Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

T E N - E I G H T Y
T E N - E I G H T Y

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_{^{"Handsomely charming, charmingly handsome, and the other one."}}

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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 _________________________________________________________ Gilbert 'Gil' Emory Galahad _________________________________________________________ June 13th, 2003 | 25 | Caucasian _________________________________________________________ Single | Male | Heterosexual _________________________________________________________ Bristol | Bristol | United Kingdom _________________________________________________________ Lynx | Team 21 - Blackjack C H A R A C T E R S T A T S C H A R A C T E R S T A T S _________________________________________________________ ◼ B U I L D || Athletic ◼ H A I R C O L O U R || Brunette ◼ E Y E C O L O U R || Steel Blue ◼ H E I G H T || 5'10" ◼ W E I G H T || 150lbs ◼ S C A R S || None ◼ T A T T O O S || None ◼ P I E R C I N G S || None ◼ O T H E R || N/A

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Born in Bristol, England, Gil Galahad was raised an only child in a well-to-do household with loving parents who undeniably doted on him a little too much. As the first and only to his extended family, he was lavished attention by his mother, father, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and eagerly soaked up every drop; he became performative at an early age, theatrical, engineering a steady flow of praise and adoration. His parents encouraged this behaviour, pushing him into child dramatics programmes and extra-curricular classes, fostering a latent talent for acting in hopes it would crystallise into success. Ultimately, adolescent narcissism paid off, and after a series of castings in small parts, a young teenaged Gil landed the titular co-lead role in the breakaway hit Romeo & Juliet & Zombies – the surprise of the summer, a throwaway zom-rom-com turned box-office smash hit – and was propelled into Hollywood gliterrati completely. Bristol was left behind for the sparkling hills of LA, his parents seeking to capitalise on his silver-screen triumph and flip their beloved son into Hollywood’s hottest commodity. Success in this endeavour was mixed; the film was beloved and represented a significant payday for the Galahads, but performances in follow-up castings as Gil inevitably transitioned from adolescent heart-throb to adult acting were received with more mixed reviews, and slowly but surely the roles tapered off, and then the worst thing possible happened; Gil discovered he was Hyperhuman. His agent, of a more pragmatic mind than his parents, rapidly changed tact; he knew Hollywood would throw Gil to the gutter, and was determined to get ahead of it. He sourced pro-Hype activist movements and progressive independent channels, pushing Gil’s emergence as a pseudo-‘coming out’ PR puff-piece – and it paid off, landing Gil a central role on the independently-produced Hyperhuman-focused soap opera, Crestwood Hollow. His character’s introduction was well-received by fans of the show, and his storyline – utilizing his powers to portray both sides of a classic (if melodramatic) ‘evil twin’ arc – saw hot-and-cold reactions, but brought his name some recognition again; Gil Galahad was a hot topic in Hyperhuman circles, and he loved being talked about again. When the storyline tapered off, and Gil’s character Put On A Bus, he segued into Pro-Hype activism, becoming the face of a new campaign for Hyperhuman actors, artists, and performers in general to be accepted into mainstream Hollywood. All of this ultimately lead to PRCU as the pinnacle of PR moves; as a ‘notable’ Hyperhuman for PRCU to tout in their enrolment brochures, and a clear path for Gil to boost his legitimacy, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and Gil began his academic career in September 2027, enrolling in an Acting Major – emphasis in Stage & Screen – and a minor in Sociology, to keep the ‘activist’ image alive. For the most part, Gil’s enjoyed his time at the academy, and he’s welcomed the adoration from devoted fans and co-activists; but for the most part, he’s just ready to get back to Hollywood and break ranks into the A-List once again.

