you - but I can help others. Charlie will not be the only one torn from his family. And your clarity - it will pass to your husband. You can grieve together."
Amelia attempted a smile, but all it did was put a new face on her woe.
"And I suppose that's the best I can ask for. I guess you - you can see his room, his things, maybe they'll help. We last- last- last saw him..."
Amelia wept again, tearing her hand from Daimon to bury her face in her palms, saltwater dripping through her fingers. Daimon waited.
"We last saw him on 8th avenue. Walking home from school. From there...it's all hazy again. That fog looms over everything."
Thanks! I've edited my original post in the Characters tab to replace my Constantine sheet with my Catwoman sheet :)
C A T W O M A N
C A T W O M A N
C A T W O M A N
"Life's a bitch and so am I!"
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 Kitrina Elena Falcone _________________________________________________________ Italian American | Thief _________________________________________________________ Gotham City | 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 Kitrina is the illegitimate daughter of Alberto Falcone and his illicit lover, Anna de Luca. With her father already the un-favourite of the Falcone children, Alberto being discovered as the Holiday Killer in the year of the Long Halloween did Kitrina no favours, and Carmine's murder - the severing of the last piece of goodwill toward her - sealed her fate. From then on, with her father incarcerated and her grandfather dead, Kitrina was left in the 'care' of Mario Falcone, her uncle, who partially blamed Alberto for Carmine's death, and was more than happy to unload this blame onto Kitrina by proxy. When, in the aftermath, the efforts of Batman and Jim Gordan finally dealt a mortal blow to the Falcone Crime Empire, and Mario and Kitrina were reduced to living in the Narrows - trying desperately to claw back Falcone assets that were being steadily liquidated - the situation only got worse; until eventually, Kitrina has become embittered, numb, and angry enough to try something stupid in a last-ditch effort to earn back some respect and some much-needed cash and maybe, just maybe, something daring enough to start bringing the Falcone name back into notoriety in Gotham. That "something stupid and/or daring" is a heist on Wayne Industries. Bruce Wayne, magnanimous philanthropist playboy as he was, was well-known for Wayne Industry's outreach programme, that guaranteed stable employment and life coaching for less-fortunate Gotham residents. Kitrina is by no means unintelligent, and applied under the pseudonym 'Holly Robinson', getting a position rather quickly and using her time within the company plotting and scoping. Hoping to find something within the belly of Wayne Industries that she can use as blackmail for the board, Kitrina/Holly has everything planned out to propel her out of Mario's vengeful clutches, and secure the Falcone name once again as a force of nature within Gotham, reclaiming her birth-right and landing her back in the luxurious life she deserves. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) With Kitrina I want to meld the characters of Kitrina Falcone, the spurned mafia heiress, and Holly Robinson, the street-urchin morality-chain to Selina Kyle, as well as explore the idea of the legacy character and the inheriting of titles. With an older Bruce, a retired Selina, and all kinds of Bat-babies running around Gotham, I'm looking forward to establishing a new Catwoman, taking influence from Selina's character as Kitrina/Holly's mentor, but also spinning a well-known anti-villain in a new direction. Kitty Gets Her Claws The research has been done, the plan has been made, and the time has come for Kitrina's heist on Waynetech to finally happen. What she seeks and what she finds are completely different things, but Kitrina will find her hard-won quarry will push her in a career direction she never could have imagined, and rubbing shoulders with persons she otherwise would have never met. ...But Satisfaction Brought Her Back Under the tutelage of ex-Catwoman Selina Kyle, Kitrina Falcone has become quite the successful thief; however, when Sofia Falcone, surviving daughter of The Roman, catches wind of Kitrina's new money, she sees it as an opportunity to start rebuilding the Falcone Empire. Which Kitrina would have no issue with, provided her dear auntie knows how to show respect to the new generation of mafia in Gotham. A Nice Big Ball of Yarn Kick-starting a mafia empire is no easy task, especially in Gotham, where fierce competition hounds you at every corner. One specific player in the Gotham underworld has welcomed a return to a more traditional mob format, but he's set his beady eyes on Kitrina's budding empire, working backstage for the perfect moment to steal the limelight from the new Falcone boss. In time however, it will be revealed who's really pulling who's strings... |
Hiya fellas, quick update. I am SICK rn - not terrible but just lethargic, and unable to rest bc 9 years of retail before I got out instilled within me an instinct to not allow myself recovery time when ill.
