DCAM Wiki - New pages [en]

2012-03-19 - He Has A PhD In... Something...

2012-03-20T19:04:16Z

Vellius: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=He Has A PhD In... Something... |Summary=A drunken supervillain's latest attempt at making a comeback goes awry. |Who=Kinetic and Doctor Light (emi..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=He Has A PhD In... Something...
|Summary=A drunken supervillain's latest attempt at making a comeback goes awry.
|Who=[[Kinetic]] and [[Doctor Light]] (emitted by [[Amethyst]])
|Date=2012-03-19
|Where=Metropolis Mall, Metropolis
|}}

"H-hey--" a trembling boutique clerk murmurs. Across from her, Doctor Light - who nearly tripped over his own cape on the way into the store - quickly whips his head around, eyes darting manically for signs of cops or superheroes; the sudden movement leaves him dizzied, and the glowing hand he's using to keep the clerk obedient falls to the counter so that he can steady himself.

They're a few stores in on the first floor of the Metropolis Mall, and before Light arrived, business was a little on the slow side--enough so that the clerk was engrossed in a magazine when the villain first tried to hold her up.

"--aren't-aren't you the guy," she mumbles while mashing the little button hidden beneath her counter, "those shape--shapeshifting twins caught robbing a laser tag--"

"/Shut./ /Up,/" Light growls as he snaps his head up to glare at the woman, who starts a little at the sharp rise in his voice. "Money. Bag--"

"Freeze!"

The clerk lets out a small sigh of relief as taser-armed mall security guards gather on the shop's threshhold, and Light half-scowls, half stares at the woman in shock; his head is soon whipping between she and they as he tries to decide how best to avoid another term in Belle Reve.

He doesn't even want to /think/ of what the Monocle'll do to him if they cross paths in the yard again.

Ethan didn't often come to the mall but since he needed some new supplies, he was there. Of course when he noticed a super villain in one of the stores, it took him a moment to register that it was a threat and he should do something about it. So he ducked back outside the mall and found a place to get changed. Now, Kinetic is flying his way back into the mall. Back in his usual red costume, the blond teen blinks when he sees a security guard has beaten him to the scene. Landing in the opening to the store as well, he looks to the guard and then the villainous doctor. "Uhh...yeah. You'll probably want to give up whoever you are."

"How--*hic*--/dare/--" the Doctor sputters, whirling to fix bloodshot eyes on the offending lawkeeper; after doing a double-take to confirm that there really /is/ a spandex-clad teenager there now, he scowls at the boy.

As much as anything else, he scowls to keep up an appearance of strength in spite of the nauseating waves of deja vu washing over him. /Another/ teenager in a costume. Of /course/ it had to be that; why, oh why did he have to come /here/ of all places?

He sucks in a deep, bracing breath and steels himself; as he exhales, he extends shaking, warmly glowing hands out before himself.

"I," he snarls, the booze on his breath wafting throughout the store, "am Doctor Light!" He punctuates this firing a golden beam from his fingertips, and while it seems at first to be headed for the young superhero's chest--

--it veers wildly off course and winds up careening through the store instead. The clerk shrieks and ducks down as clothing racks are knocked aside in the errant blast's wake, and a very surprised Doctor Light is already backing away from the entryway.

Kinetic stares at the Doctor for a moment then sighs. The scent of alcohol and the man's appearance are enough to confirm the guy's drunk. And really, Kinetic's had enough with drunks after the whole St. Patrick's day thing. He strengthens his bodyfield to take the blast when it looks like its coming his way but just ends up staring again when it veers off. "Crudmuffins!" he yelps. "Hey, you get the clerk out of here and I'll deal with Dr. Drinky over there, okay?" he says to the security guard. Not waiting for a response, Kinentic starts walking towards Dr. Light. "Seriously, dude. You're in no condition to fight so you should probably give up before you get hurt."

As the guards hustle to take advantage of the villain's pulled focus, Doctor Light points his index finger at the telekinetic hero; a slim, tightly focused beam slices through the air, only to dissipate harmlessly against Kinetic's field.

"Hells," the Doctor growls. He shuffles further backwards, bumping up against the counter as guards lead the clerk along the store's wall to the entryway; with a blurry line of heroes trying to goad him into a surrender, he doesn't even notice the evacuation.

"Who the hell're you even supposed to be, huh?" he slurs as colourful motes of light swirl and crackle around his hands. "Telling /me/ what to do? /You/?" His voice rises anger as he continues, until he's actually spitting foamy flecks of rage with each word. "A /child/?" The neon sign of the store across the way explodes into a shower of sparks; it is, thankfully, a harmless, if dramatic display.

"/Who do you think you are/?!" he screams as the sign above /this/ store explodes and rains sparks down.

Kinetic grunts slightly when the beam hits his field, the attack slightly stronger than anticipated. He shakes it off and takes another step forward. "I'm just making a suggestion, Doctor," he says, trying to stay calm. There's a frown at being called a child and the explosions make him jump. "DUDE! Cut it out!" he yelps. "I'm Kinetic."

"Kinetic," Doctor Light mutters beneath his breath as he takes a step towards the hero. "Some comeback /this/ is--" He plants his foot on a fallen headband, slips, and flails for a moment before managing to wrap his arms around a sturdily rooted mannequin.

Once steadied, he loudly exhales, lifts his gaze - and still glowing hand - to the teenager; the former burns with cloudy rage, while the latter just burns when a sizzling solar ray lances from his palm, slicing a path along the store floor as it advances on Kinetic.

"I'm going to tell everyone you were someone /famous/ when I get out of here!" he promises. "Somebody they've at least /heard/ of!"

Kinetic winces as Doctor Light stumbles. "Man..." he trails off. "why do I run into the weird super villains?" he asks no one in particular. When that blast comes his way, Kinetic yelps. He lifts his hands and projects a telekinetic barrier to try defending against the burning ray. "I'm still new, of course I'm not famous!"

The beam cascades off of Kinetic's shield in hot, bright waves for several seconds--until the effort of maintaining it while keeping his footing and maintaining his one-armed grip on the mannequin gets to be too much for him; something has to give, and this time - for the nonce - it won't be his balance.

"Whose /sidekick/ are you?" he hisses before pushing off of the mannequin to charge at the telekinetic hero.

