Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

Entroponetic crosstalk

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

If the dialogue/general post is preachy, corny, or just plain shit,

Please,

be nice about it when you tell me.

_{But do tell me.}

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

_{#1.04: Dottle}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Jimmy paused as he slid his key into the front door of his flat, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. As one hand turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, the other tugged at the tie around his neck, removing it in a practiced motion as he crossed the threshold into his home. The smells hit him first; lingering aromas from the evening's dinner he'd missed, the slight mustiness of the worn-out AC unit in the window, the dampness of the last few days' rain that still loitered on the coats hung on the wall. Jimmy slid into the small chair next to the door and started unlacing his boots.

"James? Is that you?"
Barbara Kean’s voice, soft and quiet, cut through Jimmy’s short-lived fugue and brought him back to the flat; he pulled off his other boot just as his fiancée appeared around the corner from the den. She leaned against the wall, and Jimmy couldn’t - wouldn’t want to - suppress a smile as he looked at her, drinking the sight of her in to ferry away what he saw of Gotham every day on his beat. She was a vision in pyjamas, wearing some navy sweatpants and one of Jimmy’s academy hoodies, simple grey cotton with the GCPD logo on the breast. Her hair was a stunning orange in a wavy bob-cut; her eyes a bright and glittering green; her face a map of freckles that Jimmy still counted in order to fall asleep. She was intelligent - having surpassed Jimmy academically at every step of their relationship - and funny, and vivacious, and optimistic in a way Jimmy aspired to in his work and ethos. Jimmy had no idea how he’d landed her, or how he continued to hold onto her - and, quite frankly, was smart enough not to question it, lest she catch on and go find the better man she was sorely capable of getting.

“Yeah Barb, it’s me.” Jimmy replied, smiling warmly as he stood and moved to pull Barbara into a tight embrace. She reciprocated, burying her face in his shoulder as they wrapped arms about each other, and then simultaneously pulled their heads back to kiss. “How was your day, hon’?”
“It was fine.” Barbara answered, giving Jimmy one last squeeze before they broke apart, and holding onto his hand as they moved into the den where the television was playing quietly, the soft white glow illuminating the modest room. “The kids can’t stop talking about this Bat-Man. I guess it all sounds like comic-book superheroes to them.”
Jimmy chuckled, thinking about his own off-the-books investigation, no better than a few printed Gazette articles, blogposts, and notes taken from Reddit posts, tucked into a manila folder and hidden in a locked desk drawer. With the way everyone seemed to talk about him, he was hardly surprised Barbara’s schoolkids - mostly nine- and ten-year-olds, maybe one eleven-year-old proudly the class’ elder - had captured this mythological figure in their fanciful imaginations as some kind of caped crusader against their Saturday-morning villains.

“I think it’d all be a lot simpler if he were a comic-book character, Barb. GCPD hasn’t a clue what to make of the guy. Pretty sure half the department isn’t even convinced he exists.”
Barbara smiled, sitting back down on the sofa and pulling her legs into her, retrieving a mug from the sidetable. Jimmy could smell the herbal fragrance of the tea and couldn’t help wrinkling his nose.
“There’s leftovers for you, top shelf of the fridge. I made meatloaf.” She said, pointing over her shoulder at the kitchenette on the back wall of the den without looking away from her telenovela. James kissed her from behind on the top of her scalp in thanks, and moved to the fridge in search of dinner and a beer. One quick microwave later, and Jimmy sat at the small, two-person table eating straight from the Tupperware, sipping from a stubby, and watching the television over Barbara’s shoulder.

“What do you think about him?” Barbara asked, after about fifteen minutes of silent contemplation while she listened to Jimmy chew. Jimmy swallowed his last bite and took another sip of his beer before wiping his moustache with a sheet of kitchen towel.
“I think he was a damn fool to cheat on her. And with her own sister! No way she won’t be able to figure it out.”
Barbara laughed and spun around, hanging over the back of the sofa and resting her head on her forearms as she looked Jimmy in the eye.
“No, not the show - the Bat. What do you think about the Bat?”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms together and tucking his hands beneath his armpits. He frowned thoughtfully, his expression one of true cogitation.
“I think he’s out there. I think he’s resourceful. I think he’s tactically intelligent, if not just plain straight-forward intelligent. I think he’s got some kind of plan, not just stopping a couple muggers here and there. And I think he’s angry, which makes him dangerous. For everybody.” Barbara frowned, and Jimmy put his hands up in pre-emptive surrender as he finished his thoughts. “But I think... he has good intentions. But you know what they say about those.”

Barbara nodded, turning back around.
"I think he's finally doing what we all want to do in this city." She said, with such a solemn matter-of-factness that Jimmy was momentarily convinced she herself could be the vigilante.
"Which is?" Jimmy probed, standing up to wash his plate and cutlery in the sink.
"Fight back."
Jimmy nodded, and let the matter settle there.

There were a few soft burbles from the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, and Jimmy and Barbara caught each other's gaze.
"I put her down a couple hours ago. I'm surprised she didn't wake when you came in."
The burbles continued before raising in volume, becoming groans and whines.
"She probably needs changing. I'll get her."
"Be my guest," Barbara said, smiling and turning back to the TV as Jimmy moved to the bedroom, "those diapers have been foul since she switched to solids."

Jimmy left the den and gently pushed open the door to the bedroom; the double-bed dominated most of the room, with a built-into-the-wall wardrobe on Barbara's side and a standalone wardrobe pushed against the wall on Jimmy's side. At the foot of the bed was a crib, and in the crib was Jimmy's daughter, Barbara Gordon. She thrashed her little limbs in her onesie, her blanket now a muddled ball in the corner of the crib; as Jimmy crossed the room and appeared into view, his daughter babbled and giggled, reaching up towards his face, the endearing noises and movements punctuated by a few wet farts and a distinct odour.
"Hello, trouble." Jimmy said, and Babs cooed softly in response.

Jimmy smiled back and picked Babs up, holding her beneath her armpits as he carried her to the bathroom and laid her gently on the pop-up table, purchased for its incredible one-hand-only ease-of-use. Babs pawed her pudgy fingers at her father's face as they went, grazing his moustache and nose, trying to take tiny fistfuls of both; Jimmy made a game of weaving in and out of her grasp, the pair of them grinning and cooing, until she finally managed to seize a few strands in her infant grip, and Jimmy let out a low yelp as she tugged. Gently, carefully, he pried her fingers off his facial hair, and set about the task of changing her. Barb hadn't been lying; the contents were indeed foul.

She had the hair of her mother - the wisps were starting to come through in the vibrant ginger that adorned Barbara Sr. - but her eyes were the cool storm-gray of her father, and while her nose was still mostly the smushed-button styling of a newborn, Jimmy suspected he'd lent her that feature as well.
"Let's just hope you got mom's smarts." He said softly, fastening the new diaper and pulling her into a cuddle against his shoulder.

To say Jimmy and Barbara's engagement had been something of a shotgun proposal would be to betray the deep, devoted affection they each held for each other; but that's not to say Barbara's unplanned pregnancy hadn't played its own part on Jimmy's decision. Ideally, they'd have been married by now - but finances were tight already, and when Barbara's father, Everett Kean, died suddenly last year, what they'd managed to save for a wedding was instead spent on funeral expenses. Ultimately, the promise and the desire remained, but the financial situation to support it wasn't quite in the right place. Jimmy unconsciously rubbed his engagement band, a forlorn feeling bubbling up inside him, a disappointment in himself for being unable to provide.