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A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || Q U A N T U M R E P L I C A T I O N __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || ESOTERIC __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || EXPULSIVE __POWER SCALE || 02 __THREAT CLASSIFICATION || Σ Gil is able to store the atomic quantum-entangled ‘memory’ of any object he’s come into physical contact with, and is then able to manipulate matter and HZEs in his immediate vicinity to instantly reproduce a perfect replica of the object, as it was as the point of being ‘stored’. Gil’s most common use of this ability is storing himself, utilising the quantum nature of his power to copy not only his body, but his very consciousness, and produce a sentient, independent clone. L I M I T A T I O N S || Gil’s replications are dependent on available matter, HZEs, and his own energy levels to produce copies, and the size and complexity of the object impacts his ability to replicate; too many copies of too complex an item in quick succession saps Gil’s own strength until he can’t manifest anymore without just as fast. Static material objects are easier, but at max current potential he can manage 2 full clones – Gil2 and Gil3 – but feels slightly woozy afterwards; any more just knocks him out. Additionally, Gil can only store a single object at a time, can only store objects he’s made physical contact with, and while he can store and replicate himself at any time, doing so ‘overwrites’ any currently-stored item. Gil’s clones are also bereft of powers themselves, unable to manipulate HZEs in the same way, so they can’t create their own clones – no recursive replication loops. Gil’s clones are able to self-sustain indefinitely, but they require sufficient nourishment to do so – roughly 1.5x the average caloric intake and healthy rest that a standard man of Gil’s size and stature would need. Without any sustenance or sleep, a clone can last 12-16 hours before crumbling, but grows exponentially weaker as time drags on. Finally, Gil can store and copy other people, but due to the complexities of the human psyche, is unable to replicate their consciousnesses like he can his own – so he only produces unsettling, brain-dead versions of their bodies, which understandably upsets everybody and is best avoided. W E A K N E S S E S || Gil’s copies aren’t enhanced in any way, and are only as effective or powerful as the original object is. Gil’s clones are independent copies of his consciousness, and while they’re aware they’re clones, they’re not necessarily automatically subservient to the original Gil. All of Gil’s copies are essentially half-HZE constructs, so anti-hype tech and weaponry that disrupts HZE ions is not only effective at inhibiting Gil’s powers, but also acts like spreading salt on ice against anything he's replicated. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Gil’s not super invested in PRCU as an academic institution and an opportunity for self-improvement as much as just using it to line him up for some stunt-casted roles in the growing pro-Hyperhuman movement within Hollywood, ultimately seeing the university as the best political move to claw back his waning fame and land in LA’s good graces again. He’s grateful for the place offered to him by the academy, but has taken it somewhat for granted and seen it as an easy ride thus far. Gil’s aware of the Hyperion incident and the controversies surrounding it, and Alexandria’s move to purchase PRCU, but is ultimately of a ‘doesn’t affect me personally so I don’t care’ mentality. Sure, he’s pro-Hype, but his plan is to graduate, break big back into movies again, and never look back. He’s pro-Hype and (carefully) vocal of his activism while it serves a purpose, but he’s also aware that he can pass as ‘normal’ if he needs to drift away from this latest cultivated image. Gil likes the university; he’s pleased to have the chance to graduate with an honest-to-god degree; he’s happy to support a progressive agenda, especially while the agenda favours him; but for Gil, it’s less about scholastic ambition, and more about making the smartest move to get rich and famous again. Will that attitude continue through the completion of his graduating year, or will he ‘go native’ and actually fall in with those he supposedly represents?

