Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

What If...Deadman was just a kid?

Roman's Scrapbin

Enormous, rough-hewn stone walls expanded in every direction forever, their rugged surfaces a mix of eroded curves and harsh, hand-chiseled edges. The cragged, pock-marked plane snaked away around corners, wrapping in on itself with corridors that weaved and knotted and intersected at crossroads and loops and spirals. You could walk for five hundred days and never find a dead-end, never cross back on yourself, but you'd have made no progress at all. Above was a black, empty expanse, an endless sprawl of agoraphobia that weighed down on top of you and made the stone hallways all the more narrow; claustrophobia in equal measure.

Poe, rake-thin, 3-foot-something, hair matted and greasy, curled into herself against the cold floor that was simultaneously the cold stone of the walls and a clinical vinyl linoleum tile, each version of itself straining against the other to assert their own reality; eventually, the linoleum gave way, and stone swallowed up what was left of where she'd come from entirely. She pressed the butts of her hands into her eye sockets, refusing to see what she could hear and feel and know in her very core. This was a world she was familiar with but wanted little to do with; a world she knew in glimpses and fragmented nightmares. A surreality that defied all logic regarding its incomprehensible, immutable being. It was and is and would be. It was frightening. It is dangerous. It would be navigable, would Poe simply come to understand it. Alas. Such a thing defied understanding just as much as it defied all man's ken. Poe, young and scared and of little experience of known reality, let alone this other, outside-place, could not dwell on extant metaphysics - she could only cower.

Poe, rake-thin, 5-foot-4, hair brushed and straightened and falling far past her shoulders, lay in a hospital bed, mattress soft and firm. The clean plastic and metal of the bed's frame were a stark contrast against the ragged rock and stone of the surrounding labyrinth, the muted pastel green and cream almost blinding against dark grays and blacks. The tube in her arm suggested an IV drip had at some point been in place, but such a feature was absent now - just a loose cannula draping over the edge of the bed, the last few drops of saline from the open end the last indication of any medical attention she had been receiving. She was bleary and confused, and though a part of her couldn't help but recognize where she was, how she came to be here, and the implications upon her circumstances that both fragments of knowledge imparted, there was a fog against her mind that prevented a conscious acknowledgement. She was here, she had been somewhere else, she would arrive elsewhere entirely; all were important, none felt relevant. In the haze, she merely lifted her arm, observing her pale flesh sparkle in the black starlight from above.

Poe turned away from these particular versions of herself, caught in here, ensnared in the maze. Which version of her was more true she did not know; if either were constructions, either of her own making, or the labyrinth's making, or from some further alien source, she could not place their origins and she could not recollect herself in their places. They were mirages, conjured up to frighten or threaten or elucidate or distract; it didn't matter, she didn't want them, and suddenly they were gone as the walls stretched and scraped with a great stone-on-stone grinding to finally slam closed and box both in entirely, before the corridors before her stretched away at such a pace she felt nauseous; and that was that. Out of sight, out of mind.

Distantly, distantly...shouting? Poe turned, her brows knitted together. Hallways spanned out before her but choosing was a lottery; the sound seemed to come from each in equal portion, bouncing off the rock to surround her with shouts becoming half-heard whispers. She knew, in her bones, that if she wanted to find them, she would, regardless of choice of direction, but she wasn't sure she did. Something else in her gut told her not to go looking. Which instinct to trust, which hunch to rely upon? Curiosity rallied and ignited the fire; with five passages splayed out in front of her she spread her fingers and slapped her hand hard against the rock before holding her arm out in front. Her ring finger hurt the most, so that was the way she picked.

Twisting, turning, running hands along rough stone. Shouting grew steadily closer, and though she could hear the source moving it gained no ground on her. She circled it, drawing ever-inwards as it frantically span in a frenzied search. She could hear it properly now, make out the words, although wouldn't deign to guess whether that was because she was close enough or she was now simply allowed.
"Poe! Poe, where are you?! Poe!"
Searching for her. A sliver of ice ran through Poe's chest and she nearly tripped, distracted by shock, but her hands caught herself on stone rushing to meet them and she steadied. In response, the walls shifted, and what would have been a circuitous, rounding path suddenly opened at its core and there it was, the source; a well-groomed, stern-looking older gentleman in a clean-pressed and expensive suit, flanked by a man and a woman, looking slightly less collected, in white coats and wielding syringes. Poe's eyes flared in panic as she noticed the needles; the gentleman's eyes flared in poised anger as he noticed Poe.

"Poe! Poe, come with us now."
Poe stepped backwards, scared, threatened. Quietly, the straight path shimmered and what had been, momentarily ago, an endlessly spooling corridor behind the trio, was suddenly thick with stone. Of the white-coat pair, the man noticed first. He sprung back - Poe recognized swelling panic flush across his face, a mirror of her own expression. The gentleman only glanced subtly to either side, seeming to assess his immediate surroundings.
"Poe, come on now." A calmer tone, but with the words came another advance, and his advance prompted Poe's retreat; she didn't know who these people were, didn't desire to, and her attention was fixed on the metal of the needles that still glimmered in the non-light. "We need to be getting on."

The woman ran out of patience and darted forwards, prompting the gentleman to yell out, but not before Poe was away and sprinting backwards; they were chasing, faster than she could escape - and then came that grinding of stone against stone again, and more shouts,
"Poe! Don't leave us here! Poe! Don't! DO-"
and then the stone slammed shut and there were no more shouts and Poe was alone again.

Ju-V

W Y N D

---

^{P O E N A V I D S O N ◼ 1 1 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 ( 1 8 ) ◼ F E M A L E}

<sup>“Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name.



And then the nightmares will begin.”</sup>

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:

---

//STATS:

◼ HEIGHT | 5'4"
◼ WEIGHT | 91lbs
◼ BUILD | Malnourished
◼ HAIR COLOUR | Black. Streaks of red in the front.
◼ EYE COLOUR | Amber
◼ 'VOICE' TEXT COLOUR | Hexcode 8B0000
◼ OTHER | Often wearing dark, thick eyeliner, mostly to distract from or mask the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She has blemishes and scratches up her arms where she compulsively picks her skin.

//DESCRIPTION:

Poe is a haunted girl, nervous and in a constant state of exhausting alertness. Her clothes are simple and dark, jeans and tough boots, often wearing large, baggy jumpers and hoodies that swallow her up, serving to both cover her picked-at arms, and help warm her too-skinny frame. Her eyes have the look of someone who's tired to their bones, and dark bags beneath them only emphasize her apparently exhaustion.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

---

^{"Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold."}

Poe remembers little of her pre-Aegis life, but the scraps she gets aren't pleasant, and she's smart enough to understand contextually that her apparently long-term presence in Aegis facilities doesn't speak to a healthy, well-balanced adolescence. Flashes of an extended but dysfunctional family, of a mother at times both nurturing and frightening, of a father desperate and well-meaning but ill-equipped. Whatever her own struggles, Poe is certain she is far from the first to have battled with them.