To his credit, he doesn't step on any debris on the way--in fact, he doesn't have to worry about aborting a fall of any kind; his flailing, wobbly-limbed stride is, of course, ridiculous.

"Tell me you're at least /that/ much!" he demands, curling his glowing hands into fists. He manages all of one wild haymaker in the telekinetic's general direction, and while his accuracy may leave something to be desired, the scintillating energies swirling around his fist could prove dangerous should contact be made.

Kinetic grits his teeth as the beam presses against his shield, putting effort into maintaining it. He ends up needing to close his eyes to shield against the brightness. When he can't feel the beam pressing against his shield anymore, he drops it and lets out a breath.

"Sorry, no one's sidekick," he replies. "Superman and Batman were real jerks to me once if that makes you feel better," he says. He's still seeing spots but thankfully, Kinetic doesn't need his eyes to know the Doctor's coming. He dodges back and swings an awkward punch of his own at Dr. Light.

*KRAK!*

Awkward though it may be, Kinetic's one punch is all it takes to set off a catastrophic chain of events for the unbalanced Doctor. His body reels back with the impact, sending his left arm flailing out wildly; his arm winds up tangled in a hanging display of shirts, and in his haste to try and free himself he jerks back a little /too/ hard, tumbles backwards, and bangs his head against an already damaged shelf.

"Ooogh..." he groans, stars in his eyes. He tries to get a grip on the shelf to pull himself up, but the wood gives way beneath him; he winds up on his back with a wee pile of balsa wood splinters sprinkled around him.

"Urrrgh..."

He does not try to get up again.

"Alright, kid!" one of the security guards hollers as he sprints back onto the scene; he's got his taser at the ready in one hand, and his other is resting on a canister of mace. "Read--"

He skids to a halt in the entryway, looks at Light, then looks at Kinetic.

"/Really/?" he quizzically murmurs with an arching brow.

"Okay, ow," Kinetic mutters, shaking his fist. He needs more practice punching things. He blinks when he gets a look at what happened to Dr. Light. "Oh wow! One punch!" he laughs a little, surprised. He jumps when the guard hollers, glancng over his shoulder. "Yeah, sorry but I took care of it," he says, taking some zip ties out of his belt. "Might want to call the cops."

"Huh." He stares at Doctor Light for a few moments more before shaking his head, turning away, and grabbing his cell phone.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need a couple of Sci-Police at the Metropolis Mall," he quietly tells the person on the other end of the line. "Some..." He glances over his shoulder at Light one last time. "... I don't know, I guess supervillain? Tried to hold one of the salespeople up..."

Between the blows to the head and the alcohol, Light has already slipped into a semi-conscious fog; he does little more than lie there groaning as he's tied down.

Kinetic uses his TK to fasten the zip-ties. He even props the Doctor up gently so that he won't drown if he vomits while out cold. He makes sure the guard has things in hand after that before starting for the exit. "Right, take care now. Oh yeah...I'm Kinetic. Forgot to introduce myself last time I helped people," he chuckles, giving a quick mock-salute as he flies his way back out of the mall.

Scene Running Guide

2012-03-10T07:07:31Z

Booster Gold: Created page with "This is a basic guide for structuring and running scenes on DCAM or any other game. These are only suggestions meant to aid in the process, and should not be taken as requirem..."

This is a basic guide for structuring and running scenes on DCAM or any other game. These are only suggestions meant to aid in the process, and should not be taken as requirements.

It helps to think of a scene as having four phases, each of which will be detailed below. Thinking of a scene as having this kind of structure can help with pacing. For example, if you know your group has four hours to play, you'll want to make sure you start Phase II by the time your first hour has passed, to ensure there's enough time there to get through the meat of the scene and not have to end abruptly.

===Phase I: Exposition===

::This part of the scene is all about introducing the location and the objective (the problem at hand or the problem about to develop). Generally, one begins with an introductory pose to set up the situation. The set-up can be several minutes before the excitement happens, precisely at the moment the excitement starts or already in the middle of the burgeoning action (in medias res). Let the players have one if not two pose rounds to explain how his or her character is involved. This time will also enable them to set their characters in position for the core of the scene. At this point, the premise of the scene should be clear to the players.

::'''Note:''' Scene balance is important. If you have three non-powered characters in a scene, throwing Darkseid at them is unlikely to be fun or fair. Or, if an attack is happening in the air or up on a high building, make sure that characters have a means to get to the action, or can assist others into the fray.

===Phase II: Rising Action===

::This is usually the longest part of the scene. In this portion you should bring out the villain(s) or obstacles that bring conflict to the heroes, if they were not revealed in the introduction. A struggle, an argument, a chase, a fight; these are all valid threats. Once you have a good flow going, this can be a good place to add a twist in the story or a temporary defeat, as long as it isn't a scene-buzzkill. It should just be a bit of spice or excitement to enhance the steady buildup to the next phase.

::While it is good to have a firm idea of what your scene is about, being flexible is also important. Players will always come up with novel ways to deal with a threat. Combat might occur in a non-combat scene or vice versa. I find it is generally best to err on the side of what would be awesome.

===Phase III: The Climax===

::The final confrontation. Solving the mystery or finding the prize. The decisive blow, the capture or, possibly, the escape of the threat.

::This is when the questions raised by the premise introduced in Phase I should be answered, regardless of whether the hero 'saves the day' or not. The goal is not to 'win the scene' but to have an interesting and fun time during the entire ride. For example, if a villain gets away, the hero-player has not lost a prize--he's won the opportunity to feel more personally motivated in the future when they clash again, as they invariably will.

===Phase IV: Falling Action===

::Once the situation is dealt with, leave a little room for a short wind-down, allowing the heroes a chance to reflect on the situation or touch base with each other or deal with casualties or speak with authorities or make a dopey parting quip to close the scene. While the formally run scene itself may end at this point, it'll give the characters involved something to talk about, follow up on or fume about as they plot revenge which will spur further roleplay.

::Of course, this is a good place to stick an additional hook for a future scene if you'd like to do a continuing story or a sequel.

===Additional Notes===

::If you end up with a roster of characters that are more powerful than the threat you have presented, it is perfectly okay to rebalance as you go to keep things fun and challenging. A villain can call in minions, or perhaps another villain was busy doing other things and joins in late. Some caution should be exercised; this is meant to avoid having the scenario end within two rounds. You should not randomly pull in a new threat just to defeat characters who are fairly saving the day.