Babs snored softly on his shoulder and Jimmy came back. She'd fallen back to sleep, and he crept back to the bedroom to replace her in the crib before sneaking out - leaving the door slightly ajar just-so - and returning to the den. Barbara looked around at him.
"Changed her and she fell straight back to sleep. What a life." He remarked, and Barbara chuckled. Her show had ended, and the television was now playing some generic late-night chat-show crap. Jimmy predicted Barbara herself would nod off within minutes. He went to the front door and fished around in his coat pockets for-
"Don't light that in here, James." Came the stern words from Barbara, who knew exactly where Jimmy's mind had gone. "You stand out on the fire escape if you're going to smoke."
"Yes, hon'." He answered dutifully, finally seizing his own late father's pipe from one coat pocket and his tobacco and book of matches from the other. He planted another kiss on Barbara as he passed back through the den - she wouldn't let him after he smoked - and climbed over the kitchen counter and out the window onto the fire escape, rusted metal creaking under his weight. The cold night air was brisk but felt energizing, and as Jimmy packed his pipe and sparked a match, he felt a sense of relief wash over him as the stresses of the day finally, however infinitesimally, began to melt away.

A knock at the window from inside the flat made him jump, and he and Barbara shared a chuckle as she leaned over the counter through the open window.
"Here-" she passed Jimmy another stubby, "I know that look. Relax a bit." She handed him his coat too; he pulled it over his goose-bump skin and leaned forward for another kiss. Barbara assented, though she pulled a face afterwards, half-mocking. "Smelly. I'm going to bed. Come cuddle when you're done. Love you."
"Love you too, hon'. Sleep well."

---

Jimmy could feel himself nodding off as he sat, reclined, on the soggy lawn chair they kept on the fire escape for these very evenings, when he'd contemplate the world looking down the length of his father's pipe, navel-gazing through the hazy smoke that drifted up from the bowl. He sat up, able to convince himself no longer that he was simply 'resting his eyes', and drained the last of the stubby, before standing and taking a few short steps to the edge of the metal gantry to toss the empty bottle into the dumpster below.

Jimmy froze as he reached the edge and his eyes caught fabric fluttering in the soft night breeze on the fire escape of the building opposite; reflexively, his eyes followed the edge of that fabric up to its source, and Jimmy suddenly felt very cold and very vulnerable. One-up from him, perched on the edge of the gantry, was the Bat-Man of Gotham, staring at him. Neither man said a word for a very long while.

"How long have you been watching me?" Jimmy finally said, feeling like he was breaking out of some kind of spell by speaking aloud. The Bat made no movement, the gentle fluttering of his cape in the wind the only indication he was really there at all.
"I followed you home. Listened in on your evening. Had to make sure."
"I'd have seen you." Jimmy lied.
"You did. You just didn't recognize me."
"Is that the reason for the getup? So you don't get recognized?"
"No. The suit is so I do. So I can be what I need to be."
"A maniac?"
"A symbol."

Jimmy paused. He had no idea, of the hundreds of emotions swirling within him, which should guide him in this moment. He had no weapon, no cuffs, and even if he did, what was he supposed to do? Leap the gap between the buildings and chase this vigilante up rusty metal ladders? What if he caught him, then what? Charge him with what? Take him to the station and stick him in a holding pen? Would a jury convict him? Would he even get as far as a courtroom, or would Jimmy find himself losing that bet with Harvey?

"Don't hurt my family." Jimmy said softly, settling on a course of action: to protect his loved ones.
"I'm not here for them. Or for you. I'm here to talk, to the only man in the GCPD who'd listen."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow, undeniably curious and almost, in a way, flattered. There was a presence about the Bat, and even now, in the midst of what was ostensibly just a surprise conversation between an off-duty cop and a lunatic, it felt like something far grander was at play.
"I get it. Trying to get the only good cop on your si-"
"You're not a good cop." The Bat interrupted, and only shock prevented Jimmy's anger from rising up to strike back. "You might think you are. You might think, because you don't take bribes, you don't collect racket money, you don't shake down Gotham's citizens for protection, you're the last good cop in Gotham City. But you're wrong."

Jimmy stuttered, his hand trembling as he held out his pipe like a accusatory finger, fumbling for a response.
"How many mob fronts has your partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, picked up cash from this week? How many times this month have you, in your cruiser, passed someone getting beaten, because the paperwork wasn't worth it? How many incidents of racism, sexism, homophobia, have you heard, witnessed, silently participated in, today? How many beat cops, your peers, your colleagues, the people you graduated the academy with, do you know - know - have killed someone?"
Jimmy lowered his arm, his head hanging low.
"And what have you done about it?"
_"Nothing."
"Because you can't. You can't lodge a complaint, or raise a report, you can't even correct them in conversation. Because at best, you'll lose your job, and at worst, you'll run foul of the wrong cop and lose your life. So what was your plan? Change the system from the inside? Be the one good example that no one else would follow? You might not participate - but you're still complicit. And to change the system, the system has to want to change. You're nobody. You're just one man, shouting silently into oblivion, waiting to be swallowed up."

Jimmy breathed deep, lashed by the truth in the words. He stared down at the alley beneath them, before tossing his empty bottle off the edge of the fire escape, watching it sail silently through the night air before landing in the dumpster down below.
"So you just came here to put me down, remind me how pointless everything is? What about you? You're just running around in a costume, beating up a few thugs. They go to the hospital for a couple days - they don't even make it to jail - they rest up a week or two - then they're back on the streets for, what, you to beat them up again and hope it sticks this time?
"No. I came to remind you why you ever joined the GCPD in the first place. That spark of hope - that's what the city has forgotten. That's what you need to hold onto. That's what I can be, more than just a man. And I came to ask for your help. You're not a good cop. But you're the best one the city has. And I will need you on my side."
"Why? Why now?"
"Because everything is about to change. I've got my own plans - plans I can't tell you about, plans I've been following - and now, I'm on the brink of everything. Gotham will change overnight."
"How."
"Because tonight, I'm going after a cop. And when I bring the entire GCPD down on my head, I need to know there's one cop - just one - on my side. A single cop that I - that the city - can trust."

Jimmy rubbed his eyes, rattled by the conversation, feeling like he'd had some veil ripped from his vision and a deep, stark truth laid bare before him. But there was also a sense of inevitability - like it had all been leading to this, like it was always going to have been leading to this - and he felt like denying it, here and now, would forever cast him into the abyss he'd been running from his whole life.

"Y'know, I was never much of a smoker, before my father died. He loved his pipe - when I was a kid, real little, I used to think it was some kind of tusk, like a elephant's, that's how often he was pulling on it. 'Course, I grew up, realized what it was, and then I hated him for it. He got the warning signs real early, too early, the coughing, the breathing trouble, the fatigue, but he kept right on smoking. I just thought, why was he doing it to himself? Why was he doing it to us? Didn't he know it was killing him, that he'd die too young, that he wouldn't get to see us grow up, get married, have kids? He'd never dance with my wife, never tell my daughter stories, never give...never give me advice on how to be a husband, or a father, or even a goddamn cop?"
Jimmy wrinkled his nose, his eyes stinging. He staunchly refused to cry, but it didn't seem to matter.
"About a year after I graduated the academy, I witnessed my first homicide, right in front of me. Senior detective. Shaking down this young...young man. A kid. He'd been asked to do a job, a nasty job, and he'd refused, so we were sent to teach him a lesson. Kid was fiery, strong. But stupid. The detective was a vile man, but he knew the right people, accepted the right bribes, so he was safe. He shot that kid right in the face, point-blank. Then he pointed the gun at me, gave me my story."
Jimmy held the pipe in his palms, staring at it. Tears dripped onto the lacquered wood.
"I picked tiny little fragments of that kid's skull out of my face in the station bathroom. And that night, I bought a pack of tobacco, and lit my old man's pipe when I got home. Had to lie to Barb that I'd picked up a smokes habit in the cruiser and was trying to cut down with the pipe instead. She still doesn't know why I started. But that time, alone, smoking...it helped. Helped me collect myself. Helped me separate being a cop from being a human being. I think my dad probably had a similar story. The rate he smoked, he probably had a couple hundred."