Most of Poe's accessible memories are of time in Aegis facilities; she's a 'lifer', no doubt, and has bounced through 4 separate facilities across the United States so far, with both the properly-filed paperwork and without - most recently definitively without. She came to them younger than most, and has stayed with them longer than most - making and losing friends along the way, but for the most trying to survive her own mind, fighting against twisting corridors of paranoia, anxiety, and phantom phobias.

▼ M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:

---

^{“For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. You'll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you'll realize it's always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room. But you won't understand why or how.”}

More than anything, Poe seeks understanding. Her own mind being simultaneously so familiar and so alien is disconcerting at best, and while she's in full control of her faculties and thoughts and movements and motor functions, there is ever-present paranoia that she remains subtly influenced by the dark corners of her psyche, strings being pulled by a self behind the self. In the most literal terms, she cannot trust her own mind - and how do you find peace when such a fact defines your existence?

Despite its inherent fundamentality to Poe's nature and very being, she cannot help but be deeply frightened of the Finite Passage; who would not be, when your own mind is so innately unknowable? Through her lengthy stay with Aegis she has sought to conquer the intrinsic secrets of the labyrinth, poring through her own mind to reveal what it is hiding from itself; success has been limited, if it comes at all. The issue is looking for something that doesn't want to be found, in a place that doesn't want you - itself - both - to find it.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

---

^{"What miracle is this? This giant tree.
It stands ten thousand feet high
But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands.
Its roots must hold the sky."}

//ABILITIES:

◼ The Finite Passage | Poe's mind is, literally, a labyrinth. It is an eldritch, shifting space that she has dubbed 'The Finite Passage', and despite its alien nature to anything approaching humanity as we know it, it is as intrinsically a part of Poe - intrinsically Poe herself - as the colour of her eyes or the the whorls of her fingertips. It is reflective of and adaptive to Poe's mental state at any given time, and she has both absolute dominion over it, and no possible idea how to control it.

The Finite Passage manifests in two ways, but contains myriad peculiarities within itself. Poe can dive into herself, using her own mind as a portal to find herself on the otherside in the midst of the dark stone corridors of the labyrinth, or she unfold her mind into the world around her, spooling the labyrinth out of herself to imprint itself across actual reality and eventually subsume her, her surroundings, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity.

Upon entering the labyrinth, Poe can navigate its corridors to find an exit out into any point, disappearing into herself and finding the right escape to reappear anywhere else on the planet. However, how easy an exit is to find is very variable, dependant on knowledge of destination, navigation ability, and even Poe's own mental state.

There are several other 'unique' aspects of the Finite Passage, as a result of its dual nature as both a representation of Poe's psyche, and its own seemingly-alive eldritch space; but Poe understands these even less than the superficial travel functions of the labyrinth, and is afraid of what true exploration of the Finite Passage's depths might uncover - as such, she avoids it completely.

//SKILLS:

◼ Perceptive, Agile, Survivable | Poe's fear and paranoia has honed her senses toward anxiety-driven perceptive peaks, constantly scanning and processing hundreds of elements from her surroundings ever second, keeping her alert, aware, and well-tuned to even the subtlest details around her. Her lithe frame has afforded her some agility and light-footedness, and from her experiences across her life - inside and outside Aegis facilities, even inside the Finite Passage itself - she has learnt extraordinarily well how to survive.

//LIMITATIONS:

◼ Exhausted, On-Edge, Frightened | Poe's constant alertness has a side-effect: an in-parallel constant exhaustion, her brain always in overdrive analysing every possible detail and threat, wearing her down every minute until she has little-to-no energy to do much of anything else entirely. She's always on-edge, quick to irritability and pessimism, and lives in a sustained state of fear that colours her every interaction.

//WEAKNESSES:

◼ Memory Failure, Autophobia, Paranoia | A side-effect of the Finite Passage, her own physical location isn't the only thing that can lost within its labyrinthian sprawl - memories can and do and have gotten lost as well, and without knowing where they are, or even that they're missing at all, Poe can't recall large chunks of her life. Due to the Finite Passage being an intrinsic part of her psyche, her fear of its unknown nature also deviates simultaneously into a fear of herself and a fear of isolation, both of which cause her no end of struggle. Finally, what little she does understand about the Finite Passage and its psychic properties has devolved into paranoia about Aegis and those around her, and about the 'self behind the self', an 'other' Poe she believes is secretly manipulating her from within her own subconscious and the depths of the labyrinth.

▼ N O T E S:

---

//SUPPORTING CAST:

▼ ALLIES

◼ None | Yet...

▼ FRIENDS

◼ None | Yet...

▼ ENEMIES

◼ None | Yet...

//STOMPING GROUNDS

◼ Aegis Facilities | Test

//PARAPHERNALIA

◼ None | Due to how Poe ended up in the Alcatraz Aegis facility, she failed to bring any belongings with her. Until such personal items can be transported across the continent, she's starting from scratch.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

What If... The Eternals Movie Had A Competent Team Of Writers On Board?

Roman's Scrapbin

_{#1.02: The Bat}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Earl Skinner was a drug dealer, a hired thug, a gang initiate, a general scumbag, and a landlord.

His father’s father has been in construction and lived in what was effectively a worker’s village contained to a single two-story bloc estate, 8 apartments of 4 rooms each (including the combination den/kitchenette and the cramped en-suite bathroom) forming a brutalist square around a double-function courtyard and parking lot for bikes and the one guy who’d scrimped and saved enough pay to buy an actual car. Eventually the other workers had died or moved away, and it had been just Ol’ G-Paw Skinner left, living off state pension, nursing arthritis and lung disease. When G-Paw died Earl was still a boy, and didn’t understand that G-Paw had been a long-time blocker to companies that wanted to purchase the lot for redevelopment; he didn’t know that his father had been made an offer for the bloc shortly before G-Paw’s sudden decline after a decade battling illness, nor that his father had countered the offer with the inheritance and bought the whole run-down, crumbling estate himself with city guidance he make the bloc as a whole presentable amidst the other developments around them. What he did understand, through his father’s tutelage, is that paint and spackle was a lot cheaper than actual structural repairs, and that desperate people would pay far more than what a place was worth just to have a roof over their heads on those sodden Gotham rainy nights and a bed to lay their children in. By the time Earl learnt the truth of G-Paw’s demise - confessed by his father on his own deathbed - his only real thought was ‘why ain’t ya do him in sooner’.

Since his father’s death, he’d come into ownership of the bloc and its leases himself, and he’d developed new, even more degenerately cunning methods of extracting money from his tenants and funneling it into his own assets; see, Earl only took rent in cash, in stark defiance of the modern age, and Earl's pal Brad owned a payday loan business in the same neighborhood, just on the right side of shady to still be operating. Between them, they also knew a revolving door of gang initiates looking to cut their teeth on some violent scut-work.