::Sometimes in the course of a scene, players need to drop out for various reasons. Ideally, there will be some fore-warning and this can be worked into the scene; having the character knocked out, or called away, or some other excuse as to why they can no longer be present. Occasionally the player will also give permission to have their character used as an NPC for the rest of the scene, if the scenario does not allow for a graceful exit.

::There is the option of pausing and picking up later, although in general I do not favour this because with scenes that have a larger population it can be very difficult to get everyone together again to continue in a timely manner. Leaving people scene-locked is never fun, so if this route is taken my suggestion is to have the scene not IC'ly occur until it is finished.

::Finally, if you want to run a scene but find your inspiration lacking, the +hook machine is there to provide scene prompts. These do not have to be followed verbatim, it is just a tool to help get the creative juices flowing.

Princess Amethyst

2012-03-09T04:34:25Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Princess Amethyst
|Image=[[Image:PrincessA01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Amy Winston
|Alias=Princess Amethyst
|Species=Homo Magi
|Age=17/24
|Affiliation=None
|Quote=''"I am Amethyst, princess of Gemworld!"''
|Powers= 
* Sorcery
* Archery
* Swordsmanship
|}}'''Princess Amethyst''' is the exiled rule of [[Gemworld]], a mystical, magical realm where she discovered her power.

==Background/Timeline==

* On her thirteenth birthday, Amy Winston received a magical amethyst necklace; it transported her to the magical dimension Gemworld, where she instantly transformed into a full-grown woman. There, she is Princess Amethyst, rightful ruler of Gemworld.

* Amy made more jaunts to Gemworld over the months that followed, terrifying her parents with each days or weeks-long disappearance. She was guided by the Witch-Mother Citrina, who told Amy of how she spirited the newborn daughter of Lord and Lady Amethyst to Earth to protect her from Dark Opal, the dread tyrant who ruled over much of Gemworld; with the help of Citrina and a bevy of new friends from Gemworld's twelve kingdoms, Amethyst was given a crash course in conjury and combat to prepare her for an inevitable battle with Dark Opal and his forces. Though she and her friends suffered a number of setbacks and losses - including the death of Citrina - during their adventure, they were eventually victorious.

* Rather than immediately return to her life of adolescent normality, Amy continued journeying to Gemworld to protect her friends from new threats--until the day when Mordru the Merciless came to lay claim to Gemworld. Amethyst fought alongside a number of Earth's sorcerors to imprison him in stone somewhere far away; in the aftermath, she had a few minutes to speak with Dr. Fate.

* Dr. Fate swiftly, and in no uncertain terms informed Amethyst that Citrina's romanticized version of her origins was a lie, that she was conceived by Lady Amethyst and a Lord of Order as Castle Amethyst was besieged by Dark Opal and the forces of Chaos. Her parents loved one another, and they loved their daughter; they still agreed with the Witch-Mother when she proposed hiding the child away until she was of age to be trained as a weapon against their foes. Then he left.

* Thoroughly disenchanted, Amethyst left too--never to return; with her parents' marriage crumbling under the stress of her disappearances, she spent the next few years trying to get her life back on track. Now and again, Gemworld sent envoys and messengers to Earth, urging her to return and protect her native world; she bitterly ignored them all.

* Not long after she turned seventeen, a final envoy visited Amy: Flaw, a monstrous crystalline golem who sought to murder her parents at the behest of his master. Though she managed - barely - to stop him, her subsequent efforts to return to Gemworld and investigate his appearance were futile: the portals she took for granted wouldn't open, and more focused teleportation magics were useless. The evil Gemworld begged her to protect it from had finally taken control, and she was powerless against it.

* Plagued by guilt, she now patrols Metropolis and abroad in the hopes of discovering some way back to Gemworld--and to atone for her selfishness.

==Personality==

* Confident: Despite the awful things wrapped up in her experiences on Gemworld, there's no denying how much Amy learned and grew from them--and nobody is more aware of that than Amy herself. She is far more sure of herself and her abilities now than she was four years ago, but this hard-earned resolve sometimes tips dangerously into youthful arrogance, leaving her vulnerable to smarter or more experienced opponents.

* Strong-Willed: Her abandonment of Gemworld notwithstanding, Amy's resolve to see whatever goals she sets for herself through to the end is fairly strong; even /after/ shirking her magical responsibilities, the adroitness with which she got her post-Gemworld life back on track speaks to this determination.

* Cynical: The youthful wonder that tempered Amy's earliest adventures as Amethyst is all but gone, replaced by the disillusionment of a young woman who feels as though she now knows better. While not outright, aggressively pessimistic, she is easily roused to suspicion, particularly where adults are concerned; between her father and Citrina, she's had to deal with her fair share of dishonest authority figures.

* Anger: While it would be unfair to describe her as short-tempered, when Amy /is/ roused to anger - often by dishonesty or other injustices - the shift can be explosive. As Amy, this can lead to loud arguments, though outright violence is rare, as she isn't the type; as Amethyst, tapping into this anger can actually be somewhat beneficial, as it intensifies her spell-casting. It can also be quite dangerous, for obvious reasons.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-03-04 - Rockstarz Karaoke Bar Opening Night

2012-03-06T06:01:48Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=Rockstarz Karaoke Bar Opening Night
|Summary=Liberty Belle, AKA Jesse Chambers, has extended a invitation to various superheroes to show up as normals for an opening of the new Rockstarz Karaoke Bar. Everything goes as planned?
|Who=[[Liberty Belle]], [[Speedy]], [[Kinetic]], [[Raven]], [[Superman]], [[Wonder Woman]], [[Cassandra Cain]]
|Date=March 4th, 2012
|Where=Rockstarz Karaoke Bar, New York City, New York
|}}

==[ RP Suite 2 ]==

The outside of this Karaoke Bar is almost normal in signage - 'THE ROCKSTARZ BAR' it proclaims, which might make one almost wince in irony, but in reality, the tinted windows and the occasionally thumping beat from the building coming out when people enter and exit marks it as pretty hopping.

There's that, and the 'opening night' sign hanging over the building as well, which is about why the crowd standing outside is ridiculously large.