Also, I have been having a blast reading everyone's IC posts - and have realised that as much as I love Constantine, and this origin-story retelling is my personal fanfic baby, writing a character in another country, on the opposite side of the Atlantic, engaging in personal origin story business with no real room for crossovers, doesn't really lend itself to getting involved with other players, which is really what I want to do.
With that said, I'd like to take a temporary leave of absence to withdraw John and work on a new character sheet (yaaaay) of someone I've never played before (ooooo) who's based in Gotham (booooo), and work on my Constantine retelling privately, perhaps for Variety Hour a little down the line.
I hope to return shortly with a brand new sheet, and look forward to interacting with you lovely lot.
Also, I have been having a blast reading everyone's IC posts - and have realised that as much as I love Constantine, and this origin-story retelling is my personal fanfic baby, writing a character in another country, on the opposite side of the Atlantic, engaging in personal origin story business with no real room for crossovers, doesn't really lend itself to getting involved with other players, which is really what I want to do.
With that said, I'd like to take a temporary leave of absence to withdraw John and work on a new character sheet (yaaaay) of someone I've never played before (ooooo) who's based in Gotham (booooo), and work on my Constantine retelling privately, perhaps for Variety Hour a little down the line.
I hope to return shortly with a brand new sheet, and look forward to interacting with you lovely lot.
Hi all I am SICK. But working on another Helstrom. Happy New Year to all.
#1.01: You Want It Darker
Previously: None
Creation is a Divine act. In the Beginning, when there was only Nothing, God came and Created Something. It was His first act, and it defined what it meant to be Him; to be God was to Create, and to Create is Divine. So it is only natural then, that Creation is sought by all beings, like it was sought by God. When Satan rebelled against God and was cast into the deepest bowels of darkness, he Created Hell. When further angels fell, those that had aligned with Satan, they Created their own domains within Hell. And when Mephisto found himself lying defeated on the burning cold stone of Hell’s depths, he Created Blackheart, his son and progeny.
Aah, Blackheart; admirable, exquisite Blackheart. A finer child no demon could ask for, such was the pitch-darkness of his soul. A perfect mirror held to the basest of Man’s desires and ambitions, Mephisto poured into him all the evils of worlds both mortal and divine. Into Blackheart went all the evil witnessed, all the evil perpetrated; all the evil that would be done, all that could be done. When Mephisto was finished, he admired his Creation, and for the first time experienced Envy; Blackheart was his perfect self, to be lived by another.
Blackheart stood tall and strong on the floors of Hell, and regarded himself - this new body, this new mind, these new thoughts and feelings. He regarded his father, Mephisto.
And wherefore hast thou birthed me, Father? He asked.
To make good thine potential, Child. Mephisto answered.
Daimon Helstrom woke slowly, his dreams filled with the only thing they were ever filled with: fire, screaming, his sister, and his demon father. Even now, some half-a-decade later, Daimon was still haunted by the night that his father returned, and all that had been laid low by his reappearance. The house they had lived in at the time sat to this day a smoldering wreckage, embers within still glowing so many years hence. The neighborhood paid little attention to it - the house existed in a sort of blind-spot, an itch behind the eye when you looked at it; when one passed by, it lived in the peripheral, inflicting a vague, mercurial sense of unease and disgust. Anyone who could bear to look at it for long enough would start to taste sulfur.
Daimon thought of his mother. Visiting hours were short, and she was often unreceptive to seeing her son. This pained Daimon, but he understood why; her face, to him, was a trigger for the trauma of that night, that he had to re-bury every time they spoke. He could not imagine that his visage was any better for her fractured mind.