The pipe tumbled out of Jimmy's hands, falling down to the street. It missed the dumpster, and cracked in half on the concrete beneath them. Jimmy watched it all the way down.
"I'm in." He said, looking back up at his new partner.

The Bat-Man had disappeared. Jimmy nodded, sniffing, feeling a strong conviction in his fresh alliance. He climbed back into the flat, closing the window gently behind him, and went to be with his family.

Roman's Scrapbin

_{#1.04: Dottle}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Jimmy paused as he slid his key into the front door of his flat, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. As one hand turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, the other tugged at the tie around his neck, removing it in a practiced motion as he crossed the threshold into his home. The smells hit him first; lingering aromas from the evening's dinner he'd missed, the slight mustiness of the worn-out AC unit in the window, the dampness of the last few days' rain that still loitered on the coats hung on the wall. Jimmy slid into the small chair next to the door and started unlacing his boots.

"James? Is that you?"
Barbara Kean’s voice, soft and quiet, cut through Jimmy’s short-lived fugue and brought him back to the flat; he pulled off his other boot just as his fiancée appeared around the corner from the den. She leaned against the wall, and Jimmy couldn’t - wouldn’t want to - suppress a smile as he looked at her, drinking the sight of her in to ferry away what he saw of Gotham every day on his beat. She was a vision in pyjamas, wearing some navy sweatpants and one of Jimmy’s academy hoodies, simple grey cotton with the GCPD logo on the breast. Her hair was a stunning orange in a wavy bob-cut; her eyes a bright and glittering green; her face a map of freckles that Jimmy still counted in order to fall asleep. She was intelligent - having surpassed Jimmy academically at every step of their relationship - and funny, and vivacious, and optimistic in a way Jimmy aspired to in his work and ethos. Jimmy had no idea how he’d landed her, or how he continued to hold onto her - and, quite frankly, was smart enough not to question it, lest she catch on and go find the better man she was sorely capable of getting.

“Yeah Barb, it’s me.” Jimmy replied, smiling warmly as he stood and moved to pull Barbara into a tight embrace. She reciprocated, burying her face in his shoulder as they wrapped arms about each other, and then simultaneously pulled their heads back to kiss. “How was your day, hon’?”
“It was fine.” Barbara answered, giving Jimmy one last squeeze before they broke apart, and holding onto his hand as they moved into the den where the television was playing quietly, the soft white glow illuminating the modest room. “The kids can’t stop talking about this Bat-Man. I guess it all sounds like comic-book superheroes to them.”
Jimmy chuckled, thinking about his own off-the-books investigation, no better than a few printed Gazette articles, blogposts, and notes taken from Reddit posts, tucked into a manila folder and hidden in a locked desk drawer. With the way everyone seemed to talk about him, he was hardly surprised Barbara’s schoolkids - mostly nine- and ten-year-olds, maybe one eleven-year-old proudly the class’ elder - had captured this mythological figure in their fanciful imaginations as some kind of caped crusader against their Saturday-morning villains.

“I think it’d all be a lot simpler if he were a comic-book character, Barb. GCPD hasn’t a clue what to make of the guy. Pretty sure half the department isn’t even convinced he exists.”
Barbara smiled, sitting back down on the sofa and pulling her legs into her, retrieving a mug from the sidetable. Jimmy could smell the herbal fragrance of the tea and couldn’t help wrinkling his nose.
“There’s leftovers for you, top shelf of the fridge. I made meatloaf.” She said, pointing over her shoulder at the kitchenette on the back wall of the den without looking away from her telenovela. James kissed her from behind on the top of her scalp in thanks, and moved to the fridge in search of dinner and a beer. One quick microwave later, and Jimmy sat at the small, two-person table eating straight from the Tupperware, sipping from a stubby, and watching the television over Barbara’s shoulder.

“What do you think about him?” Barbara asked, after about fifteen minutes of silent contemplation while she listened to Jimmy chew. Jimmy swallowed his last bite and took another sip of his beer before wiping his moustache with a sheet of kitchen towel.
“I think he was a damn fool to cheat on her. And with her own sister! No way she won’t be able to figure it out.”
Barbara laughed and spun around, hanging over the back of the sofa and resting her head on her forearms as she looked Jimmy in the eye.
“No, not the show - the Bat. What do you think about the Bat?”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms together and tucking his hands beneath his armpits. He frowned thoughtfully, his expression one of true cogitation.
“I think he’s out there. I think he’s resourceful. I think he’s tactically intelligent, if not just plain straight-forward intelligent. I think he’s got some kind of plan, not just stopping a couple muggers here and there. And I think he’s angry, which makes him dangerous. For everybody.” Barbara frowned, and Jimmy put his hands up in pre-emptive surrender as he finished his thoughts. “But I think... he has good intentions. But you know what they say about those.”

Barbara nodded, turning back around.
"I think he's finally doing what we all want to do in this city." She said, with such a solemn matter-of-factness that Jimmy was momentarily convinced she herself could be the vigilante.
"Which is?" Jimmy probed, standing up to wash his plate and cutlery in the sink.
"Fight back."
Jimmy nodded, and let the matter settle there.

There were a few soft burbles from the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, and Jimmy and Barbara caught each other's gaze.
"I put her down a couple hours ago. I'm surprised she didn't wake when you came in."
The burbles continued before raising in volume, becoming groans and whines.
"She probably needs changing. I'll get her."
"Be my guest," Barbara said, smiling and turning back to the TV as Jimmy moved to the bedroom, "those diapers have been foul since she switched to solids."

Jimmy left the den and gently pushed open the door to the bedroom; the double-bed dominated most of the room, with a built-into-the-wall wardrobe on Barbara's side and a standalone wardrobe pushed against the wall on Jimmy's side. At the foot of the bed was a crib, and in the crib was Jimmy's daughter, Barbara Gordon. She thrashed her little limbs in her onesie, her blanket now a muddled ball in the corner of the crib; as Jimmy crossed the room and appeared into view, his daughter babbled and giggled, reaching up towards his face, the endearing noises and movements punctuated by a few wet farts and a distinct odour.
"Hello, trouble." Jimmy said, and Babs cooed softly in response.

Jimmy smiled back and picked Babs up, holding her beneath her armpits as he carried her to the bathroom and laid her gently on the pop-up table, purchased for its incredible one-hand-only ease-of-use. Babs pawed her pudgy fingers at her father's face as they went, grazing his moustache and nose, trying to take tiny fistfuls of both; Jimmy made a game of weaving in and out of her grasp, the pair of them grinning and cooing, until she finally managed to seize a few strands in her infant grip, and Jimmy let out a low yelp as she tugged. Gently, carefully, he pried her fingers off his facial hair, and set about the task of changing her. Barb hadn't been lying; the contents were indeed foul.

She had the hair of her mother - the wisps were starting to come through in the vibrant ginger that adorned Barbara Sr. - but her eyes were the cool storm-gray of her father, and while her nose was still mostly the smushed-button styling of a newborn, Jimmy suspected he'd lent her that feature as well.
"Let's just hope you got mom's smarts." He said softly, fastening the new diaper and pulling her into a cuddle against his shoulder.

To say Jimmy and Barbara's engagement had been something of a shotgun proposal would be to betray the deep, devoted affection they each held for each other; but that's not to say Barbara's unplanned pregnancy hadn't played its own part on Jimmy's decision. Ideally, they'd have been married by now - but finances were tight already, and when Barbara's father, Everett Kean, died suddenly last year, what they'd managed to save for a wedding was instead spent on funeral expenses. Ultimately, the promise and the desire remained, but the financial situation to support it wasn't quite in the right place. Jimmy unconsciously rubbed his engagement band, a forlorn feeling bubbling up inside him, a disappointment in himself for being unable to provide.