Entering the bar requires getting ID'd, and a mandatory coat check in a warm area. Two dark curtains, aiming to cut off the sound from the actual bar area and when one steps through, it's pretty clear why: the speakers are top of the line and it's loud - but still not loud enough to drown out quiet conversations. Indeed, it seems to be the perfect type of bar to have fun and still carry on ... under the table deals.

The layout of the bar is not really traditional: going through the curtains takes you to the very back of the room, which is very open floor plan and very large. Two bars run up the side of the room, about half of the way over them, providing ample stools to sit in. The reason the bars don't end up all the way wall to wall is the center stage provided, just large enough for a four person band. Around the stage and to the edge of the bars is dancing space, with small tables taking up the area between the bars for more seating arrangements.

Everything is dark polished mahogany, with rough bits here and there. It is not an elite bar. It is, however, with the pictures of the best of the 80's bands and vocal performers around, very old-school, and kind of awesome, considering the various displays over the bars.

Just past the end of the bars, two circular staircases go up into a mezzanine area, which consists of two fifteen-person private rooms, with the option to leave the doors open to be able to look down on the dance floor and the stage.

The waitresses and bar-types are all very into the style of the bar, with jeans and shoulderpads, some leg warmers, mini skirts... all of the good and the bad of the fashion of that time, and more. It's almost campy.

Welcome to Rockstarz.

Sing your heart out.
==============================================================================

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Roy G. Harper, Jr., is slightly fucked. Jesse Chambers managed to bail on him and everyone is streaming in, and the microphone on the stage is empty. All she asked was for him to cover for ten minutes. Anything. Be silly. Be stupid. Amuse them. Save her ass, yet again (not that he ever really did that, either, mind): just be Roy.

After all, she'll pay him back.
She promised.

ACDC's 'For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)' is playing in the background.

Speedy? Showtime. Amuse them.

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

To be honest, Raven is not the party girl, far far from the normal teenager girl stereotype, the sorceress' idea of fun consisted of locking herself in her room with a book, the further apart the covers the better. Sure, replace the book with a laptop and maybe Raven wasn't as far from the stereotype as she would like to think. Deep down she is liable to very human weaknesses, anger, happiness, laziness, bravery..it was why she undertook such grueling training, so that her emotions could never get the better of her. Useful for controlling would be demons inside of her, but her training sadly didn't cover very many stress managing techniques.

Raven was stressed, she truly was. This superhero stuff was getting to her and she's been making more and more mistakes lately, mistakes than in her profession could be fatal for her and others. Which is why she decides to leave the comfort of the Titan Tower and brave the outside world, even if Starfire wasn't pulling her kicking and screaming every step of the way.

Thinking that just about any bar would do, fate takes her to this aptly named establishment Rockstarz and the sorceress just ambles in cloak and all to sit at an empty table. As she sits there staring to the abyss, the thought strikes her that she doesn't really know what people do at parties.

Guess she'll just have to wait and see.

Hopefully there aren't any adventurers in this bar, she has the nasty tendency of attracting them like a magnet due to her mysterious cloaked stranger attire. She really doesn't feel like handing out quests either.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

Roy grumbles as he steps out towards the stage from the back, taking a deep breath as he runs a hand through his hair, ensuring its just disheveled enough to look stylish. The light hits, and the spotlight shines down on him as he walks over to the microphone in the center of the karoke stage.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Roy, and I'm here to try and keep you pacified until the lady who put this all together manages to return." There's a few moments where he's wondering JUST what in the hell he's going to do or say, but then he decides on what just to do.

"I am going to request that everyone enjoys a drink on me, and try and relax until we're fully ready to kick off tonights festivities. Of course, if drinking isn't your thing.. You could always just head on over to the big book o' songs and get your song requests in while we wait."

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan Webb really hated that he'd been roped into this. His parents had been the ones invited but had gotten sick and couldn't go. That would have been the end of it but they insisted that Ethan go in their place to say something to the friends they were supposed to meet. And that's why the young man is there now. With a little band around his wrist indicating that he isn't to be given alcohol, the blond's wandered away from the boring adults that didn't want anything to do with him. Leaning against a wall near the stage, he's actually debating hitting the song book.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Roy's ass is saved basically because of Jesse being a speedster. All of the the lights click off in the bar, aside from the faint bar lights for the bartenders to see on, and Roy is hustled off of the stage as a voice comes up on microphone: male, not Roy: "Once upon a time... not so long ago..."

Then a single light comes on, shining down on ... Jesse?

The woman's blonde hair is all teased out, light, fluffy: a denim miniskirt over black leggings, and a pair of hightops paired with fluffy ankle socks. A over-sized off the shoulders sweater hangs on her top, with a pair of dangling golden earrings.. and a microphone, glancing over the darkened room.

"Welcome to Rockstarz. Thank you, Roy, for your general kindness; you've done a lot for me today." Jesse tosses out his way. "Some of you had certain reasons to contact me, and trust me, I'll be talking to you privately later - but for now, enjoy the drinks ... or the soda." Jesse eyes Ethan. Figures. "And the music."

The lights die down again, before it they all kick up at once along with the music. "Tommy used to work on the docks... union's been on strike, he's down on his luck, he's tough..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDK9QqIzhwk

"Oh... so tough." Jesse is a fairly good singer.

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Raven decides that she doesn't need to be covered by her cloak if it's going to get dark anyway. Removing her hood, a purple eyed glance is cast to the stage where some people seem to fumble about themselves to attend their guests. It hardly concerns her however as she's not in any immediate need of any service, although she's apathetic and generally reeking of party killer vibe, at least she's a polite customer and accepts the offer for a free booze getting a surprisingly girly drink with an Appletini. Getting anything stronger would probably not suit her very much.

Once the lights deem, she stands from her seat to check out the song book. Might as well enjoy herself and perhaps she can request an equally morbid song that will match her mood.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

Roy quickly makes his way off the stage, giving Jesse a quick thumbs up. Thank the heavens that his job is done, and now he can get onto getting out of the limelight.

Navigating through the crowds, Roy makes his way to the bar, reaching behind it to grab a bottle of water. Jesse's done a lot of work, so he's taking a liberty himself and snagging a bottle of water before he's roped into going back onto the stage.

"God, this isn't as bad as it could be.."