So with all the pieces clicking together, the play went like this: Earl would demand payment from whoever was coming up to rent day, and because he demanded it in cash, he'd wait until the unfortunate tenant had made the withdrawal, and then have them mugged. Unable to pay, the tenant invariably found a very un-sympathetic Earl would begin imposing late fees day-by-day, while the stolen cash would be taken straight to Brad. As the victim grew desperate beneath the looming threat of homelessness on Gotham's unforgiving streets, one of two things would happen - either they found a way, almost always a horrible way, to stump up the cash, plus late fees, and Earl and Brad split the original rent money for a tidy little profit; or they came to Brad's door, who was genial and polite and more than happy to lend them back their own stolen money to pay Earl's rent and late fees and all at a tidy little interest rate of 100-150% to start with.

The sustainability of such a model mattered little to either man; when the pair's combined ploy eventually drove someone out of the bloc entirely, Gotham's endless font of desperate unfortunates was quick to plug the gap. Anyone who suspected Earl Skinner was never in a position to do anything about it.

Earl Skinner was about to have a bad night.

- - -

Maggie hurried home through the streets on yet another rainy Gotham night, her jacket held up to shield her hair from the downpour. In truth, she didn't hate the rain; the streets were quieter, she liked the sound of it, and more often than not wet nights were warmer than dry ones, which she felt grateful for in her unheated apartment. The rain hit against her skin and she tried to embrace it rather than shiver. On her thighs she still felt the greasy, clammy grips of the barflies who'd pawed at her as she'd delivered drinks and paraded shots - but it made for good tips, so instead of recoiling in disgust she smiled, put a hand on a shoulder, bent over just enough to present the tray as well as her cleavage, and tips were sorely needed. Today, rent was due. Earl had messaged to remind her this morning. She gripped the envelope of cash tight.

A couple streets over, Earl Skinner sat in his Chevy Suburban, a ghastly SUV monster that looked all the more ridiculous in its overblown and gaudy pompousness when it was sat outside the neglected and degrading apartment block that he'd used to finance it. He fiddled with his phone, flipping between apps and webpages and generally killing time while the rain beat down around him and he waited for the evening to proceed. Out in the wet his goon was splashing across the asphalt, off to fetch Earl his money.

Maggie was close to home, and grateful for it; she felt like she must be approaching terminal wetness, a plateau of simply how soaked a single person could physically be, and the rain seemed only to worsen in response. She was drenched to the bone, and without a working boiler she was in genuine danger. Towels and blankets might not be good enough to dispel this chill from her core, but she had no other options. Her clothes would take days to dry.

Ahead of her, the road was awash with a great lake of water; there was a blocked drain and the rain had taken full advantage to sink the street into a shin-high marsh. Maggie didn't even stop to consider her options; she couldn't face having to walk through it and ruin what was left of her shoes - her feet pounding the pavement in double-layered socks was about all the warmth she had left in her right now. Instead, she took a sharp turn, ducking between two buildings to cross through the alley in between them, intending to circle around the flood; she was maybe a block, block-and-a-half from home, and she even had the day off tomorrow. Home, some food, some dry clothes.

She didn't even see the man holding the crowbar until he stopped her forcefully with a heavy hand against her collarbone. He almost felt like a caricature of Gotham's standard run-of-the-mill muggers; dressed head-to-toe in a grey rubber poncho, balaclava covering his face beneath the poncho, booted in black wellies and gloved hands forming a tight grip around his choice of weapon. Maggie simply started to cry.
"No dramatics, lady. Just make this easy on the pair of us and hand it o-"

He was interrupted mid-sentence by the sudden and forceful impact of a stranger's shoulder to his midsection, and his yelp of surprise and pain was cut short by the ringing of metal as they hit a dumpster and the dropped crowbar hit the floor. There were several wet thuds in fast succession and more yelps, and then the stranger stood, hunched over, one hand gripping the goon by the collar of his poncho, the other balled into a fist and rearing back; it came down hard, and even through the poncho and the balaclava, the sound of a fractured jawbone rang clear through the rain. The terrible hands found the discarded crowbar and this too was raised, flashing in the sky against the streetlight like the flaming sword at the gates of Eden; it found its mark against a kneecap, and the cry of pain cut ice through Maggie, even as it came out garbled through the broken jaw.

The stranger stood tall, fist still clenched around the crowbar. Maggie didn't dare breath. He was some manner of terrible demon: all-black, horns erupting from his head, terrible wings trailing down his back like flayed skin slung over his shoulders, something branded across his chest. His hot breath spooled out as fog from his mouth in the evening air. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, Maggie leaned forward, trying to get a better view of the symbol across his torso; when he finally moved, turning toward her, the illusion was dispelled.

Stood before her was a man, 6-foot and change, well-built and broad-shouldered; he wore dark-grey military pants, the legs tucked into heavy black boots. His hands flexed inside padded gloves, and his torso was clad in a matte-black armoured jacket; across the chest was the painted insignia of a bat. A cape wrapped around his neck and fell backwards over his shoulders, the ends ragged and torn, and finally a hardened cowl covered his head, that furrowed his brow and darkened his eyes, with great pointed ears sprouting from the top. In the murky night, through the rain, he cut a hellish otherworldly figure; as Maggie adjusted and the terror subsided, he became a saviour, and simply a man.

They looked at each other for a long time; Maggie didn't move, and neither did the Bat; he kept a firm grip on the crowbar, and she still clutched her pay. Finally, with a rasping breath, the Bat stooped over again, passing the crowbar from one hand to the other and picking up the would-be mugger's uninjured leg. Step by step, the Bat began to drag the man past Maggie, his ferocious gaze set on some distant objective that Maggie couldn't see through the rain. He growled as he passed her, offering only a few short words,
"Get home, get dry. Save your money. No more robbery tonight."
And then he was gone around the corner, and the spell on Maggie was broken; she scrambled away, running all the way back to the bloc.

- - -

Earl yawned and rubbed his face, feeling eyestrain from staring at his screen in the dark of the car's interior for the last hour. He wondered where the hell that jackass rookie was. That was the problem with kids these days - no drive, no common sense. If he'd taken the money and split, he'd be on crutches within the week, and that was best-case scenario. As it was, Earl was still fixing to deliver him a black eye, or maybe a broken nose, just for the tardiness.

Something groaned outside the car.
"Alright, fuck this dumb kid." Earl muttered to himself, sitting up and twisting the keys in the ignition to bring the engine to life.

There was a great crunching and creaking of metal as something heavy hit the car and the roof buckled beneath the weight. The car rocked side-to-side, something else tumbled down the windshield and landed on the bonnet, and then everything was still, only the beating of the rain against the car once again. Earl breathed heavy, panicked breaths, mind racing. Shakily, he brought his phone to his ear, dialing the rookie.
What the fuck is going on out there?