S K I L L S & T A L E N T S S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ CHARISMA, EMOTIONAL CONTROL || Gil's long been a handsome, charismatic young man, able to charm nearly any audience, winning friends and successfully networking among many crowds. At the same time, he's been able to keep a firm line on himself and his emotions, tailoring his emotive responses to the situation at hand to engineer the best results. It doesn't work for everyone - he's been accused of being 'fake' on more than one occasion - but for the most part, he's well-liked and easily sociable. T A L E N T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ ACTING, VENTRILOQUISM || Performing from a young age, as well as taking classes, extra-curricular electives, and coaching, have helped groom a knack for acting into an honest-to-god skill. He's not oscar-winning, but he's good enough to have been casted and seen some critical success. A side-talent, and one he doesn't upkeep with anywhere near the same kind of concerted effort, is ventriloquism, an old hobby that he started as a lonely only-child, and kept up when he realised he liked the sound of his own voice. C H A R A C T E R A R S E N A L C H A R A C T E R A R S E N A L _________________________________________________________ A T T I R E ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ S M A R T C A S U A L || Ever-ready for a pop-up interview, outside of PRCU uniform Gil likes to maintain a well-groomed wardrobe of suit jackets, stylish shirts, and a mix of slacks and jeans. I T E M ( S ) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ T H E E S S E N T I A L S || Given the nature of his powers, Gil likes to take advantage by keeping a couple of small essentials on his person for day-to-day use: cigarettes, matches, a business card, and a cash clip. Everything you might need to chat, flirt, or bribe your way out of a tricky situation. T O O L ( S ) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ B A C K - U P S || With no guarantee that useful items will be readily available when a potentially dangerous situation arises, Gil keeps a couple pragmatic back-up objects on his person in case he needs emergency access to something to copy, specifically for when schmoozing fails and he needs to defend himself - a self-defence folding knife, and a Glock G19 pistol (licensed, of course). Having practiced with both weapons, both in and out of PRCU, they're handy emergency items in a last-resort circumstance. A D D I T I O N A L N O T E S A D D I T I O N A L N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ N/A - 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S
P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S

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_{E N T E R I N G I N T O Y O U R F I N A L Y E A R, W H A T A D V I C E D O Y O U H A V E T O A N E W S T U D E N T?}

Gil knitted his brow, concentrating and looking like God's own prophet descending from Mount Sinai to dispense wisdom. Delivered with a practiced sincerity:
"Open yourself up to what the academy has to offer. There's so much more to learn here than just what your course has to teach you. Really take the time to better yourself, and it'll help you better the world around you as a result."

_{W H A T W E R E Y O U R A S P I R A T I O N S W H E N Y O U S T A R T E D H E R E? W H A T C H A N G E D, W H A T S T A Y E D T H E S A M E?}

Gil broke into a wide smile, his eyes sparkling warmly. He looked like he'd been waiting to answer this question his whole life.
"I just wanted to be a better person, improve myself mentally, philosophically, emotionally - and let myself deliver some better performances for the fans! But as soon as I arrived, I knew this place was truly special, and I'm hoping when I leave I can open some minds to the potential this institution holds for everybody, Hyperhuman or not."

_{I F Y O U C O U L D M A K E O N E C H A N G E T O Y O U R T I M E A T P . R . C . U ., W H A T W O U L D I T B E?}

Gil raised his eyebrows, sitting back in his chair and really taking the time - or appearing to take the time - to consider the full implications of the question. Finally, with a polite, wry smile, he leaned forwards again, pointing a playful finger.
"Open-campus day for the whole world. I think there's a lot of people out there who just don't know any better, and this incredible university has the capacity to show them different. With everything this community has accomplished on Dundas Island, it's the modern Eighth Wonder of the World - they just need to show it off!"

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Ju-V

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Poe's legs burnt as she continued full-pace down stone hallways, fleeing something she was certain, but had already forgotten what, already sealed that away in sheer unconscious trauma-response. Now she was just running, carried by specific but unknowable fear, and the Finite Passage was more than happy to spool open further paths and corridors in front of her, quick to provide further space to put between her and whatever she had left, distantly, fading, behind her. She rounded corners and bounced off stone, seeding little fruiting bruises that she'd poke and wonder and wince at over the coming days, but all was a blur in favour of just running.