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan just sighs when eyed. He's not the type that would be going for the booze even if he didn't have that band on his wrist. Not enough peer pressure for that. Thinking about it does get him thirsty though. Wandering over to the bar, he spots Roy first and guesses he's the bartender. "Hey, could I get one of those sodas, please?" he asks.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

"Huh? Oh, sorry. I'm not the bartender, but I don't think they're going to really notice if I grab one for you." A quick grab, and one of the cans behind the bar is snagged, only for Roy to toss it at the kid. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rather crumpled ten dollar bill which is left on the bartop for whenever the bartender manages to get over to it.

"You look to be a bit young hanging around in a bar. So, you have a killer fake ID or something?" A slight wink and a grin is given towards Ethan, as Roy once more scans the audience, trying to look for key figures he may or may not know.

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

Free drinks? Awkward, attractive teenagers? Public humiliation?

This is the kind of party an awful lot of people would love...

Others can't even begin to understand the appeal. There's a special type of word for people that turn up at parties they don't really want to be at, with no idea what they're going to do when they get there, who wear introspective frowns on their darkly made-up faces when they make an approach to said party. Just like the teenage girl clad all in black, from scuffed Doc Marten's and black leggings, black denim shorts and - a pattern begins to unveil itself - black midriff-baring baby tee and short, BLACK leather jacket. There's definitely a word for those kind of people, particularly when they've topped it off with purple lipstick and heavily-applied eyeshadow, equally dark hair flopping across their lowered eyes. What's that word, again?

Oh, right.

Goths.

But unlike the poseurs of this world, Cassandra Cain /really/ doesn't belong here. Her gaze flitters around with guarded caution as she navigates through the bustle to reach the curtains surrounding the rear area, Batman's latest outcast protégé glad at least for the dim lighting as she reaches out with one hand - clad in a very eighties fingerless glove - to brush the separation aside and duck her head through the gap. She pauses for a moment, quickly taking stock of the scene; as though it were a dangerous backstreet slum more than a happening partay, and then she releases a breath and steps inside, the curtain falling behind her.

A couple of nearby heads turn immediately. It might be an understatement to say she's ill at ease, but the little runaway wears her look well. She holds herself well, too, all quiet poise as she slips through the gathering throng to instinctively pop up alongside the only person who looks even vaguely like she might provide some form of likeminded company. Blend in; that's the first rule of going unnoticed amongst a crowd. Which is why Cassie emerges beside the Titans own testament to the power of goth.

Hazel eyes peek sidelong at the other girl, and her lips part in readiness, to offer a greeting:

"......"

Hoo boy. It's time to kick this party into overdrive.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan blinks then sighs. He starts to apologize but ends up snagging the soda out of the air instead. "Thanks," he glances at the bill put down. "Thanks twice," he adds with a grin. "They let me in as long as I have this," he lifts his hand and shows off the band on his wrist. "Allowed in as long as I don't try to drink any booze."

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Jesse's song wraps up relatively well and easily, and there's a collective 'phew' noise from some members of the audience before someone else replaces her with some good old fashioned ACDC from the 80's. Jesse winds her way through the tables, pausing just once to take in the scene as Roy and Ethan converse.

However, her attention is on a waiter, one who visibly pauses when Cassandra Cain pops up right next to Raven. The poor waiter seems to understand that maybe he should be over there -------> and duly departs.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

"Nice." A slight nod is given towards the wristband on Ethan's wrist, as Roy notices Jesse finishing up her song, only for her to make her ways towards them, and then get distracted. "Well kiddo, I think you should get up there and sing for us."

Whatever it is that Roy is plotting, he's obviously got something planned as he notices that no one really wants to get up there and truly sing at the moment. It IS a karoke bar.

"Go pick a song, since everyone is being wallflowers. I'll try to make a call to bring one of the best people for parties ever. You'll thank me for it."

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

"It's Ethan," the blond introduces himself. When its suggested he should sing, Ethan goes pale. "Wh-what? Me sing? But...I uh...what should I sing?" he asks, suddenly nervous. Facing down supervillains...easy. Getting on stage in front of a bunch of people...not so much.

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Darkness attracts darkness, that much Raven can attest to even in an otherwise jovial place such as this. The dark sorceress sure tends to appear as a walking, breathing certification of Murphey's Law in a way that if she's anywhere in the vicinity one can be absolutely certain trouble was closely behind her steps. Sometimes it would be horrid Eldricht abominations, warping from the deepest bowels of the abyss to usurp her body and devour the immortal soul of any hapless victim that happened to be around her at that moment. Other times it would be simply attracting more of her type, emo, broody teenagers.

The jury is still out on which one is worse.

Raven would like to say that Cain's prowling abilities are so advanced that she catches her off guard. But the sorceress is perfectly aware of her own nature as a magnet of trouble and about the millisecond she felt a dark presence sliding next to her she merely sighed knowing full well that she was probably not going to enjoy whatever she was going to see as she turned around.

Violet eyes meet Hazel and Raven stares at a kindred soul in the form of Cassandra giving her a silent nod of understanding once she sees her expression.

"......"

Clearly, that's like the Goths' secret handshake

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Jesse comes up behind Ethan and says, calmly, "Whatever in the world you want to. The 80's has good music, when you get to the back, talk to the DJ. She'll be able to figure out something that'll make you look good and be fun to see." Over Ethan's head, she grins at Roy.

"Who in the world are you inviting, Harper?"

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

There's a certain tension in the shoulders when Raven first turns around, Cassandra's mouth closing in the wake of her silence - attempt at any actual speech aborted in favour of maintaining that level stare. She was briefed before coming out, and told that 'mingling' is what you do at parties; that it's a good place to meet people and make friends. She's dubious up until the moment that her fellow gloomypants offers that nod, and then her shoulders relax, just enough to express herself in lieu of that which would be sin cardinal...

Instead of *shudder* smiling like normal people, she nods back, chin dipping but gaze not removed from Raven's for an instant. When she straightens up, it's with a determined intake of breath, only released when she jerks her expressive chin toward the book in front of the other girl. She considers for a moment, mouth puckering into her left cheek as though chewing over the mysteries of life itself; as goths are want to do.

And then she glances at Raven again, quirking an eyebrow. "...?" She asks.

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

The greeting is what Raven would consider cordial, she's elated in fact, as one can plainly see by her half narrowed, sleep deprived eyes, to see someone with enough sense on her head to know that life truly is nothing but sadness and despair. Let not yourself be fooled by the happy ambiance of the party people, they are all crying on the inside, Raven is just honest enough with herself to demonstrate accordingly.