Babs snored softly on his shoulder and Jimmy came back. She'd fallen back to sleep, and he crept back to the bedroom to replace her in the crib before sneaking out - leaving the door slightly ajar just-so - and returning to the den. Barbara looked around at him.
"Changed her and she fell straight back to sleep. What a life." He remarked, and Barbara chuckled. Her show had ended, and the television was now playing some generic late-night chat-show crap. Jimmy predicted Barbara herself would nod off within minutes. He went to the front door and fished around in his coat pockets for-
"Don't light that in here, James." Came the stern words from Barbara, who knew exactly where Jimmy's mind had gone. "You stand out on the fire escape if you're going to smoke."
"Yes, hon'." He answered dutifully, finally seizing his own late father's pipe from one coat pocket and his tobacco and book of matches from the other. He planted another kiss on Barbara as he passed back through the den - she wouldn't let him after he smoked - and climbed over the kitchen counter and out the window onto the fire escape, rusted metal creaking under his weight. The cold night air was brisk but felt energizing, and as Jimmy packed his pipe and sparked a match, he felt a sense of relief wash over him as the stresses of the day finally, however infinitesimally, began to melt away.

A knock at the window from inside the flat made him jump, and he and Barbara shared a chuckle as she leaned over the counter through the open window.
"Here-" she passed Jimmy another stubby, "I know that look. Relax a bit." She handed him his coat too; he pulled it over his goose-bump skin and leaned forward for another kiss. Barbara assented, though she pulled a face afterwards, half-mocking. "Smelly. I'm going to bed. Come cuddle when you're done. Love you."
"Love you too, hon'. Sleep well."

---

Jimmy could feel himself nodding off as he sat, reclined, on the soggy lawn chair they kept on the fire escape for these very evenings, when he'd contemplate the world looking down the length of his father's pipe, navel-gazing through the hazy smoke that drifted up from the bowl. He sat up, able to convince himself no longer that he was simply 'resting his eyes', and drained the last of the stubby, before standing and taking a few short steps to the edge of the metal gantry to toss the empty bottle into the dumpster below.

Jimmy froze as he reached the edge and his eyes caught fabric fluttering in the soft night breeze on the fire escape of the building opposite; reflexively, his eyes followed the edge of that fabric up to its source, and Jimmy suddenly felt very cold and very vulnerable. One-up from him, perched on the edge of the gantry, was the Bat-Man of Gotham, staring at him. Neither man said a word for a very long while.

"How long have you been watching me?" Jimmy finally said, feeling like he was breaking out of some kind of spell by speaking aloud. The Bat made no movement, the gentle fluttering of his cape in the wind the only indication he was really there at all.
"I followed you home. Listened in on your evening. Had to make sure."
"I'd have seen you." Jimmy lied.
"You did. You just didn't recognize me."
"Is that the reason for the getup? So you don't get recognized?"
"No. The suit is so I do. So I can be what I need to be."
"A maniac?"
"A symbol."

Jimmy paused. He had no idea, of the hundreds of emotions swirling within him, which should guide him in this moment. He had no weapon, no cuffs, and even if he did, what was he supposed to do? Leap the gap between the buildings and chase this vigilante up rusty metal ladders? What if he caught him, then what? Charge him with what? Take him to the station and stick him in a holding pen? Would a jury convict him? Would he even get as far as a courtroom, or would Jimmy find himself losing that bet with Harvey?

"Don't hurt my family." Jimmy said softly, settling on a course of action: to protect his loved ones.
"I'm not here for them. Or for you. I'm here to talk, to the only man in the GCPD who'd listen."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow, undeniably curious and almost, in a way, flattered. There was a presence about the Bat, and even now, in the midst of what was ostensibly just a surprise conversation between an off-duty cop and a lunatic, it felt like something far grander was at play.
"I get it. Trying to get the only good cop on your si-"
"You're not a good cop." The Bat interrupted, and only shock prevented Jimmy's anger from rising up to strike back. "You might think you are. You might think, because you don't take bribes, you don't collect racket money, you don't shake down Gotham's citizens for protection, you're the last good cop in Gotham City. But you're wrong."

Jimmy stuttered, his hand trembling as he held out his pipe like a accusatory finger, fumbling for a response.
"How many mob fronts has your partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, picked up cash from this week? How many times this month have you, in your cruiser, passed someone getting beaten, because the paperwork wasn't worth it? How many incidents of racism, sexism, homophobia, have you heard, witnessed, silently participated in, today? How many beat cops, your peers, your colleagues, the people you graduated the academy with, do you know - know - have killed someone?"
Jimmy lowered his arm, his head hanging low.
"And what have you done about it?"
_"Nothing."
"Because you can't. You can't lodge a complaint, or raise a report, you can't even correct them in conversation. Because at best, you'll lose your job, and at worst, you'll run foul of the wrong cop and lose your life. So what was your plan? Change the system from the inside? Be the one good example that no one else would follow? You might not participate - but you're still complicit. And to change the system, the system has to want to change. You're nobody. You're just one man, shouting silently into oblivion, waiting to be swallowed up."

Jimmy breathed deep, lashed by the truth in the words. He stared down at the alley beneath them, before tossing his empty bottle off the edge of the fire escape, watching it sail silently through the night air before landing in the dumpster down below.
"So you just came here to put me down, remind me how pointless everything is? What about you? You're just running around in a costume, beating up a few thugs. They go to the hospital for a couple days - they don't even make it to jail - they rest up a week or two - then they're back on the streets for, what, you to beat them up again and hope it sticks this time?
"No. I came to remind you why you ever joined the GCPD in the first place. That spark of hope - that's what the city has forgotten. That's what you need to hold onto. That's what I can be, more than just a man. And I came to ask for your help. You're not a good cop. But you're the best one the city has. And I will need you on my side."
"Why? Why now?"
"Because everything is about to change. I've got my own plans - plans I can't tell you about, plans I've been following - and now, I'm on the brink of everything. Gotham will change overnight."
"How."
"Because tonight, I'm going after a cop. And when I bring the entire GCPD down on my head, I need to know there's one cop - just one - on my side. A single cop that I - that the city - can trust."

Jimmy rubbed his eyes, rattled by the conversation, feeling like he'd had some veil ripped from his vision and a deep, stark truth laid bare before him. But there was also a sense of inevitability - like it had all been leading to this, like it was always going to have been leading to this - and he felt like denying it, here and now, would forever cast him into the abyss he'd been running from his whole life.

"Y'know, I was never much of a smoker, before my father died. He loved his pipe - when I was a kid, real little, I used to think it was some kind of tusk, like a elephant's, that's how often he was pulling on it. 'Course, I grew up, realized what it was, and then I hated him for it. He got the warning signs real early, too early, the coughing, the breathing trouble, the fatigue, but he kept right on smoking. I just thought, why was he doing it to himself? Why was he doing it to us? Didn't he know it was killing him, that he'd die too young, that he wouldn't get to see us grow up, get married, have kids? He'd never dance with my wife, never tell my daughter stories, never give...never give me advice on how to be a husband, or a father, or even a goddamn cop?"
Jimmy wrinkled his nose, his eyes stinging. He staunchly refused to cry, but it didn't seem to matter.
"About a year after I graduated the academy, I witnessed my first homicide, right in front of me. Senior detective. Shaking down this young...young man. A kid. He'd been asked to do a job, a nasty job, and he'd refused, so we were sent to teach him a lesson. Kid was fiery, strong. But stupid. The detective was a vile man, but he knew the right people, accepted the right bribes, so he was safe. He shot that kid right in the face, point-blank. Then he pointed the gun at me, gave me my story."
Jimmy held the pipe in his palms, staring at it. Tears dripped onto the lacquered wood.
"I picked tiny little fragments of that kid's skull out of my face in the station bathroom. And that night, I bought a pack of tobacco, and lit my old man's pipe when I got home. Had to lie to Barb that I'd picked up a smokes habit in the cruiser and was trying to cut down with the pipe instead. She still doesn't know why I started. But that time, alone, smoking...it helped. Helped me collect myself. Helped me separate being a cop from being a human being. I think my dad probably had a similar story. The rate he smoked, he probably had a couple hundred."