Something sharp pulled at her like catching the thread of your sweatshirt on a thorn and she whirled on the spot; in front of her, where there had been none previously, was an innocuous wooden door, smooth and walnut-brown, with a polished brass handle set above a polite but sturdy keyhole. Poe paused; she looked to her right, down the corridor she'd come from - endless gray, rock curving away to the great black maw at the edge of the world. She looked to her left, up the corridor left before her - faintly, in the distance, she thought she could see wall, but it was impossible to tell if that was an end or simply a corner. She looked back at the door, and found she was already grasping the handle within her white-knuckled fist. Utterly disconnected, she watched herself twist the knob and push through door, trading one corridor for another.

There were things on the other side, and all the mystery of the door's appearance was subsumed by a rapid resurgence of the fear that had been spurring her sprint.

girl in white, feels familiar, clinical, hospital, endless prodding and poking, needles and saws and tests and I'm running but running from what, running from that, can't remember what or why just run run RUN

creature is huge and monstrous and an insect, afraid of bugs afraid of monsters, can't be real lives in the labyrinth wants to trap you wants to destroy you, wants to keep you here to fade away and die be forgotten behind stone walls. run. don't let them close around you. run. run.

small girl is a joke, look how little you are Poe, look how pointless you are Poe, look how insignificant and lost you are Poe, just like a child, like a fairy like an imp, like a little girl who hasn't grown up doesn't know herself doesn't know where she is or where she was or where she's going. keep running. what will you find. you will find nothing. you are nothing. just a little girl, crying in the deep dark.

Poe turned away and ran and she realised, with a terrible deep fear, that the strangers followed. But Poe was fast; this was her mind, her labyrinth, and even if she didn't know it, it knew her and it gave her paths, corners, a great winding circuit to lose her pursuers but by the grace of god they were fast and they were cunning - and Poe wasn't sure they were real; and if they weren't, then they were her too, as much as the labyrinth was, and she'd never lose them. How do you run through yourself, from yourself?

Panic climbed in Poe in a recursive pattern, feeding into itself to amplify the terror, and she could feel her vision fading as the adrenaline and hyperventilation and sheer emotional overload threatened to blot her out completely; finally, mercifully, the Finite Passage threw her a bone: another door, picked for no discernible reason, and she crashed through it like a girl with no other options. The last things through her mind before she passed out completely were the small girl holding the door behind her and noticing she had wings, and the realization that the other side of the door lead not to more endless stone corridors, but to a bright, well-lit rec-room.

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Poe had had little time since coming back around following her - and her apparent compatriots' - latest impromptu trip through the Finite Passage, but she'd been caught up on the basics during her escort from the facility's infirmary to her erstwhile living quarters, a practical but comfortable two-person dorm room, surprisingly well-equipped despite the obvious unexpected nature of her arrival. They'd tumbled out of the labyrinth into San Francisco, specifically the AEGIS junior facility built from the once-crumbling walls of Alcatraz penitentiary itself. Said facility had, that same day, welcomed a new set of 'attendees', who'd apparently already managed to cause their fair share of dramatics during their still short-lived tenure; the arrival of Poe and the others was just the feather in the proverbial cap, and administration at that point had decided they'd quite had enough and quickly enforced a curfew, remanding everyone back to their dorms.

With where they were solved, the next obvious question was where they'd come from. Poe had low expectations here, given her addled state of mind, but AEGIS had surprised her here, too; facial tracking and recognition worked quick these days it seemed, and the cameras spread across Alcatraz had flagged her to the as-yet-elusive Director mere minutes after she crashed to the floor in the rec-room. Poe Navidson, in one minute held at another AEGIS facility based in Washington, the next tumbling out of the air on the other side of the continent. They'd reached out to her previous facility with an urgency that usual bureaucratic belligerence could neither stifle nor deny, and determined her identity, the length and circumstances of her stay, and a basic rundown of what was understood of her nature; everything else would be issued soon, once collated and encrypted. Apparently, there was a sizeable file dating back many years on the young Ms. Navidson, and she was something of a unique case. Even more peculiar, two of the other arrivals - Quinn and Kaiden - were due to be welcomed at the same facility that very day. What bearing this had on their inclusion in Poe's journey wasn't bothered to be speculated on.