However, that doesn't stop her from socializing. Sadness is always much better when it is shared after all and she sees in Cassandra a trustworthy enough confidant to let her know of her plans.

No words need to be spoken, at Cassandra's silent quandary, the dark sorceress with a simple gesture of her own to show the other mysterious girl what she's planning. ".....!" Exclaims she.

Perhaps she'll like her idea as she shows her 'Lucretia, My Reflection by The Sisters of Mercy' see what she thinks.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan doesn't seem surprised at all when Jesse appears, having sensed her walk up. "I don't know the music of the 80's though..." he trails off. "Or the 90's for that matter," the blond has never known much music. Nodding, he heads off to talk with DJ as suggested.

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

Indeed, this world of parties and idle chatter is an impenetrably strange one, frequented by those who seem not to know the first thing about the reality around them. On this city block alone - right this second - there are seventeen crimes taking place, though at least half a dozen of these should be swiftly prevented in the next minute by the person responsible for Cassie's fine display of costuming. Particularly the eye-liner.

It turns out being a highly-skilled human weapon doesn't prepare a girl for applying her own make-up, and she'd spent half an hour leant over the sink, splashing cold water incessantly into her right eye before deciding enough was enough, and asking for help. That's true pain. That's real suffering.

They /definitely/ understand one another.

Raven's statement draws a blink of black-rimmed eyes, the younger inceptive-goth immediately glancing toward the stage with a meaningful widening of the same. There's something of a 'deer in headlights' look to her now, though, somewhat ruining the grace suggested by her toned and ebon-clad form. It doesn't get any better when her attention is drawn to the book below, gaze canting down, mouth once more pinching to the side.

Her shoulders hunch, an almost suspicious glance going to Raven, and then once more to the stage. A hand lifts to her chin as the other folds over her bared abdominals. An instant later, it's like a lightbulb has gone off. A very black lightbulb. Fingertips cupping her cheek, she looks back to the Titan.

Her chin dips, and the opposite edge of her mouth tugs into an encouragingly sardonic smirk.

"......!!"

It's about as excited as any goth should be allowed to get.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

The DJ looks at Ethan.

"DeBarge. Rhythm of the Night." She says, professionally. "It's either that or Cyndi Lauper."

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan just nods. He's never heard of the song but he's figuring the DJ knows what she's talking about. Taking a deep breath, he heads up on stage and waits for his cue to begin. Once he gets it, Ethan gives the best performance he can. He's not a bad singer but he probably thinks he's being terrible.

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Truly, bone shattering and limb wracking fights against criminals and demons alike pale in comparison to the woes such as them must endure in their miserable existence. How can anyone expect them to keep the streets clean from scum when they have not even been properly educated in the arts of black lip gloss and pale mascara? Morale is just as important in the world of crime fighting as powers are, if they cannot express their inner angst true their fashion, then their dark powers cannot manifest with their true power.

See? This kind of stuff is important, people should /really/ not make light of it.

But wallowing in the despair that is life will have to wait for now, this moment was a moment of mischief, a moment of expression to let break the sickeningly happy atmosphere of the bar and share the despair with all present. Raven's eyes narrow when Cassandra silently approves of her devious plan and offers yet another nod of agreement. The stage is set and she is ready.

".......o/~" A regal flick of her cloak signals that she is ready to proceed giving Cassandra the honors of being apathy's very own emissary for tonight.

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

Looking in the mirror back in the hallway of Stately Wayne Manor, Gotham's newest dark vigilante wasn't sure about this look - she's never had a 'look' before, but now she's found a comparison and can watch it at work on someone else... she likes it, that encouraging gesture threatening to become quite the pleased smile as Raven stylishly billows her enshrouding garment, eye narrowed and aspect dramatic.

But she keeps it in check. She's new to this, but she's a /fast/ learner.

A neophyte pupil of made-up misery she may be, but Cassie certainly delivers on the apathy as Ethan takes to the stage before the Titan can play her hand. The raven-haired runaway's devilish little smirk slips surely to a nonplussed stare, and then her brow crinkles into a frown as the song proceeds. New in general to most forms of actual honest-to-god culture, this is her first full-blown exposure to the combination of timpani and synthesizers, and she's not sure she likes it. She waits until the young undercover hero is done...

And then tips her head to one side curiously, gaze canting to take in a group of drunken revellers who actually break out into applause. She glances at Raven, as if checking if this reaction is 'normal', and then resolutely folds her arms across her chest, chin dipping as she sinks beneath the dark bangs of her fringe. When it's all over, she flicks her eyes sidelong once more with an expectant, "......!?"

She's so got this.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAQSZhazYk8

Rhythm of The Night is fairly catchy and it gets people on the dance floor, so even if Ethan does massively flub, no one gives a crap. Jesse, from the bar, gives the boy a big thumbs up and a just as big of a grin. She's managed to conquer a Bloody Mary from somewhere, as well, not that she's been really drinking it.

However, blue eyes flick over to Cassandra and Raven. "... ?" She asks, absently to herself.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan's blushing furiously as he leaves the stage. That's the most embarrassing thing he's ever done. Out of costume anyway. Stepping back over near the bar, he looks to Jesse. "I wasn't bad?"

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Raven can be slightly trendy herself when the situation calls for it. Admittedly, she had given her attire some thought before leaving the tower and hit the local clubs. It was the right thing to do, according to Starfire anyway, and staring now at Cassandra she may regret the fact that she chose to keep her robes simple. They would have made a much stunning pair if Raven had dressed up for the occasion, but sadly she lacks the scrying capabilities necessary to warn her about this fated meeting. Now she must work with what she has and match Cassandra's style with the simple gear she wears every day, her work clothes at that.

Truly, will her suffering never end!?

It gets worse. Just as Raven is about to execute her master plan, Ethan beats them to the punch and takes the spotlight they sought. Raven allows herself one expression, frustration, and Cassandra is greeted to the sight of a pouty lipped Raven who then begins clenching her fist tightly. Looks like they have to endure through another song, it's not particularly awful, but not to the grand scale she was planning.

Finally the time to act comes and Raven gives a few claps of her own to Ethan's..umm..acceptable performance before giving a decisive nod to the other Goth. "......!!!"