The pipe tumbled out of Jimmy's hands, falling down to the street. It missed the dumpster, and cracked in half on the concrete beneath them. Jimmy watched it all the way down.
"I'm in." He said, looking back up at his new partner.

The Bat-Man had disappeared. Jimmy nodded, sniffing, feeling a strong conviction in his fresh alliance. He climbed back into the flat, closing the window gently behind him, and went to be with his family.

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

---

---

*Artists' Impression, the Bat-Man of Gotham _________________________________________________________		NOBLE HERO OR CRAZED VIGILANTE? Have you seen the Bat-Man of Gotham? Victoria Vale Across Gotham City, reports of sightings and encounters with the mysterious chiropteran assailant supposedly stalking the streets at night continue to flood the desks of GCPD officers, as well as journalists, bloggers, podcasters, and influencers, keeping everyone's eyes on one bewildering mystery: who is this cryptic creature roaming our city? While often un-corroborated and rarely delivered by more than just a single witness, all stories do share a common thread: the prevention of a more serious crime, through the dispensal of profound violence. So far, Gotham's citizens seem to see this 'bat-man' as a dark protector against the seedy underbelly of Gotham City; but if he is indeed simply a man who's had enough - as many reports say he is - is he overstepping as a lone vigilante, disregarding the due process of the law in favor of street-administered 'justice'? Reporters who spoke to staff at both Gotham General and Saint Peter's hospitals confirmed that there has indeed been a rising increase in admissions for fractures, concussions, crush injuries, and similar wounds consistent with blunt-force trauma - but hospital staff are unable to disclose patient history or identity, and GCPD have failed to see an equivalent rise in assault cases. Are these victims of the vigilante too afraid of him to speak out, or is this new trend in hospital admissions simply unrelated, and this 'bat-man' is another invention of Gotham's superstitious citizens, like the ever-popular tale of Grundy-of-the-Marsh, a similar cryptid fairytale from Gotham City's rich history?

One recent would-be victim, MARGARET PAGE, spoke to the Gazette of her close encounter only a few nights ago:

"I was coming home from work late one evening last week - when we had all that dreadful rain - and trying to avoid a flooded street I tried to cross a block over through an alley. Dumb, I know. Obviously there was some thug just waiting for me. It felt like the opening scene in a horror movie, you know? When the lone girl bumps into the monster and gets killed. God, had the wet shirt and stringy hair and everything..."

"Anyway, I guess it was kind of like that, except the thug wasn't the monster. He just appeared so quickly, like he'd just stepped out of the shadows - like he'd just...materialized, you know? And he side-swiped the guy and all I could hear over the rain was just, him beating on this guy, just these dull wet thuds, you know? And then he stood up and he honest-to-god looked like a demon. Those horns, the big wings, claws, all-black, and that brand across his chest...but then he moved and he looked at me and it all changed. He was just a guy, you know? A guy who'd had enough. You could see it in his eyes. He was so scary, but when he looked at me I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He hurt that thug a bit more, sure, I wasn't exactly about to stop him. And then he just...he told me to go home. To save my money. And he just walked off, dragging that thug behind him. And I felt like he was watching me the whole way home. And the funny thing was, I did save my money, because my landlord told me to keep the rent. And I knew that was because of him. He protected me, you know?"

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The Gazette does know; Ms. Page's story mirrors that of many others across the city - a mugging, or a rape, or a robbery, or even a murder, interrupted seemingly out of nowhere by this mysterious costumed assailant. It's little wonder many citizens of Gotham are hailing this stranger as a hero, valiantly defending the vulnerable across the city that the GCPD often forget about. However, not everyone shares the same view of this man as a protector - EARL SKINNER, Ms. Page's aforementioned landlord, came forwards exclusively to the Gazette to share his side of the story: "Guy's a f--king maniac. I was just sitting in my car, trying to wait out the rain, and he completely wrecks the thing - caves the roof in, puts a crowbar through my windshield - and then when I'm getting out to see what the f--k is going on, he pulls me out and starts wailing on me. I have no idea what I did to this guy, but he's left me practically crippled. And then he threatens me that he'll come back to finish the job if I don't pause rent indefinitely for my tenants. Fine, I get it, times are hard - but how am I supposed to maintain eight apartments to a decent standard without any income? I'm just an honest landlord, I don't have an endless font of money. Free housing is a lovely ideal but it's not realistic - if this guy's willing to assault and kill people for some lefty nonsense, none of us are safe. It's just another step towards war by the woke agenda." While the Gazette can't comment on any political leanings or agenda that may or may not be behind this man's actions - he has left no manifesto and refused to contact any publishing organization in Gotham - Mr. Skinner's story certainly does call for concern around the methods employed by this vigilante. For now, Gotham's police force may be content to allow this rogue agent to mete out violent justice in their stead, certainly as it seems those falling foul of the 'bat-man' are reluctant to report their encounter; perhaps, to the GCPD, this is an opportunity to cut down on their paperwork?	*Mr. Skinner, pictured with his injuries _________________________________________________________

In any case, opinion is certainly split across the city, while those who may be held responsible for investigating or even stopping this man appear largely apathetic. The Gazette approached both the GCPD Commissioner and the Gotham Mayor's office for comment on these swirling rumours, but were provided no statement from either. It seems that amidst cryptic sightings and unconfirmed reports, the city's leadership has more pressing, extant concerns.

---

---

_{#1.03: Slow News Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Jimmy startled as a rolled up newspaper slapped the top of his desk, breaking him out of his focus on the computer monitor in front of him. He quickly alt-tabbed, hiding the research into this mysterious 'Bat-Man' he'd been doing from whoever was now rounding the desk to interrupt what had until now been a relatively peaceful morning.
"You seen this shit, Jimmy?"
Jimmy looked at the copy of the Gotham Gazette that was unfurling on the desk in front of him. An artist's sketch of Gotham City's latest legend stared back at him from the front page, with a couple sensational headlines next to it.
"Looks like a slow news day to me." Jimmy replied, turning his attention back to the computer and some background paperwork he'd had up just in case. Harvey scoffed.
"If some headcase in bike leathers thinks he can do our job better than us he's welcome to try, but I won't have the papers call us lazy."
"You are lazy, Harvey." Said Gordon, to which Bullock just rolled his eyes.
"And you're an asshole, Jimmy. Only one of us is worth writing about to the Gazette, though."
Jimmy had to concede a chuckle at this one. Despite their differences, there were far worse partner assignments in the GCPD, and in a way Jimmy felt fortunate that the worst he got was a burnt-out, over-the-hill lard-ass with a cap and jacket severely in need of a wash.
"Still," Harvey continued, scratching his beard as Jimmy watched the flakes of the morning's pastry drift slowly to the floor, "it has been a bit quieter around here. Can't say I miss the paperwork."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow as Harvey pulled up a chair and sat down, propping his boots up on the edge of Gordon's desk. "You know what Jimmy - I'll say it. We let him have his fun for now. And then when he washes up in the Gotham River, we'll fish him out. And I'll wager doing that paperwork that he won't last the rest of the month."
Harvey held out his hand, waiting patiently for Jimmy's assent. Jimmy rolled his eyes, but ultimately leaned forward, sealing the bet with a firm shake.
"Excellent. Now get your jacket - we've got patrol beat. Maybe you'll get lucky-", Harvey said, standing and gesturing toward the PC that Jimmy had been working at- "and catch a real-life sighting to add to your research."