He thought not to dwell on it any longer, and sat up, letting the sheets slide off him as he left the bed. The cool morning air gave way to goosebumps up his arms and across his shoulders, but he quickly shrugged it off, snapping his fingers and muttering under his breath as he stepped into the front room; the curtains pulled themselves back sharply, flooding the room with early sunlight, and flame erupted on the hob beneath the stove-top coffee pot. Daimon rubbed his eyes, beckoning slightly with an open hand as he stood at the counter - from his desk in the front room, yesterday's shirt lifted gently off the back of the chair it had been draped over and floated toward him. He slid his arms through the sleeves as the coffee began to boil, and buttoned with one hand while he poured out the first cup of the day into a well-stained mug. A few cubes of sugar splashed coffee over the rim, and Daimon absentmindedly twirled one finger over the surface of the liquid, compelling it to stir itself, as he groggily made his way back to the desk he had departed not even 6 hours ago. Files and notes were strewn across the worktop, and a heavy, leather-bound tome laid open in the corner, biro sandwiched into the center crease. There were various notes scrawled in the margins, musings and ruminations scribbled hastily in a way that would make the elderly librarian he had purloined the book from incredibly angry.
Daimon sipped on the coffee, willing himself to wake up as he perused the files. Very little had been trickling in from his office; private investigation often wasn't a lucrative business, especially if you lacked any public notoriety, and especially especially if your newspaper ad featured "expert in occult business and demonology" in the listing. For the most part, this bothered Daimon very little; less business was less talking to people, and less talking to people came with two advantages: more time for his personal study into Hell, demonology, and his father, and also less talking to people.
The disadvantage of less business was irritating little 'BILL DUE' letters through the door, of which Daimon had amassed the beginnings of a small collection. They sat in a neat stack in the drawer of his desk, and as he drained the final dregs of his coffee, he heard the rattle of the letterbox that surely signaled another. He stood, letting go of his empty mug and waving his hand in the same motion, setting it on a path through the air toward a refill as he went to collect the post.
There was no debtor's letter, however - no post at all, none of the usual cold-call nonsense. Instead, there was a small stained envelope, with only Daimon's name penned across the front, and no delivery or return address. It wasn't even stamped; he flipped it over in his hand, catching the returning refilled mug from behind him in the other. His eyes narrowed; the wax seal holding the letter shut bore an impressive crest, marked with sigils that held familiarity to Daimon but were nonetheless unrecognizable as any known runic script, from either this plane or any other. He set his mug aside and carefully broke the seal, fishing out the letter from within the envelope. He drained coffee as he read through, while at the same time, with ever-increasing pace, finishing getting dressed.
By the time he finished the letter, his shoes were tying themselves as he stuffed it back in the envelope, and thrust the envelope into his pocket before he left.
Aah, Blackheart; admirable, exquisite Blackheart. A finer child no demon could ask for, such was the pitch-darkness of his soul. A perfect mirror held to the basest of Man’s desires and ambitions, Mephisto poured into him all the evils of worlds both mortal and divine. Into Blackheart went all the evil witnessed, all the evil perpetrated; all the evil that would be done, all that could be done. When Mephisto was finished, he admired his Creation, and for the first time experienced Envy; Blackheart was his perfect self, to be lived by another.
Blackheart stood tall and strong on the floors of Hell, and regarded himself - this new body, this new mind, these new thoughts and feelings. He regarded his father, Mephisto.
And wherefore hast thou birthed me, Father? He asked.
To make good thine potential, Child. Mephisto answered.
Daimon Helstrom woke slowly, his dreams filled with the only thing they were ever filled with: fire, screaming, his sister, and his demon father. Even now, some half-a-decade later, Daimon was still haunted by the night that his father returned, and all that had been laid low by his reappearance. The house they had lived in at the time sat to this day a smoldering wreckage, embers within still glowing so many years hence. The neighborhood paid little attention to it - the house existed in a sort of blind-spot, an itch behind the eye when you looked at it; when one passed by, it lived in the peripheral, inflicting a vague, mercurial sense of unease and disgust. Anyone who could bear to look at it for long enough would start to taste sulfur.