It is now or never, Raven reaches for Cassandra's arm and lead her to the stage despite the strange look Jeese gives them. They won't be silenced now that they are so close, the dynamic duo will take center stage one way or another.

And the world will be blanketed in darkness.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

Roy eventually returns, a slightly confused look upon his face. There is slight wink towards Jesse as he walks back towards the bar for a few moments. He motions for the bartender, and then whispers something into the poor guy's ear. The bartender seems to be rather shocked and amazed at this, only to nod and wander off to root around under the bar.

Roy once more pulls out his phone, and quickly types out a text message, only to glance towards the great Goth-Off going on. A quick nod is given towards Jesse, and he then points towards the two wall-flowers that seem to be having a conversation of immense proportions, that is beyond the scope of normal man.

Roy's going to make this night interesting now.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

"You did wonderfully. You got the party really going, although now I'm slightly worried." Jesse admits, giving Ethan a gentle nudge to look at Cassandra and Raven as the pair start to take over the stage. "It's probably a good thing we both went before them. We're probably going to get outshone."

Blue eyes flick over to Roy, and one eyebrow raises. "What'd you do?" She hisses softly.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan, unaware of the spotlight he stole, continues to blush when nudged. "Thanks," he murmurs. He looks towards the stage and blinks at the sight of the epic goth-off. Popping open his soda, he leans back to listen.

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

Reading body language is wonderful, but it's not entirely perfect; Cassandra can get a read on someone's character, their motivations to some extent, but she can't pre-empt anything beyond the very next action they take. She's left guessing piecemeal as to the long-term plans of those she makes contact with - not so much a problem when lurking in the shadows, observing, awaiting a chance to act. But in this scenario?

It's absolutely useless. She thinks she's guessed right, so she's not even looking at Raven--

"...!!!" When she's promptly grabbed and hauled toward the stage, at least possessing the instincts to stop herself doing something terrible like stumbling and snagging her leggings. Her eyes are wide, however, as she attempts to keep her posture on the way to the stage, walking up to one of the microphones as if in a dream. With no idea what the heck she's going to do, she takes it in both hands, easing close to it in a way that gets a few men whistling, but all she's trying to do is HIDE behind it. She needs a plan!

Which is when the music starts.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IuezNswtRfo

Her mouth is a broad line, her eyes showing absolute horror when she actually responds to the music, her hips jerking side to side, heavy boots twisting against the floor to aid the motion. Her head bobs a horizontal counter-rhythm; she opens her mouth as if to object, and then smiles like a delighted child, completely ruining the goth thing but replacing it with something entirely, unbelievably /cute/. But then she gets ambitious.

The intro plays out, and with instinctive rhythm she starts to sing the opening line.

"I---..."

Oh dear.

"......"

Oh dear, oh dear.

"......"

By sheer luck she gets the very first note, but Raven's going to need to pick up the slack pretty fast.

At least Cass isn't smiling any more. She looks MORTIFIED.

<Pose Tracker> Speedy has posed:

Roy just waves a hand dismissively at Jesse. "Trust me." A quick glance is given towards his watch, hoping his secret plan works. He knows that he'll most likely end up paying for it in some fashion. Then again, he really doesn't care. Downtime IS downtime, and everyone needs to take advantage of it at times.

The former ward grins slightly as he takes a sip of his water, knowing full well that if what he just did works, things are going to get even more entertaining for all those who did show up.

Gotta make the cute girls happy every so often, right?

<Pose Tracker> Superman has posed:

Opening night is crazy enough. There's a large crowd that's abuzz with the excitement of the evening with the opening of this new club; so much so that the line wraps the block. Yet, there is suddenly a new energy to the crowd that instantly ripples through the club. If the voltage was at 1000 Watts before, think of the level of excitement suddenly ramped up to about 100 times that.

The reason for this excitement becomes clear very shortly-- and sadly, it does not have to do with the mortification of the heroes singing on the stage. Rather, it has to do with the fact the two Justice Leaguers have shown up at the entrance to the club. Two of the big hitters, even. They are not asked to take their coats-- or capes, or bracers, even. It takes a moment, but the bouncers pull the velvet ropes aside and allow Superman and Wonder Woman into the madness beyond.

Leading the way, Superman just seems to casually stroll through the crowd that inexplicably melts away in front of him, allowing him the ease of walking pretty much anywhere he wants to. He has a mildly pleasant expression on his face, though anyone that knows him will be able to see the slight signs of irritation at something probably rather recent, his eyes scanning the crowd for a person, or a small group of people, in particular.

The Man of Steel turns to say something quietly to Wonder Woman, and then strolls casually over towards a certain Roy Harper and Jesse Chambers. "Ms. Chambers. Mr. Harper," he states casually, though Roy's name carries the slightest of edges to it, "Thank you for the invite this evening."

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Who would have thunk it? The caster of the group turns out to be the most assertive despite her role not being delegated to beating people to pulp with her fists. Usually, in dynamic pairs of warrior and magician such as this, it is the spellcaster who is usually more reserved whilst the muscle has the wild attributes that peerless fighters should. The opposite proves to be true as soon as the dark due enter the stage and they both begin swaying their hips with the music, it's pretty clear who has done this before and who hasn't.

Though their movements are the same, most of the loud whistles are more than likely directed to Cassandra seeing as Raven is dressed a fair bit more conservatively, sure they leotard may be a little revealing but that cloak isn't exactly form fitting. Furthermore she lacks certain...'attributes' so to speak, and no amount of hip swaying will put her on par with her improvised teammate.

It is of no consequence, once the music begins, Raven's lungs fill with air ready to let the world know the true meaning of suffering in stereo just to hear Cassandra frog out the first lyrics before shocking up with apparent stage fright.

Well..if anything Raven is used to huge disappointments such as this. Beast Boy comes to mind.

o/~ "I hear the roar of a big machine
Two worlds and in between
Hot metal and methedrine
I hear empire down
I hear empire down" /o~

You gotta give the girl some credit, she certainly seems to know what she's doing, but with the statuesque Cassandra delegated to nothing more than a back up dancer the coming of the darkness is not as overwhelming as it ought to have been.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

The appearance of Superman makes Ethan tense almost instantly. He hasn't seen the hero since the Watchtower but he remembers he was Kinetic then. Right now he's just mild mannered artist Ethan Webb so he fakes some surprise and excitement from his spot near Jesse. "Wow..." he trails off. Raven and Cassandra's performance draws his attention next though. "Wow again..."