It was with a sense of great relief, though this would not be revealed to Poe herself, that her accidental extrication from one AEGIS complex had resulted in her internment at another.

Now, all Poe wanted to do was fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and she had been assured that the the remaining doses circulating her system would allow her to do so with little difficulty; however, little difficulty was, at this present time, proving to be ironically prophetic. Quinn, her erstwhile roommate, was making a shocking amount of noise for one so unassuming in stature. Poe just curled up in her bunk, burying her face in her knees and pressing her forehead against the cool concrete wall, trying to block out the world around her and fall asleep.

"FUCK!" Quinn yelled, startling Poe and rattling her already-shaken mind. She looked over her shoulder, only to see the be-winged girl pointing at her, one aggressive and accusatory finger stretching in her direction. "It was you, wasn't it? With all that labyrinth bullshit! Come on now; conjure up one of those doors so I can get the hell out of here!"

Poe began to cry. She didn't know why she was here; she didn't know why she'd left the last place, didn't know if it was on purpose or by accident, if it was her choice or theirs, if it was the labyrinth's choice. And now, here she was, in a place she neither knew nor understood nor desired, trapped again with someone blaming and yelling, asking not only the impossible of her but the unfathomably terrifying. Go back into the labyrinth? Poe wished, every second with every fibre, that the labyrinth had never even existed - and this girl, this stranger, demanded of her to simply open it up - open herself up - and let her walk its paths in search of non-specific 'out'. For all Poe knew, the labyrinth was 'out', and that thought was more horrifying than any other.

"I can't." She answered, her voice smooth and calm and low, despite the steady stream of tears from her eyes as she sat up, turning around to face Quinn and her accusing finger. "It's not a place. It's not conjured. We didn't get here through a labyrinth. We got here through me, through my head! And I... I just want to sleep. Just for a bit." She faltered, unable to project strength any longer. "_{Please... I can't go back in there...}".

Roman's Scrapbin

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Poe's legs burnt as she continued full-pace down stone hallways, fleeing something she was certain, but had already forgotten what, already sealed that away in sheer unconscious trauma-response. Now she was just running, carried by specific but unknowable fear, and the Finite Passage was more than happy to spool open further paths and corridors in front of her, quick to provide further space to put between her and whatever she had left, distantly, fading, behind her. She rounded corners and bounced off stone, seeding little fruiting bruises that she'd poke and wonder and wince at over the coming days, but all was a blur in favour of just running.

Something sharp pulled at her like catching the thread of your sweatshirt on a thorn and she whirled on the spot; in front of her, where there had been none previously, was an innocuous wooden door, smooth and walnut-brown, with a polished brass handle set above a polite but sturdy keyhole. Poe paused; she looked to her right, down the corridor she'd come from - endless gray, rock curving away to the great black maw at the edge of the world. She looked to her left, up the corridor left before her - faintly, in the distance, she thought she could see wall, but it was impossible to tell if that was an end or simply a corner. She looked back at the door, and found she was already grasping the handle within her white-knuckled fist. Utterly disconnected, she watched herself twist the knob and push through door, trading one corridor for another.

There were things on the other side, and all the mystery of the door's appearance was subsumed by a rapid resurgence of the fear that had been spurring her sprint.

girl in white, feels familiar, clinical, hospital, endless prodding and poking, needles and saws and tests and I'm running but running from what, running from that, can't remember what or why just run run RUN

creature is huge and monstrous and an insect, afraid of bugs afraid of monsters, can't be real lives in the labyrinth wants to trap you wants to destroy you, wants to keep you here to fade away and die be forgotten behind stone walls. run. don't let them close around you. run. run.

small girl is a joke, look how little you are Poe, look how pointless you are Poe, look how insignificant and lost you are Poe, just like a child, like a fairy like an imp, like a little girl who hasn't grown up doesn't know herself doesn't know where she is or where she was or where she's going. keep running. what will you find. you will find nothing. you are nothing. just a little girl, crying in the deep dark.