Daimon thought of his mother. Visiting hours were short, and she was often unreceptive to seeing her son. This pained Daimon, but he understood why; her face, to him, was a trigger for the trauma of that night, that he had to re-bury every time they spoke. He could not imagine that his visage was any better for her fractured mind.
He thought not to dwell on it any longer, and sat up, letting the sheets slide off him as he left the bed. The cool morning air gave way to goosebumps up his arms and across his shoulders, but he quickly shrugged it off, snapping his fingers and muttering under his breath as he stepped into the front room; the curtains pulled themselves back sharply, flooding the room with early sunlight, and flame erupted on the hob beneath the stove-top coffee pot. Daimon rubbed his eyes, beckoning slightly with an open hand as he stood at the counter - from his desk in the front room, yesterday's shirt lifted gently off the back of the chair it had been draped over and floated toward him. He slid his arms through the sleeves as the coffee began to boil, and buttoned with one hand while he poured out the first cup of the day into a well-stained mug. A few cubes of sugar splashed coffee over the rim, and Daimon absentmindedly twirled one finger over the surface of the liquid, compelling it to stir itself, as he groggily made his way back to the desk he had departed not even 6 hours ago. Files and notes were strewn across the worktop, and a heavy, leather-bound tome laid open in the corner, biro sandwiched into the center crease. There were various notes scrawled in the margins, musings and ruminations scribbled hastily in a way that would make the elderly librarian he had purloined the book from incredibly angry.
Daimon sipped on the coffee, willing himself to wake up as he perused the files. Very little had been trickling in from his office; private investigation often wasn't a lucrative business, especially if you lacked any public notoriety, and especially especially if your newspaper ad featured "expert in occult business and demonology" in the listing. For the most part, this bothered Daimon very little; less business was less talking to people, and less talking to people came with two advantages: more time for his personal study into Hell, demonology, and his father, and also less talking to people.
The disadvantage of less business was irritating little 'BILL DUE' letters through the door, of which Daimon had amassed the beginnings of a small collection. They sat in a neat stack in the drawer of his desk, and as he drained the final dregs of his coffee, he heard the rattle of the letterbox that surely signaled another. He stood, letting go of his empty mug and waving his hand in the same motion, setting it on a path through the air toward a refill as he went to collect the post.
There was no debtor's letter, however - no post at all, none of the usual cold-call nonsense. Instead, there was a small stained envelope, with only Daimon's name penned across the front, and no delivery or return address. It wasn't even stamped; he flipped it over in his hand, catching the returning refilled mug from behind him in the other. His eyes narrowed; the wax seal holding the letter shut bore an impressive crest, marked with sigils that held familiarity to Daimon but were nonetheless unrecognizable as any known runic script, from either this plane or any other. He set his mug aside and carefully broke the seal, fishing out the letter from within the envelope. He drained coffee as he read through, while at the same time, with ever-increasing pace, finishing getting dressed.
Dear Daimon,
My son is missing. I understand that this is likely not unusual for you to hear, being in the business you are.
What is unusual is I cannot remember my son's name.
Many times, I cannot remember I have a son at all.
But there is an empty bedroom in my house, and a wardrobe full of clothes I do not wear, and Mother's Day cards addressed to me from a name I do not recognize.
My husband is afflicted worse than I; when my son's absence finally wells up within me enough to recall, he rejects the notion entirely. I show him the clothes, the rooms, the cards; it is like he cannot see them at all.
Please - find my son. Return him to me, so that I might be convinced of his existence.
If you wish to help me - if you can help me - then visit me.
You can find me at my curio shop, on West 37th.
Ask for Amelia.
By the time he finished the letter, his shoes were tying themselves as he stuffed it back in the envelope, and thrust the envelope into his pocket before he left.
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