Earl jumped as his phone connected and the rings made the car hum like thunder. He peeked over the steering wheel and now saw the object on the bonnet for what it was; his rookie's phone, lighting up against the night and vibrating with each ring. Slowly, but surely, Earl watched the phone vibrate its way to the edge of the car and tumble to the ground; the call fail immediately as the phone cracked and switched off. Earl looked up, and now noticed the outline of a limp hand hanging over the lip at the top of the windshield. Nervously, and with some effort thanks to its now partially-crumpled frame, Earl pushed the door open to try and look at the individual on the roof and confirm his suspicions.

A strong hand gripped Earl roughly by the back of the collar and pulled him bodily from the car, tossing him hard onto the wet asphalt of the road. Earl blinked, trying to wipe the rain from his face and get a good look at his attacker; he scrambled to stand, trying to push himself up, but a forceful kick to his elbow sent it bending the wrong way and put him straight back on the ground. He clutched his arm, growling in enraged pain.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you have no idea who you’re fu-”
There was a flash of metal in the streetlight and the crowbar Earl had handed the rookie not even an hour previous came down onto his ribs; Earl felt at least three crack from the impact and growled again.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you-”
This time the crowbar hit his kneecap dead-on, shattering it. The leg would be useless for weeks; he’d never walk on it properly again.

Earl screamed, and there was a crashing sound of glass from the car; through the pain, Earl looked up. The crowbar was lodged through what remained of his windshield.
The light from behind Earl’s head was eclipsed as a great shadow stepped behind him. Earl couldn’t twist to see properly, and he was hazy through the pain and the downpour, but he saw…blackness. A dark figure, with wings and horns and a snarl like a primeval beast, looked over him.

The Bat put a single careful boot on Earl’s wrist.
“You will never hurt another person again. You will never take money from another person again.”
The pressure on Earl’s wrist increased and he groaned, unable to pull himself free.
“You will never push drugs again. You will never rob again.”
Slowly, slowly, more pressure; Earl could feel the small bones grind against each other, the asphalt bite into his skin.
“You will never rape again. You will never kill again. You will hide, and you will think, and you will regret your pathetic life, your sad life, your vicious little life that has been predicated on hurting, and taking, and exploiting, and trafficking, and you will never do any of it again. Because if you do, I will know.”
The Bat pushed down with that last little push that was needed, and a series of short, sharp snaps popped from Earl’s wrist as it was crushed beyond use entirely. The Bat crouched, inches from Earl’s panicked, terrified face, a demon snarling the truths of Hell into his ear.
“And I will come back for you.”

Earl fainted, the pain finally washing him out of consciousness. The Bat stood up, and walked away, disappearing into the night.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

_{#1.01: A Fine Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Oswald Cobblepot stood proud and as tall as his stout, pudgy frame could allow him, his back to the Antarctic Industries boardroom table. The mahogany slab propped up on black iron struts was the closest thing the otherwise starkly-white room got to warm: one wall was a blank white space, barren but for the swirls of paint failing to provide character; the opposite featured a painting similarly devoid of life, some great and terrible acrylic storm of whites and grays that supposedly depicted a vast, frigid tundra; the third wall - the one Oswald was facing now, as he supped whiskey far too expensive for its comparative quality from a glass clutched in his sweaty, stubby fingers - was an edge-to-edge, floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out across the polluted, smog-stained skyline of Gotham City.

Behind him, a cavalcade of portly white men sat around the table smiling and offering each other knowing, self-congratulatory nods and handshakes and dignified chuckles. To the side of the head of the table, offset to Oswald's position but carrying his own air of self-importance and subtle authority, stood the only in-shape man in the room, a thin gentleman with a tidy coif of hair and a pencil mustache. In his right hand he held a thin cigarillo, smoke trailing upwards from the tip, and in his left a tablet, from which he'd just delivered the news they were all patting themselves on the back about: the twelfth consecutive quarter of profit growth against the previous financial year. Warren White - the man holding the tablet, and Antarctic Industries' Chief Financial Officer - was hailed as an industry prodigy and a financial genius, and his tenure on Oswald's executive board certainly lent credence to his reputation. Antarctic was a monolith in Gotham's financial landscape - over the last three years, their already heavy industry presence had only ramped up to monopolistic levels, and the company subsequently now handled the majority of east-coast imports and exports.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham indeed." Cobblepot continued, turning around to raise his glass to the board, who all offered back empty-handed raised arms. Oswald kept only his personal supply in the building, and his subordinates were not permitted to partake. "But a finer day in this very room. Antarctic Industries continues to flourish under my leadership. This company has soared to heights my father never dreamed of! Truly, Antarctic Industries is a titan - and there is still plenty of opportunity for further growth."

Around the table, board members delivered the general murmured buzz of agreement and congratulation, as was expected of them. They were, after all, mostly figureheads, kept on mainly for their ability to stroke Cobblepot's ego. Sure, a couple had actually delivered the so-called 'duties' of their so-called 'job roles', both for Antarctic and other companies before Antarctic - but since the passing of Elijah, Oswald's father, and Oswald's subsequent takeover and revamping of the organization, Antarctic had seen unparalleled growth that was, frankly, ambivalent to their input or lack thereof, and this had only spiked further with Warren White's entry to the company.

Of course, the unspoken catalyst of this massive growth was Oswald's empire as the singular drug kingpin of Gotham, ruling the city from its underbelly as the Penguin. Warren was instrumental as well, utilizing his financial acumen to artfully fold the illicit revenue stream into the company's legal (and public) profits, laundering their own dirty money through little more than carefully managed bank accounts and ledgers. Whether the rest of the board knew or cared was inconsequential; if they knew, they didn't speak of it, and if they cared, they definitely didn't speak of it.

"Cheers to industry, gentlemen." Oswald finished, sneering from beneath his crooked nose in the best approximation of a sincere smile he could manage. "And to another fine day in Gotham City."

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Gotham City Police Department Street Officer James 'Jimmy' Gordon raised his eyebrows in shock as a scrawny man in a ratty hoodie and stained cargo pants spat on his newly-polished shoes as he walked past, hustling away before Jimmy could even muster the energy to be angry, let alone pursue him; a few bystanders who'd seen the act chuckled, and a couple more accelerated their weary, dead-eyed shuffles, lest they be caught up in any incoming retribution. Jimmy looked at his foot, grimacing as the thick, phlegm-speckled wad of saliva slowly dripped down the toe of his shoe.

All of this occurred mere micro-seconds before his partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, reappeared from the bodega Jimmy was currently leaning against, and spouted the bizarre, impromptu statement. Harvey had one hand inside his jacket, squirreling away what Jimmy knew was a small brown envelope of cash, while the other was clutching a thick breakfast sandwich, bacon grease slowly oozing out the sides of the bread and down Harvey's fingers. Jimmy snatched away a paper napkin from Harvey's hand and bent over to wipe off his shoe.