Poe turned away and ran and she realised, with a terrible deep fear, that the strangers followed. But Poe was fast; this was her mind, her labyrinth, and even if she didn't know it, it knew her and it gave her paths, corners, a great winding circuit to lose her pursuers but by the grace of god they were fast and they were cunning - and Poe wasn't sure they were real; and if they weren't, then they were her too, as much as the labyrinth was, and she'd never lose them. How do you run through yourself, from yourself?

Panic climbed in Poe in a recursive pattern, feeding into itself to amplify the terror, and she could feel her vision fading as the adrenaline and hyperventilation and sheer emotional overload threatened to blot her out completely; finally, mercifully, the Finite Passage threw her a bone: another door, picked for no discernible reason, and she crashed through it like a girl with no other options. The last things through her mind before she passed out completely were the small girl holding the door behind her and noticing she had wings, and the realization that the other side of the door lead not to more endless stone corridors, but to a bright, well-lit rec-room.

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Poe had had little time since coming back around following her - and her apparent compatriots' - latest impromptu trip through the Finite Passage, but she'd been caught up on the basics during her escort from the facility's infirmary to her erstwhile living quarters, a practical but comfortable two-person dorm room, surprisingly well-equipped despite the obvious unexpected nature of her arrival. They'd tumbled out of the labyrinth into San Francisco, specifically the AEGIS junior facility built from the once-crumbling walls of Alcatraz penitentiary itself. Said facility had, that same day, welcomed a new set of 'attendees', who'd apparently already managed to cause their fair share of dramatics during their still short-lived tenure; the arrival of Poe and the others was just the feather in the proverbial cap, and administration at that point had decided they'd quite had enough and quickly enforced a curfew, remanding everyone back to their dorms.

With where they were solved, the next obvious question was where they'd come from. Poe had low expectations here, given her addled state of mind, but AEGIS had surprised her here, too; facial tracking and recognition worked quick these days it seemed, and the cameras spread across Alcatraz had flagged her to the as-yet-elusive Director mere minutes after she crashed to the floor in the rec-room. Poe Navidson, in one minute held at another AEGIS facility based in Washington, the next tumbling out of the air on the other side of the continent. They'd reached out to her previous facility with an urgency that usual bureaucratic belligerence could neither stifle nor deny, and determined her identity, the length and circumstances of her stay, and a basic rundown of what was understood of her nature; everything else would be issued soon, once collated and encrypted. Apparently, there was a sizeable file dating back many years on the young Ms. Navidson, and she was something of a unique case. Even more peculiar, two of the other arrivals - Quinn and Kaiden - were due to be welcomed at the same facility that very day. What bearing this had on their inclusion in Poe's journey wasn't bothered to be speculated on.

It was with a sense of great relief, though this would not be revealed to Poe herself, that her accidental extrication from one AEGIS complex had resulted in her internment at another.

Now, all Poe wanted to do was fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and she had been assured that the the remaining doses circulating her system would allow her to do so with little difficulty; however, little difficulty was, at this present time, proving to be ironically prophetic. Quinn, her erstwhile roommate, was making a shocking amount of noise for one so unassuming in stature. Poe just curled up in her bunk, burying her face in her knees and pressing her forehead against the cool concrete wall, trying to block out the world around her and fall asleep.

"FUCK!" Quinn yelled, startling Poe and rattling her already-shaken mind. She looked over her shoulder, only to see the be-winged girl pointing at her, one aggressive and accusatory finger stretching in her direction. "It was you, wasn't it? With all that labyrinth bullshit! Come on now; conjure up one of those doors so I can get the hell out of here!"