Jimmy startled, having underestimated his partner again, while Harvey just chuckled and left to fetch the car keys.

- - -

An erratic, vibrant piano piece echoed through the penthouse apartment at the top of Gotham City's most premier high-rise. Layered over the top was the white-noise of a shower running full-blast, and from the corner of the apartment that housed the bathroom a steady tide of mist rolled through the open-plan doorway.

The clear morning sky - finally clear after the torrential rain of the past few days - streamed bright and crisp sunlight through the skylights and wall-panel windows into the main chamber, splashing across white marble walls and dappled zebra-wood flooring. On the far side of the penthouse from the bathroom was the kitchen, a grand row of counter and cabinets that right-angled against the wall around a subtle but imperial island.

Stood against the counter was a suited attendant - one of the penthouse's hired staff - who cracked an egg into a frying pan at the stove, and silently cursed as the sizzle immediately indicated the pan was too hot. He lowered the flames and hoped his employer wouldn't notice. Sat at the island, a bald man in small dark glasses and a long, stately coat raised a single eyebrow momentarily, before returning his attention to the model in front of him; it was a scale miniature of one of the housing blocks in the Narrows before it had been torn down as restoration works began. The bald man was working carefully with a pair of tweezers and a Kolinsky Sable brush to get the replica corpses of the murder-suicide they'd had to clear out prior to demolition just right.

The water from the shower shut off, and the attendant nearly jumped at the sudden absence of noise. Footsteps - light, yet purposeful - traced a pattern from the bathroom to the nearby bedroom, then paused, then back out again and across the penthouse where they finally came to rest as the owner took a seat at the island.
"Oh, do put that ghastly thing away, Victor. It's too stunning a morning for your morbidity."
Victor Zsasz, Chief Operating Officer of Hightowers LLC, and William Sommer's right-hand man, brought a large rectangular case from the floor up to the island's surface, and carefully stowed away his model within, sealing the clasps and placing the case back on the ground. The attendant turned, a plate in each hand, and set William and Victor's breakfasts before them, before quickly returning with two delicate, designer, price-tag-over-function mugs, and a french press to match, carefully pouring the still-steaming coffee into their vessels. William watched him with skepticism, and then frowned impatiently as he set the french press back down.

"Well? I've just had a shower. The bathroom needs wiping down. I shouldn't have to tell you every time."
William had in fact never asked for the bathroom to be wiped down, but the attendant simply nodded nervously and walked away. Victor was already silently starting on his breakfast, his expression as stone-faced and inscrutable as ever. William inspected his eggs.
"Burnt. Shocking. Victor, do make sure to fire that imbecile once he's done for the day. I want someone actually capable of handling food tomorrow morning. Get one of Chez Vous' boys. Hell, get the owner."
Victor nodded, solemnly chewing the rest of his breakfast. William sipped his coffee and made a show of grimacing slightly in distaste, despite it being a perfectly-made espresso with the finest beans William's considerable fortune could acquire. With Victor offering little in the way of conversation, and William liking it that way, he reached for the day's Gazette. He perused the front page and its evocative artwork, before opening the broadsheet in full and vanishing behind it.

"This bat-character is stirring up the city lately, isn't he?" William remarked casually, and at this, Victor actually began to pay attention. "I assume we're keeping an eye on him?"
"Yes, sir. Reports are...sporadic at best. We really don't have much more information at this time than the major outlets. But they all point towards one thing so far."
"Which is?" William prompted, not coming out from behind the paper.
"One man, no funding. Street-level crime only. Seemingly no greater ambition than common thuggery vigilantism."
"So far." William corrected, and Victor cleared his throat.
"Yes, sir. So far. We are monitoring his behaviour."
William reached around his paper for his coffee. "Good. Let him play for now. Good to give the people some hope every now and again. Keeps them hungry."
"Yes, sir. And...if he moves against us?"
William used a single finger to fold down the corner of the Gazette, a dark gaze boring holes in the back of Victor's skull that he felt even through his obscuring glasses.
"We have him killed, Victor. Really, it's not that complicated. Can't have the muck getting any funny ideas."

- - -

The rain of the past few days had done little to clear out the humidity in the sweating alleyways of Gotham City. Steam belched from building vents as the sun set past the skyline, and 'Sunny' Sonny Shepard couldn't be happier for the clammy conditions. The rain was terrible for business - he didn't do house-calls, and no one wanted to wade through the streets in the middle of a monsoon to find his den - and the uncomfortable mugginess made people itchy, antsy; what better way to alleviate that agitation than with some quality product?

Well, maybe 'quality' was a little generous, although Sunny Sonny, chipper as his name would imply, was always quick to remind you that 'quality product' didn't specify what quality. 'Low' was still, semantically speaking, of a quality. And if you argued the point any further than that, well, there were always other dealers, if you could find any that hadn't blacklisted you by the time of your hospital release from a perforated abdomen.

As the sun finally disappeared Sunny Sonny made his way back to the den, tucking in to a greasy and well-stuffed gyro as he went; a vice of his, even if the authenticity was dubious despite the stall-owner’s claims. Still, it was a close enough approximation to be nostalgic of his mother’s, without being better, which Sunny Sonny thought was important - if you had a better version of something your mother used to make you, that’d be the version you’d want from then on, and one more thread of home would be severed. Gotham was too far already. The gyro was as good as it had to be, but no better.

The den approached quickly, or Sunny Sonny approached the den quickly, one of the two - he was too lost in reminiscent daydreaming to pay attention to his journey, the steps along simply muscle memory, running on auto-pilot. He finished the gyro, licking the last of the tzatziki from his fingers (autopilot), balling up the wrapper to toss in the dumpster down the side of the den (autopilot), fishing his keys and slipping them in the lock (autopilot), not noticing the lock had been jimmied and span loosely rather than getting stiff at that six-eighths rotation (autopilot), stepping through the door and his foot coming down squarely onto the trigger-plate of a bear trap set exactly where Sunny Sonny always put his auto-piloted foot after coming into the den.

Sunny Sonny tumbled to the floor hard, screaming and swearing, writhing in pain and desperately grasping at the vicious metal teeth that dug their way into his calf muscle and shin bone. Blood seeped out and soaked his jeans, and the sticky-slick ooze made getting a purchase against the metal impossible - every slip of the hand just jostled the trap and sent new white-hot flares of pain up his leg. He swore, his face red and eyes stinging, desperately wheeling his head about for either aid or his attacker.

The Bat dropped from the ceiling where he’d wedged himself for the last hour, landing between Sunny Sonny and the open door, kicking it shut behind him as he advanced. Sunny Sonny, in his agonised fury, went for the pistol in his waistband; the Bat was faster, and a forceful, steel-toed kick to Sunny Sonny’s wrist shattered the carpal bones and sent the gun skittering out of reach. Sunny Sonny, ever the optimist, tried to throw a punch instead.

Sunny Sonny now found himself in the un-enviable position of being caught in a beartrap with a broken wrist on his dominant hand and the fist of the other caught in the Bat’s grip.
“Sunny Sonny Shepard. You deal dope, crack, amps, percs, drops, and however much more besides, for a fifty-block radius in this borough. You don’t have the means or the mental capacity for production. So what I want to know…” the Bat moved his grip on Sunny Sonny’s good hand to seize it by the wrist, and wrapped his other fist around the index finger; with the widening eyes of Sunny Sonny’s sudden comprehension, and a short, sharp yank, the finger snapped, and Sunny Sonny howled in pain again. “…is where you get your supply?”

The Bat moved his hand away from Sunny Sonny’s index finger, now crooked and sticking out at an odd angle, and wrapped his fist around the middle finger instead. Sunny Sonny and the Bat locked eyes, and despite the defiant gaze from the injured man, his face paled against the ferocity behind the Bat’s eyes, which said everything without needing a word:

You have eight fingers left. Don’t make me show you what happens when you run out of them.