"I don't know that that's ever been true in the history of this city." Jimmy said once he'd stood up, and the two of them crossed the street back to their police cruiser. Harvey was already sinking his yellowing teeth into the sandwich, and yolk and ketchup stained his scruffy, unkempt beard. The two men stood on opposite sides of the car, Jimmy waiting on Harvey to unlock the doors, Harvey leaning on the roof as he polished off the sandwich in three more gargantuan bites. With one last impressive swallow, he took another napkin and wiped his face down.
"See, that's your problem, Gordon. You still haven't fished out the bug that crawled up your ass and died."

Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head. His tidy appearance was almost a perfect mirror of Harvey's half-assed attempt to look presentable; the pressed GCPD uniform cut a fine figure down Jimmy's well-exercised body, with the uniform peaked cap sat neatly atop an orderly, practical haircut and his handsome face accessorized by a pair of stylish-yet-subtle glasses and a trimmed, well-groomed mustache perched over a strong, clean-shaven jawline. Harvey was a dark reflection - street clothes creased and stained from the days he'd been wearing it previous, a wild unshaven beard, and greasy hair that cascaded down his neck from beneath a beat-up and raggedy trilby. The two men could not look more unsuited to pairing if they'd actively tried. Harvey finally shoved the keys into the car door and unlocked the cruiser, and the two men slunk down into their seats almost in unison, the cruiser rocking from side to side as the aging chassis took on their weight.

"That 'bug' is a goddamn moral code, Bullock." Jimmy replied, his voice almost a low growl as he buckled his seatbelt. This time it was Harvey's turn to scoff, shaking his head as he stuck the keys in the ignition and turned, the cruiser's engine sputtering to life and a plume of soot erupting from the exhaust. "And I'll be cold in the ground before I throw that away like the rest of this damn city."
"The way you're going, Jim-bo, you might not have that long a wait ahead of you. A moral code is one thing, but where's your self-preservation instinct?"

At this, Jimmy did actually have to concede Harvey had a point. The engine rumbled as Bullock kicked it into gear and they rolled into a light cruise along Gotham's main avenues, Harvey picking corners seemingly at random; with Harvey's 'pick-ups' done for the day and no one specific incident to respond to, the pair had the morning to simply make sure they would be seen. In this town, police presence was a reminder to pay your dues and keep to your own business. It certainly wasn't so that the community could feel safe and secure.

"No one's got a shit to give about me, Bullock, before you start getting soft on me." Jimmy said, prompting a quick eye-roll from Harvey. "One measly cadet no one likes versus the entire force of the GCPD? I'm so insignificant I don't even count as small-fry."
Harvey nodded sagely, already tuning out from Gordon's self-pitying diatribe. Many hours in this cruiser had been spent discussing the dearth of ethics and principles within the police force and the city at large; Harvey had long consigned himself to the pointlessness of rallying against it, even before his assignment as Jimmy's partner. In a way, Jimmy reminded Harvey of his younger, more idealistic self. He wondered if Jimmy, in turn, saw in him his likely future self.

For his part, Jimmy simply took to staring out the window at the passing city, watching the drunks and addicts stumbling on the pavements, the domestic disputes spilling out of front doors into the streets, the purse-snatchers, extortioners, the over-worked, the living-out-of-their-cars. Every fresh tragedy another counted failure for Gotham as a city.
"After all," he said, his final musing for the morning before resigning to a familiar sullen silence that Harvey far preferred over high-minded moral rhetoric, "what can one man do against an entire city?"

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Mayor Aubrey James, a toad-like, sweaty man, stood at the podium in front of city hall and paused for dramatic effect. In front of him a sea of reporters and members of public office pointed cameras and microphones and held pencils carefully against paper; he took a moment to adjust his too-tight tie against the flabby flesh of his neck that spilled from his collar, and drew a breath to continue.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham City indeed. When the good people of Gotham sensibly voted myself as their elected official to lead this city into new, more prosperous times, I was sworn in with the promise of delivering real, tangible change - no wishy-washy, vague policies that could be hand-waved and delayed." He paused again, clammy hands slipping slightly where they gripped the edges of the podium. He withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and carefully dabbed his forehead. "I promised to bring stability to the economy and new, affordable housing to the people - and look at our great city today. Home-grown, grassroots, Gotham-led companies aren't just stable but thriving, bringing jobs and revenue to the city at levels Gotham has never seen before. The Narrows Restoration Project is well-underway, with a planned 10,000 new homes over the next two years, all with affordable, long-term leases attached."

There was scattered-but-steady applause across the crowd, and Mayor James paused again to allow those scribbling feverishly to catch-up. It had been a strong first year of his term, at least by Gotham Mayor standards, and his office knew that if he delivered in the Narrows, he was a shoo-in for re-election. Even in a city as execrable as Gotham, the Narrows were especially heinous, a buzzing hive of the worst the city and its population had to offer.

"Of course, our work in the Narrows wouldn't be possible without the proper funding, and my platform of unburdening the taxpayer remains steadfast! Gotham's tax-paying citizens already pay for our fine public services, and we cannot expect to maintain the quality of these services if we expect the common men and women of Gotham to fund the Narrows Restoration project as well. To this end, my office has spear-headed a brand new platform of shared funding for public works projects, to allow particular citizens of Gotham to give back to their city."

James gestured to the seated guests to his left, the first of which was a rake-thin, sharp-chinned man dressed impeccably and with a warm smile as he stood and waved, slowly approaching the podium.
"So please, join me in a round of applause as I introduce a close personal friend, William. D. Sommers, who is as passionate about rebuilding our great city as I am!"

James stepped aside, shaking William's hand and leading the crowd in heavy applause as he continued to smile and wave. Reporters within the crowd practically licked their lips; Sommers was a known entity already, a heavy supporter of Mayor James' campaign during the election period, and his company - Hightowers LLC - was already in the public eye due to the recent changeover in leadership. Bill Sommers Sr. had been known to be ill for some time already, and he had finally stepped down from his position and handed the reins to William, his only son and heir to the Sommers empire and industrial fortune. William had started his era at Hightowers strong, introducing new policies and working conditions that had both elevated public opinion of the company and increased revenue for the private market. He was, right now, Gotham's golden child, and Mayor James was eager to milk that popularity for all its poll-improving worth.

William allowed the applause to die down before beginning his address, every eye rapturously fixed upon him.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much to yourselves and my good friend Aubrey for having me here today. Please, let's have another round of applause for Aubrey, and all he's managed to accomplish in only a short twelve months!"
William lead the crowd in another scattering of applause, beaming at Mayor James, who smiled back and played the humble card, a well-practiced series of gestures and facial expressions designed to engineer good faith.

"It's true - I have been graced with this honourable opportunity to give back to the city that has done so much for me and my family. Without the good people of Gotham, Hightowers would still be the mere pipe-dream of my father and his father before him; this great city that has helped us so much deserves to share in that success. So Hightowers is donating generously to the Narrows Restoration project from our own profits - an even split with the taxpayer, straight down the middle. 50/50. So that we can, all of us, contribute to the improvement of the city that we share and love. I for one, can't wait to see Gotham usher in a new golden age for the city, and I can't wait to help every step of the way!"