Poe began to cry. She didn't know why she was here; she didn't know why she'd left the last place, didn't know if it was on purpose or by accident, if it was her choice or theirs, if it was the labyrinth's choice. And now, here she was, in a place she neither knew nor understood nor desired, trapped again with someone blaming and yelling, asking not only the impossible of her but the unfathomably terrifying. Go back into the labyrinth? Poe wished, every second with every fibre, that the labyrinth had never even existed - and this girl, this stranger, demanded of her to simply open it up - open herself up - and let her walk its paths in search of non-specific 'out'. For all Poe knew, the labyrinth was 'out', and that thought was more horrifying than any other.

"I can't." She answered, her voice smooth and calm and low, despite the steady stream of tears from her eyes as she sat up, turning around to face Quinn and her accusing finger. "It's not a place. It's not conjured. We didn't get here through a labyrinth. We got here through me, through my head! And I... I just want to sleep. Just for a bit." She faltered, unable to project strength any longer. "_{Please... I can't go back in there...}".

Roman's Scrapbin

Poe running away from the suited/lab-coated people in the labyrinth, endless corridors etc etc

crashes through the door ahead of the group as seen in collab post - mistakes Tachyon's white clothes for more lab-wear, scared of Mothman convinced it's a nightmare conjured up by the labyrinth, 'supported' by how odd it is to see Quinn as well at all of 11-inches-high, runs from them in fear. they chase, poe's getting more wound up, door manifests and she just takes it out of sheer panic - they end up following. entire crew crashes through into alcatraz ju-v.

time skip, cut to poe in the room, trying to figure out what's going on and handle this most recent development. she's already forgotten the other aegis officials she locked away, can't remember where she's come from or why, just knows she's here through the labyrinth (again). quinn shouts and winds her up, ultimately she snaps and yells back in tears.

Roman's Scrapbin

do some research on the fae

Roman's Scrapbin

_{#1.05: TBC}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

GCPD Detective Arnold Flass leaned against the roof of his car as a cigarette hung from his mouth, trailing smoke up into the night air in front of his five'o'clock-shadow face. He ran a hand through his hair, greased and pressed back, and then took a drag from the cig. His eyes, muddy and narrowed, never wavered. There, across the empty and weed-ridden forecourt of the abandoned Gotham Bay meat packing plant, was the reason for his un-scheduled arrival here tonight: a busted-open door, hanging loosely on its hinges, the chain meant to secure it instead broken, warped, and discarded on the concrete ground in the entryway.

---

Flass getting out of car at meat packing plant to investigate - silent alarm has been tripped, Flass is on duty so sent by Cranston to check it out. Place should be closed for the night and is used for their drug ring operation so who's breaking in? Flass has an idea, but doesn't want to entertain it. Stubs his cigarette out and heads on in, pistol drawn.

Encounters the Bat. Ambush, scuffle, Flass actually manages to fight back, eventually overpowered and knocked out. Wakes up restrained and hooked onto the carcass conveyor; the Bat interrogates.

---

Roman's Scrapbin

Det. Arnold Flass
Ring of narcotic detectives who run a drug supply
Leader of ring (Lieutenant Bill Cranston) collects the supply and passes on to detectives to then supply a list of authorised dealers.
Dealers not on the list are busted by narc squad.
List comes from ‘The Penguin’ but no one’s actually met him or knows who he actually is.
Lead of narc squad resupplies every third Thursday during a night shift.

Ambushes Flass but Flass actually manages to fight back
Scuffle, Flass get knocked out. Wakes up in an abandoned abbatoir/meat-packing plant - one that the narc unit previously raided as drugs were being shipped inside carcasses. shut down the operation (as a 'win' for GCPD and some raises/awards for the narc unit) and then took it over for the Penguin.

‘Please god don’t kill me’
‘You’re praying to the wrong person’

Some Oswald stuff, some GCPD stuff with Jimmy and Harvey
‘I quit smoking’
‘You looked daft, Gotham only city where quitting hurts your life expectancy’

Flass brought before Penguin for blabbing.
Bird puns. ‘Squawking’, ‘canary’, ‘stool pigeon’ etc.

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.