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

<Snipped quote by Eviledd1984>

You can view the code using the Raw option of that post.

@Ruby

or do what i do and quote the post, puts it straight into the guild reply box for you yeah just like that you little pervert

Roman's Scrapbin

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*Artists' Impression, the Bat-Man of Gotham _________________________________________________________		NOBLE HERO OR CRAZED VIGILANTE? Have you seen the Bat-Man of Gotham? Victoria Vale Across Gotham City, reports of sightings and encounters with the mysterious chiropteran assailant supposedly stalking the streets at night continue to flood the desks of GCPD officers, as well as journalists, bloggers, podcasters, and influencers, keeping everyone's eyes on one bewildering mystery: who is this cryptic creature roaming our city? While often un-corroborated and rarely delivered by more than just a single witness, all stories do share a common thread: the prevention of a more serious crime, through the dispensal of profound violence. So far, Gotham's citizens seem to see this 'bat-man' as a dark protector against the seedy underbelly of Gotham City; but if he is indeed simply a man who's had enough - as many reports say he is - is he overstepping as a lone vigilante, disregarding the due process of the law in favor of street-administered 'justice'? Reporters who spoke to staff at both Gotham General and Saint Peter's hospitals confirmed that there has indeed been a rising increase in admissions for fractures, concussions, crush injuries, and similar wounds consistent with blunt-force trauma - but hospital staff are unable to disclose patient history or identity, and GCPD have failed to see an equivalent rise in assault cases. Are these victims of the vigilante too afraid of him to speak out, or is this new trend in hospital admissions simply unrelated, and this 'bat-man' is another invention of Gotham's superstitious citizens, like the ever-popular tale of Grundy-of-the-Marsh, a similar cryptid fairytale from Gotham City's rich history?

One recent would-be victim, MARGARET PAGE, spoke to the Gazette of her close encounter only a few nights ago:

"I was coming home from work late one evening last week - when we had all that dreadful rain - and trying to avoid a flooded street I tried to cross a block over through an alley. Dumb, I know. Obviously there was some thug just waiting for me. It felt like the opening scene in a horror movie, you know? When lone girl bumps into the monster and gets killed. God, had the wet shirt and stringy hair and everything..."

"Anyway, I guess it was kind of like that, except the thug wasn't the monster. He just appeared so quickly, like he'd just stepped out of the shadows - like he'd just...materialized, you know? And he side-swiped the guy and all I could hear over the rain was just, him beating on this guy, just these dull wet thuds, you know? And then he stood up and he honest-to-god looked like a demon. Those horns, the big wings, claws, all-black, and that brand across his chest...but then he moved and he looked at me and it all changed. He was just a guy, you know? A guy who'd had enough. You could see it in his eyes. He was so scary, but when he looked at me I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He hurt that thug a bit more, sure, I wasn't exactly about to stop him. And then he just...he told me to go home. To save my money. And he just walked off, dragging that thug behind him. And I felt like he was watching me the whole way home. And the funny thing was, I did save my money, because my landlord told me to keep the rent. And I knew that was because of him. He protected me, you know?"

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The Gazette does know; Ms. Page's story mirrors that of many others across the city - a mugging, or a rape, or a robbery, or even a murder, interrupted seemingly out of nowhere by this mysterious costumed assailant. It's little wonder many citizens of Gotham are hailing this stranger as a hero, valiantly defending the vulnerable across the city that the GCPD often forget about. However, not everyone shares the same view of this man as a protector - EARL SKINNER, Ms. Page's aforementioned landlord, came forwards exclusively to the Gazette to share his side of the story: "Guy's a f--king maniac. I was just sitting in my car, trying to wait out the rain, and he completely wrecks the thing - caves the roof in, puts a crowbar through my windshield - and then when I'm getting out to see what the f--k is going on, he pulls me out and starts wailing on me. I have no idea what I did to this guy, but he's left me practically crippled. And then he threatens me that he'll come back to finish the job if I don't pause rent indefinitely for my tenants. Fine, I get it, times are hard - but how am I supposed to maintain eight apartments to a decent standard without any income? I'm just an honest landlord, I don't have an endless font of money. Free housing is a lovely ideal but it's not realistic - if this guy's willing to assault and kill people for some lefty nonsense, none of us are safe. It's just another step towards war by the woke agenda." While the Gazette can't comment on any political leanings or agenda that may or may not be behind this man's actions - he has left no manifesto and refused to contact any publishing organization in Gotham - Mr. Skinner's story certainly does call for concern around the methods employed by this vigilante. For now, Gotham's police force may be content to allow this rogue agent to mete out violent justice in their stead, certainly as it seems those falling foul of the 'bat-man' are reluctant to report their encounter; perhaps, to the GCPD, this is an opportunity to cut down on their paperwork?	*Mr. Skinner, pictured with his injuries _________________________________________________________

In any case, opinion is certainly split across the city, while those who may be held responsible for investigating or even stopping this man appear largely apathetic. The Gazette approached both the GCPD Commissioner and the Gotham Mayor's office for comment on these swirling rumours, but were provided no statement from either. It seems that amidst cryptic sightings and unconfirmed reports, the city's leadership has more pressing, extant concerns.

---

---

_{#1.03: Slow News Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Jimmy startled as a rolled up newspaper slapped the top of his desk, breaking him out of his focus on the computer monitor in front of him. He quickly alt-tabbed, hiding the research into this mysterious 'Bat-Man' he'd been doing from whoever was now rounding the desk to interrupt what had until now been a relatively peaceful morning.
"You seen this shit, Jimmy?"
Jimmy looked at the copy of the Gotham Gazette that was unfurling on the desk in front of him. An artist's sketch of Gotham City's latest legend stared back at him from the front page, with a couple sensational headlines next to it.
"Looks like a slow news day to me." Jimmy replied, turning his attention back to the computer and some background paperwork he'd had up just in case. Harvey scoffed.
"If some headcase in bike leathers thinks he can do our job better than us he's welcome to try, but I won't have the papers call us lazy."
"You are lazy, Harvey." Said Gordon, to which Bullock just rolled his eyes.
"And you're an asshole, Jimmy. Only one of us is worth writing about to the Gazette, though."
Jimmy had to concede a chuckle at this one. Despite their differences, there were far worse partner assignments in the GCPD, and in a way Jimmy felt fortunate that the worst he got was a burnt-out, over-the-hill lard-ass with a cap and jacket severely in need of a wash.
"Still," Harvey continued, scratching his beard as Jimmy watched the flakes of the morning's pastry drift slowly to the floor, "it has been a bit quieter around here. Can't say I miss the paperwork.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow as Harvey pulled up a chair and sat down, propping his boots up on the edge of Gordon's desk. "You know what Jimmy - I'll say it. We let him have his fun for now. And then when he washes up in the Gotham River, we'll fish him out. And I'll wager doing that paperwork that he won't last the rest of the month."
Harvey held out his hand, waiting patiently for Jimmy's assent. Jimmy rolled his eyes, but ultimately leaned forward, sealing the bet with a firm shake.
"Excellent. Now get your jacket - we've got patrol beat. Maybe you'll get lucky-", Harvey said, standing and gesturing toward the PC that Jimmy had been working at- "and catch a real-life sighting to add to your research."

Jimmy startled, having underestimated his partner again, while Harvey just chuckled and left to fetch the car keys.

- - -

An erratic, vibrant piano piece echoed through the penthouse apartment at the top of Gotham City's most premier high-rise. Layered over the top was the white-noise of a shower running full-blast, and from the corner of the apartment that housed the bathroom a steady tide of mist rolled through the open-plan doorway.