The applause went up again, and cameras flashed and popped as Aubrey came to stood next to William, the two holding a strong handshake and a smiling pose toward the reporters. The Narrows Restoration project was well and truly funded, with minimal impact on the common citizens of Gotham. That Hightowers LLC had been awarded, through one shell company or another, every public and private contract for every aspect of the project wasn't mentioned, nor would it be, and neither was the fact that as a result, Hightowers' generous contribution went straight back into its own pocket, straight alongside the taxpayer-funded half.

William smiled, all teeth, eyes sparkling with something other than philanthropic pride. Aubrey smiled, thin lips, sweaty forehead, eyes squinting in the afternoon sun and hiding a nervous trepidation about who'd actually been elected mayor last year.

Roman's Scrapbin

_{#1.01: A Fine Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Oswald Cobblepot stood proud and as tall as his stout, pudgy frame could allow him, his back to the Antarctic Industries boardroom table. The mahogany slab propped up on black iron struts was the closest thing the otherwise starkly-white room got to warm: one wall was a blank white space, barren but for the swirls of paint failing to provide character; the opposite featured a painting similarly devoid of life, some great and terrible acrylic storm of whites and grays that supposedly depicted a vast, frigid tundra; the third wall - the one Oswald was facing now, as he supped whiskey far too expensive for its comparative quality from a glass clutched in his sweaty, stubby fingers - was an edge-to-edge, floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out across the polluted, smog-stained skyline of Gotham City.

Behind him, a cavalcade of portly white men sat around the table smiling and offering each other knowing, self-congratulatory nods and handshakes and dignified chuckles. To the side of the head of the table, offset to Oswald's position but carrying his own air of self-importance and subtle authority, stood the only in-shape man in the room, a thin gentleman with a tidy coif of hair and a pencil mustache. In his right hand he held a thin cigarillo, smoke trailing upwards from the tip, and in his left a tablet, from which he'd just delivered the news they were all patting themselves on the back about: the twelfth consecutive quarter of profit growth against the previous financial year. Warren White - the man holding the tablet, and Antarctic Industries' Chief Financial Officer - was hailed as an industry prodigy and a financial genius, and his tenure on Oswald's executive board certainly lent credence to his reputation. Antarctic was a monolith in Gotham's financial landscape - over the last three years, their already heavy industry presence had only ramped up to monopolistic levels, and the company subsequently now handled the majority of east-coast imports and exports.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham indeed." Cobblepot continued, turning around to raise his glass to the board, who all offered back empty-handed raised arms. Oswald kept only his personal supply in the building, and his subordinates were not permitted to partake. "But a finer day in this very room. Antarctic Industries continues to flourish under my leadership. This company has soared to heights my father never dreamed of! Truly, Antarctic Industries is a titan - and there is still plenty of opportunity for further growth."

Around the table, board members delivered the general murmured buzz of agreement and congratulation, as was expected of them. They were, after all, mostly figureheads, kept on mainly for their ability to stroke Cobblepot's ego. Sure, a couple had actually delivered the so-called 'duties' of their so-called 'job roles', both for Antarctic and other companies before Antarctic - but since the passing of Elijah, Oswald's father, and Oswald's subsequent takeover and revamping of the organization, Antarctic had seen unparalleled growth that was, frankly, ambivalent to their input or lack thereof, and this had only spiked further with Warren White's entry to the company.

Of course, the unspoken catalyst of this massive growth was Oswald's empire as the singular drug kingpin of Gotham, ruling the city from its underbelly as the Penguin. Warren was instrumental as well, utilizing his financial acumen to artfully fold the illicit revenue stream into the company's legal (and public) profits, laundering their own dirty money through little more than carefully managed bank accounts and ledgers. Whether the rest of the board knew or cared was inconsequential; if they knew, they didn't speak of it, and if they cared, they definitely didn't speak of it.

"Cheers to industry, gentlemen." Oswald finished, sneering from beneath his crooked nose in the best approximation of a sincere smile he could manage. "And to another fine day in Gotham City."

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Gotham City Police Department Street Officer James 'Jimmy' Gordon raised his eyebrows in shock as a scrawny man in a ratty hoodie and stained cargo pants spat on his newly-polished shoes as he walked past, hustling away before Jimmy could even muster the energy to be angry, let alone pursue him; a few bystanders who'd seen the act chuckled, and a couple more accelerated their weary, dead-eyed shuffles, lest they be caught up in any incoming retribution. Jimmy looked at his foot, grimacing as the thick, phlegm-speckled wad of saliva slowly dripped down the toe of his shoe.

All of this occurred mere micro-seconds before his partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, reappeared from the bodega Jimmy was currently leaning against, and spouted the bizarre, impromptu statement. Harvey had one hand inside his jacket, squirreling away what Jimmy knew was a small brown envelope of cash, while the other was clutching a thick breakfast sandwich, bacon grease slowly oozing out the sides of the bread and down Harvey's fingers. Jimmy snatched away a paper napkin from Harvey's hand and bent over to wipe off his shoe.

"I don't know that that's ever been true in the history of this city." Jimmy said once he'd stood up, and the two of them crossed the street back to their police cruiser. Harvey was already sinking his yellowing teeth into the sandwich, and yolk and ketchup stained his scruffy, unkempt beard. The two men stood on opposite sides of the car, Jimmy waiting on Harvey to unlock the doors, Harvey leaning on the roof as he polished off the sandwich in three more gargantuan bites. With one last impressive swallow, he took another napkin and wiped his face down.
"See, that's your problem, Gordon. You still haven't fished out the bug that crawled up your ass and died."

Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head. His tidy appearance was almost a perfect mirror of Harvey's half-assed attempt to look presentable; the pressed GCPD uniform cut a fine figure down Jimmy's well-exercised body, with the uniform peaked cap sat neatly atop an orderly, practical haircut and his handsome face accessorized by a pair of stylish-yet-subtle glasses and a trimmed, well-groomed mustache perched over a strong, clean-shaven jawline. Harvey was a dark reflection - street clothes creased and stained from the days he'd been wearing it previous, a wild unshaven beard, and greasy hair that cascaded down his neck from beneath a beat-up and raggedy trilby. The two men could not look more unsuited to pairing if they'd actively tried. Harvey finally shoved the keys into the car door and unlocked the cruiser, and the two men slunk down into their seats almost in unison, the cruiser rocking from side to side as the aging chassis took on their weight.

"That 'bug' is a goddamn moral code, Bullock." Jimmy replied, his voice almost a low growl as he buckled his seatbelt. This time it was Harvey's turn to scoff, shaking his head as he stuck the keys in the ignition and turned, the cruiser's engine sputtering to life and a plume of soot erupting from the exhaust. "And I'll be cold in the ground before I throw that away like the rest of this damn city."
"The way you're going, Jim-bo, you might not have that long a wait ahead of you. A moral code is one thing, but where's your self-preservation instinct?"

At this, Jimmy did actually have to concede Harvey had a point. The engine rumbled as Bullock kicked it into gear and they rolled into a light cruise along Gotham's main avenues, Harvey picking corners seemingly at random; with Harvey's 'pick-ups' done for the day and no one specific incident to respond to, the pair had the morning to simply make sure they would be seen. In this town, police presence was a reminder to pay your dues and keep to your own business. It certainly wasn't so that the community could feel safe and secure.

"No one's got a shit to give about me, Bullock, before you start getting soft on me." Jimmy said, prompting a quick eye-roll from Harvey. "One measly cadet no one likes versus the entire force of the GCPD? I'm so insignificant I don't even count as small-fry."
Harvey nodded sagely, already tuning out from Gordon's self-pitying diatribe. Many hours in this cruiser had been spent discussing the dearth of ethics and principles within the police force and the city at large; Harvey had long consigned himself to the pointlessness of rallying against it, even before his assignment as Jimmy's partner. In a way, Jimmy reminded Harvey of his younger, more idealistic self. He wondered if Jimmy, in turn, saw in him his likely future self.

For his part, Jimmy simply took to staring out the window at the passing city, watching the drunks and addicts stumbling on the pavements, the domestic disputes spilling out of front doors into the streets, the purse-snatchers, extortioners, the over-worked, the living-out-of-their-cars. Every fresh tragedy another counted failure for Gotham as a city.
"After all," he said, his final musing for the morning before resigning to a familiar sullen silence that Harvey far preferred over high-minded moral rhetoric, "what can one man do against an entire city?"

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Mayor Aubrey James, a toad-like, sweaty man, stood at the podium in front of city hall and paused for dramatic effect. In front of him a sea of reporters and members of public office pointed cameras and microphones and held pencils carefully against paper; he took a moment to adjust his too-tight tie against the flabby flesh of his neck that spilled from his collar, and drew a breath to continue.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham City indeed. When the good people of Gotham sensibly voted myself as their elected official to lead this city into new, more prosperous times, I was sworn in with the promise of delivering real, tangible change - no wishy-washy, vague policies that could be hand-waved and delayed." He paused again, clammy hands slipping slightly where they gripped the edges of the podium. He withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and carefully dabbed his forehead. "I promised to bring stability to the economy and new, affordable housing to the people - and look at our great city today. Home-grown, grassroots, Gotham-led companies aren't just stable but thriving, bringing jobs and revenue to the city at levels Gotham has never seen before. The Narrows Restoration Project is well-underway, with a planned 10,000 new homes over the next two years, all with affordable, long-term leases attached."

There was scattered-but-steady applause across the crowd, and Mayor James paused again to allow those scribbling feverishly to catch-up. It had been a strong first year of his term, at least by Gotham Mayor standards, and his office knew that if he delivered in the Narrows, he was a shoo-in for re-election. Even in a city as execrable as Gotham, the Narrows were especially heinous, a buzzing hive of the worst the city and its population had to offer.

"Of course, our work in the Narrows wouldn't be possible without the proper funding, and my platform of unburdening the taxpayer remains steadfast! Gotham's tax-paying citizens already pay for our fine public services, and we cannot expect to maintain the quality of these services if we expect the common men and women of Gotham to fund the Narrows Restoration project as well. To this end, my office has spear-headed a brand new platform of shared funding for public works projects, to allow particular citizens of Gotham to give back to their city."

James gestured to the seated guests to his left, the first of which was a rake-thin, sharp-chinned man dressed impeccably and with a warm smile as he stood and waved, slowly approaching the podium.
"So please, join me in a round of applause as I introduce a close personal friend, William. D. Sommers, who is as passionate about rebuilding our great city as I am!"

James stepped aside, shaking William's hand and leading the crowd in heavy applause as he continued to smile and wave. Reporters within the crowd practically licked their lips; Sommers was a known entity already, a heavy supporter of Mayor James' campaign during the election period, and his company - Hightowers LLC - was already in the public eye due to the recent changeover in leadership. Bill Sommers Sr. had been known to be ill for some time already, and he had finally stepped down from his position and handed the reins to William, his only son and heir to the Sommers empire and industrial fortune. William had started his era at Hightowers strong, introducing new policies and working conditions that had both elevated public opinion of the company and increased revenue for the private market. He was, right now, Gotham's golden child, and Mayor James was eager to milk that popularity for all its poll-improving worth.

William allowed the applause to die down before beginning his address, every eye rapturously fixed upon him.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much to yourselves and my good friend Aubrey for having me here today. Please, let's have another round of applause for Aubrey, and all he's managed to accomplish in only a short twelve months!"
William lead the crowd in another scattering of applause, beaming at Mayor James, who smiled back and played the humble card, a well-practiced series of gestures and facial expressions designed to engineer good faith.

"It's true - I have been graced with this honourable opportunity to give back to the city that has done so much for me and my family. Without the good people of Gotham, Hightowers would still be the mere pipe-dream of my father and his father before him; this great city that has helped us so much deserves to share in that success. So Hightowers is donating generously to the Narrows Restoration project from our own profits - an even split with the taxpayer, straight down the middle. 50/50. So that we can, all of us, contribute to the improvement of the city that we share and love. I for one, can't wait to see Gotham usher in a new golden age for the city, and I can't wait to help every step of the way!"

The applause went up again, and cameras flashed and popped as Aubrey came to stood next to William, the two holding a strong handshake and a smiling pose toward the reporters. The Narrows Restoration project was well and truly funded, with minimal impact on the common citizens of Gotham. That Hightowers LLC had been awarded, through one shell company or another, every public and private contract for every aspect of the project wasn't mentioned, nor would it be, and neither was the fact that as a result, Hightowers' generous contribution went straight back into its own pocket, straight alongside the taxpayer-funded half.