The clear morning sky - finally clear after the torrential rain of the past few days - streamed bright and crisp sunlight through the skylights and wall-panel windows into the main chamber, splashing across white marble walls and dappled zebra-wood flooring. On the far side of the penthouse from the bathroom was the kitchen, a grand row of counter and cabinets that right-angled against the wall around a subtle but imperial island.

Stood against the counter was a suited attendant - one of the penthouse's hired staff - who cracked an egg into a frying pan at the stove, and silently cursed as the sizzle immediately indicated the pan was too hot. He lowered the flames and hoped his employer wouldn't notice. Sat at the island, a bald man in small dark glasses and a long, stately coat raised a single eyebrow momentarily, before returning his attention to the model in front of him; it was a scale miniature of one of the housing blocks in the Narrows before it had been torn down as restoration works began. The bald man was working carefully with a pair of tweezers and a Kolinsky Sable brush to get the replica corpses of the murder-suicide they'd had to clear out prior to demolition just right.

The water from the shower shut off, and the attendant nearly jumped at the sudden absence of noise. Footsteps - light, yet purposeful - traced a pattern from the bathroom to the nearby bedroom, then paused, then back out again and across the penthouse where they finally came to rest as the owner took a seat at the island.
"Oh, do put that ghastly thing away, Victor. It's too stunning a morning for your morbidity."
Victor Zsasz, Chief Operating Officer of Hightowers LLC, and William Sommer's right-hand man, brought a large rectangular case from the floor up to the island's surface, and carefully stowed away his model within, sealing the clasps and placing the case back on the ground. The attendant turned, a plate in each hand, and set William and Victor's breakfasts before them, before quickly returning with two delicate, designer, price-tag-over-function mugs, and a french press to match, carefully pouring the still-steaming coffee into their vessels. William watched him with skepticism, and then frowned impatiently as he set the french press back down.

"Well? I've just had a shower. The bathroom needs wiping down. I shouldn't have to tell you every time."
William had in fact never asked for the bathroom to be wiped down, but the attendant simply nodded nervously and walked away. Victor was already silently starting on his breakfast, his expression as stone-faced and inscrutable as ever. William inspected his eggs.
"Burnt. Shocking. Victor, do make sure to fire that imbecile once he's done for the day. I want someone actually capable of handling food tomorrow morning. Get one of Chez Vous' boys. Hell, get the owner."
Victor nodded, solemnly chewing the rest of his breakfast. William sipped his coffee and made a show of grimacing slightly in distaste, despit eat what was a perfectly-made espresso with the finest beans William's considerable fortune could acquire. With Victor offering little in the way of conversation, and William liking it that way, he reached for the day's Gazette. He perused the front page and its evocative artwork, before opening the broadsheet in full and vanishing behind it.

"This bat-character is stirring up the city lately, isn't he?" William remarked casually, and at this, Victor actually began to pay attention. "I assume we're keeping an eye on him?"
"Yes, sir. Reports are...sporadic at best. We really don't have much more information at this time than the major outlets. But they all point towards one thing so far."
"Which is?" William prompted, not coming out from behind the paper.
"One man, no funding. Street-level crime only. Seemingly no greater ambition than common thuggery vigilantism."
"So far." William corrected, and Victor cleared his throat.
"Yes, sir. So far. We are monitoring his behaviour."
William reached around his paper for his coffee. "Good. Let him play for now. Good to give the people some hope every now and again. Keeps them hungry."
"Yes, sir. And...if he moves against us?"
William used a single finger to fold down the corner of the Gazette, a dark gaze boring holes in the back of Victor's skull that he felt even through his obscuring glasses.
"We have him killed, Victor. Really, it's not that complicated. Can't have the muck getting any funny ideas."

- - -

The rain of the past few days had done little to clear out the humidity in the sweating alleyways of Gotham City. Steam belched from building vents as the sun set past the skyline, and 'Sunny' Sonny Shepard couldn't be happier for the clammy conditions. The rain was terrible for business - he didn't do house-calls, and no one wanted to wade through the streets in the middle of a monsoon to find his den - and the uncomfortable mugginess made people itchy, antsy; what better way to alleviate that agitation than with some quality product?

Well, maybe 'quality' was a little generous, although Sunny Sonny, chipper as his name would imply, was always quick to remind you that 'quality product' didn't specify what quality. 'Low' was still, semantically speaking, of a quality. And if you argued the point any further than that, well, there were always other dealers, if you could find any that hadn't blacklisted you by the time of your hospital release from a perforated abdomen.

As the sun finally disappeared Sunny Sonny made his way back to the den, tucking in to a greasy and well-stuffed gyro as he went; a vice of his, even if the authenticity was dubious despite the stall-owner’s claims. Still, it was a close enough approximation to be nostalgic of his mother’s, without being better, which Sunny Sonny thought was important - if you had a better version of something your mother used to make you, that’d be the version you’d want from then on, and one more thread of home would be severed. Gotham was too far already. The gyro was as good as it had to be, but no better.

The den approached quickly, or Sunny Sonny approached the den quickly, one of the two - he was too lost in reminiscent daydreaming to pay attention to his journey, the steps along simply muscle memory, running on auto-pilot. He finished the gyro, licking the last of the tzatziki from his fingers (autopilot), balling up the wrapper to toss in the dumpster down the side of the den (autopilot), fishing his keys and slipping them in the lock (autopilot), not noticing the lock had been jimmied and span loosely rather than getting stiff at that six-eighths rotation (autopilot), stepping through the door and his foot coming down squarely onto the trigger-plate of a bear trap set exactly where Sunny Sonny always put his auto-piloted foot after coming into the den.

Sunny Sonny tumbled to the floor hard, screaming and swearing, writhing in pain and desperately grasping at the vicious metal teeth that dug their way into his calf muscle and shin bone. Blood seeped out and soaked his jeans, and the sticky-slick ooze made getting a purchase against the metal impossible - every slip of the hand just jostled the trap and sent new white-hot flares of pain up his leg. He swore, his face red and eyes stinging, desperately wheeling his head about for either aid or his attacker.

The Bat dropped from the ceiling where he’d wedged himself for the last hour, landing between Sunny Sonny and the open door, kicking it shut behind him as he advanced. Sunny Sonny, in his agonised fury, went for the pistol in his waistband; the Bat was faster, and a forceful, steel-toed kick to Sunny Sonny’s wrist shattered the carpal bones and sent the gun skittering out of reach. Sunny Sonny, ever the optimist, tried to through a punch instead.

Sunny Sonny now found himself in the un-enviable position of being caught in a beartrap with a broken wrist on his dominant hand and the fist of the other caught in the Bat’s grip.
“Sunny Sonny Shepard. You deal dope, crack, amps, percs, drops, and however much more besides, for a fifty-block radius in this borough. You don’t have the means or the mental capacity for production. So what I want to know…” the Bat moved his grip on Sunny Sonny’s good hand to seize it by the wrist, and wrapped his other fist around the index finger; with the widening eyes of Sunny Sonny’s sudden comprehension, and a short, sharp yank, the finger snapped, and Sunny Sonny howled in pain again. “…is where you get your supply?”

The Bat moved his hand away from Sunny Sonny’s index finger, now crooked and sticking out at an odd angle, and wrapped his fist around the middle finger instead. Sunny Sonny and the Bat locked eyes, and despite the defiant gaze from the injured man, his face paled against the ferocity behind the Bat’s eyes, which said everything without needing a word:

You have eight fingers left. Don’t make me show you what happens when you run out of them.

Roman's Scrapbin

Gotham gazette

Faux subreddit comment chain?
Or just texts.

Then title card
Then Sommers
Then starting the Bat on Penguin’s trail.

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

_{#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.

Roman's Scrapbin

A L I A S
A L I A S

^{"Witty Quote"}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Given Middle Surname _________________________________________________________ Occupation | Affiliation(s) [If Applicable] _________________________________________________________ Multiverse | Open or Closed to Collaborators 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 _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

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