William smiled, all teeth, eyes sparkling with something other than philanthropic pride. Aubrey smiled, thin lips, sweaty forehead, eyes squinting in the afternoon sun and hiding a nervous trepidation about who'd actually been elected mayor last year.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

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 _________________________________________________________ The Batman _________________________________________________________ Vigilante | Independent _________________________________________________________ Earth-93913003 | Open (with consultation) 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 _________________________________________________________ [+] - S U P P O R T I N G C A S T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► GCPD Personnel James 'Jimmy' Gordon is a young and naive beat cop who joined the force out of a genuine desire to do good and help his community, but quickly found the internal corruption to be beyond the scope of his comprehension. Perhaps the only honest cop on the force, he has yet to be fired or killed simply because he's so insignificant and isolated in his ethos that he poses no threat to the status quo whatsoever. Detective Harvey Bullock is an older GCPD member and Jimmy's partner/babysitter. He's been around a while and is subsequently jaded and cynical; a general asshole and as bought-and-paid-for as anyone else on the force, but not actively malevolent compared to some of his colleagues. Detective Renee Montoya is a skilled detective often denied the ability to utilise her talent. She's happy to take the money when it's offered, but remains frustrated with the GCPD - though this is simply out of boredom and sheer stifled ambition. Senior Detective Crispus Allen is Renee's partner and a 'company man' through-and-through. He likes Renee and sees potential in her, but wishes she'd wise up to how to actually make waves and climb the ranks within the force. Dr. Leslie Thompkins is the GCPD's resident pathologist and coroner, who's bought off on certain cases but otherwise considered relatively unimportant, as her reports are easily amended after-the-fact to suit any story being spun. She's weary and displeased by the state of the force and the city at large, but has been around long enough to know that accepting payments and allowing her reports to be edited keeps her both in her career and, more importantly, alive. Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb is a corrupt, loathsome individual, seeing his position as nothing more than a vehicle to get paid and do whatever he wants with little to no consequence. Quick to toe the line and promote excessive force against those who don't, he is the beating heart of everything wrong with GCPD - it starts at the top and infects its way down. ► Gotham City Public Offices Mayor Aubrey James is a stooge for the major corps that truly run Gotham. He ran on a platform of housing rejuvenation, specifically a refurbishment of the Narrows into brand-new affordable homes, but in truth it would have mattered little what he ran on - the votes were in place long before election day, and James was the perfect tool for Gotham's oligarchs to wield. Gotham Gazette Editor-in-Chief Jack Ryder is semi-legendary within Gotham City for his tenacity and sheer journalistic talent, but one doesn't get as far in news media as he has without knowing exactly how far you can push it and no further. He likes to foster the same kind of daring among his reporters but is well-aware that he and his paper are only allowed to operate as far as the elite class let him - and while he has an amount of leniency in rocking the boat, it's a fine line to capsizing. Gotham Gazette Field Reporter Victoria 'Vicki' Vale is one of the Gazette's best and least-published reporters. Kept on by Jack out of journalistic integrity, Vicki's articles nonetheless are often vetoed in the edit room lest they draw ire from those who could quite easily shut the entire organisation down. This far from deters Ms. Vale however, who simply goes at exposing the next scandal or uncovering the next worker exploitation with all the more passion and vigour. ► Gotham City Private Equity Antarctic Industries CEO Oswald Cobblepot is the leading imports, exports, and shipping magnate in Gotham, with his stubby fingerprints gracing nearly every single cargo crate that comes in at, or leaves from, Gotham Harbour. Naturally myriad rumours circulate about what precisely Cobblepot is importing and exporting on any given day, but no official accusations have been (or will be) made, and no investigations have taken place (nor will they). Antarctic Industries CFO Warren White is Cobblepot's right-hand man and guardian of Antarctic Industries' bottom line. A man with few scruples, he's a record-setter for year-on-year revenue growth, hailed as a financial genius and a pioneer of pushing profit margins to new heights; few, if any, have actually dared to ask him how he manages it, however. Sionis Industrial & Janus Cosmetics CEO Roman Sionis is a young playboy who's inherited his father's and mother's companies respectively after a tragic accident that took both their lives, leaving him a fortune and very little clue what to do with it. Currently seeming to mostly be indulging his every whim - surely to assuage himself of the mountainous grief bore upon his shoulders - his board of directors are, for now, content to keep the company business-as-usual in the meantime, although whispers of doubt about his leadership are already rippling through both organisations. Félin-Bijou Founder and Lead Jeweller Selina Kyle is perhaps the only remaining self-made millionaire in Gotham City, a wildly-talented designer and entrepeneur who found success in an independent line of high-end jewellery that caught the eye of a Gotham baroness that propelled her pop-up shop to an aristocratic boutique. While happy with her massive success, Selina is interminably bored with the company she is forced to keep, and finds herself pining for excitement. Hightowers LLC CEO William D. Sommers is the new head of Hightowers LLC, an industry-spanning company with a finger in nearly every pie, from construction to shipping to R&D to real estate. William has stepped in after his father, Bill Sommers Sr., was advised to retire by his medical team due to his snowballing physical decline. William is an ambitious man, and with the Sommers name having a vast legacy in Gotham, he seems set to elevate Hightowers LLC and his family name to new heights. Hightowers LLC COO Victor Zsasz is the single change in the board of directors William has made since the start of his tenure leading Hightowers LLC. Half COO, half William's personal aide, he is a cunning, ruthless man with a guileful business acumen and a steadfast determination to do what's necessary for success. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ #1.01: A Fine Day ◼ #1.02: The Bat ◼ #1.03: Slow News Day ◼ #1.04: Dottle -

W H A T I F...? W H A T I F...? ________________________________________________________________________________________ What If... the Waynes never came to power in Gotham? Gotham's corruption, unstymied as the Wayne family's generations of community support and philanthropy now never came to pass, runs rampant through the infrastructure of the city and taints every facet of its nervous system. With no Waynes, other powerful families were allowed to rise in their stead, plugging the wealth gap; the Cobblepots, the Arkhams, the Sionis', the Sommers. With such powerful lineage in place without even a shred of the conscience the Waynes had, there was never a need for the Falcone and Maroni mafias, and no power vacuum for the mob to seize. Gotham's ignoble royalty were crime families, baking corruption and villainy into the very foundations of the city. Eventually, even with no Bruce Wayne, something had to push back. Roaring from seemingly the nine hells themselves comes The Batman, a force of nature visited upon the city itself. No Wayne fortune, no vengeful prince of Gotham, no loyal butler or tech industry magnate backing - simply one man, one intrinsically unknowable man, forged out of societal imbalance, righteous fury, and ceaseless brutality. With nothing more than tenacity, resourcefulness, and ferocity by his side, he strikes back at the city that has been content to exploit the common man for every last inch of their soul since its conception, and push Gotham City, kicking and screaming and thrashing all the way, into a better future for all, toppling every Fortune 500 giant along the way. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ A true Year Zero for The Batman, he appears in Gotham apparently overnight and begins a brutal campaign against the criminal elements of the city; but while at first the police appear complacent to let him have his fun doing their 'jobs' for them, heads soon turn when it becomes apparent this new vigilante is waging a war on white-collar crime just as fierce as that on violence and gang-banging. Making quick enemies of powerful people, The Batman becomes GCPD's number one priority, and finds himself contending with the 'boys in blue' and the ruling corporations of Gotham as just more gangs that need putting down. Naturally, as The Batman wages his war, power balances will shift, and the face of Gotham City will change forever.

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Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

As my first job as Co-GM I am stepping down as Co-GM.

@Sep

A hard choice to make but the right thing to do under the circumstances.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

<Snipped quote by Hound55>

So I totally read that as "Whore Man" and I do not regret it

@PatientBean

So many sheets these days are blatant self-inserts.