<Pose Tracker> Diana has posed:

Diana of Themyscira rarely wore a cape, anyways. Tall, regal, proud, Diana lightly lands on the block besides Superman, quirking a brow at the long lines around the club. "Somehow," Diana confides to Superman as she leans towards him, her jewelry glittering like fire from every light that was playing across them, "I think we just gave this club all the free publicity that it could ever hope for," she says, straightening up again for the stride inside.

Far from being upset, Diana seemed gently amused by the prospect.

She was content to let Superman lead the way through the gawkers and the crowds, capitalizing on the path that he was creating for the pair. When the pair stops, the faint look of bemusement on Wonder Woman's features fades a bit at Clark's quiet words, Diana bobbing her head in a brief nod to him.

"Indeed," Diana says, stepping out from behind Superman's shadow, taking a place beside him as equals. "You do us honor by inviting us to your..." Diana says, tapping a finger against her chin as her eyes narrow a bit, and take in the room as a whole. It wasn't sarcasm that led to her pause, simply attempting to find the word - and the smile that plays across her features when she finds it may lend truth to the moment. "...celebration?" she offers. "But may I ask what is being celebrated?"

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

"Hello, Superman." Jesse says, ever the businesswoman before she Frowns at Speedy, who wanders off, probably to flirt with one of the cuter girls in the area. The act on the stage draws Jesses' bright blue eyes, gawking slightly. At Diana's question, Jesse turns back to her, smiling brightly. "A celebration of friends, who work hard for all they have." Jesse says, simply.

"That, and it's not like most of us ever talk frequently outside of business." Jesse herself is massively guilty of this. "So this is a way of helping a new business get to their feet - which I believe they have, at this point-" Her tone is somewhat wry; "As well as getting to meet old friends all over again."

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

Struck by complete, useless horror she may be, but the assassin-turned-diva does her best to keep up the performance; shifting more awkwardly if still astonishingly rhythmically to the music as Raven picks up the ball and runs for the touchline, dragging her on behind. At least the audience still seems to be enjoying it, until the halfway point of the song where a literal, honest-to-Hera AMAZON comes striding in alongside the most famous hero on the face of the globe. Cassie's not one to be starstruck, but...

Well, the general populace can't resist a celebrity. Let alone two of them.

Biting down on her lip as the lyrics hit their three-minute lull, the raven-haired runaway takes her hands from the microphone - her knuckles absolutely white from gripping onto it, fingers still quivering with tension - and glances sidelong to Raven. Her hazel eyes are quite wonderfully expressive, though the lip-biting quirk of her mouth says it well enough. 'Sorry'. She doesn't literally say it, but she would if she could!

Maintaining eye contact for just long enough, she's off in an instant, going from statuesque gothic princess to vanishing black blur as she vaults from the stage and darts through the crowd. She's too fast to be waylaid by a couple of attempts to get her to dance, nimbly evading a grasping hand and making it to the curtain with a gasp, pushing her way through and trying to gather her senses out in the front area of the bar.

Even if she could string a sentence together, she'd have NO idea how to begin explaining this to Batman!

<Pose Tracker> Raven has posed:

Ah, upstaged by people who aren't even singing. Raven does believe that today she has achieved a new low, something for her to write on her diary later tonight as she sips on some tea and dwells on the events that took her here.

Raven knows that it is futile to continue singing after the appearance of none other that THE cape and the Queen of the Amazons. While she wasn't gripping her microphone -quite- as tightly as her goth compatriot she does relinquish it's hold as a defeated general relinquishes his sword. What she doesn't expect is Cassandra giving her the wide puppy eye look of apology as she begins to shake on her expensive boots, oh she knows that look very well, it's the exact same look that Starfire gives her before---yep, she's running away.

A sigh is exhaled from Raven's dark painted lips as she is abandoned and just clears her throat deciding to cut her losses while she can.

"Thank you very much....good night!"

Says she to the crowd and offers them a departing magic trick. Raven covers herself with her cloak and now you see her and....

*Poof*

Now you don't.

<Pose Tracker> Superman has posed:

"Certainly both things that we support, Ms. Chambers." Superman agrees with Jesse, even as he watches Roy disappear from her side, his slight irritation disappearing even as Mr. Harper does. When he looks back to both Diana and Jesse, the Man of Steel offers a genuine smile that is not quite full wattage and yet is impressive nonetheless.

His attention turns to the stage briefly as the young Cassandra Cain makes her own hasty exit, followed by the more spectacular disappearing act of Raven's, and then he turns back to Jesse. "I apologize if we drew too much attention from the real show here," the Man of Steel starts with slight regret, "Wonder Woman and I thought it would be best if some of us were at least to show support for your initiative, though." He looks sideways to Diana, tilting his head slightly, "Perhaps we should mingle for a few moments while we have it?"

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan watches Roy go and shrugs. Sipping his soda, he frowns as Cassandra flees the stage. The artist feels bad for her. Then Raven pulls a disappearing act. Ethan winces, putting a hand to his head for a moment. People suddenly vanishing from his spatial awareness is always a shock. "Ow..." he mutters. Turning back to observe Jesse and the Leaguers, Ethan idly looks Wonder Woman over. After concluding she looks better in person than in her pictures, he smiles a bit. "I wonder who's going to take the stage next," he muses aloud to no one in particular.

<Pose Tracker> Diana has posed:

It was fickle fate that when Diana's attention is finally drawn to the stage, the key players vanish from it. Was that...? The Princess of the Amazons shakes her head, bringing up a hand to lightly fold one arm over her other arm, turning her brilliantly blue eyes back towards Liberty Belle. Likewise, her own smile wasn't quite full wattage, but she certainly seemed a bit more happy than Superman's might have been.

"A celebration of friends. I can approve of such a thing," says Diana, her smile lifting a few more notches. At Superman's question, Diana turns her eyes towards him and nods her head, once. "I believe that I will get a drink - and try to encourage the singer to try again," Diana says, her eyes shifting towards the bar proper. In the crowd, it was difficult to follow Cassandra, but... Diana felt that she could manage. "I'm not certain that we can help the one who vanished," she says, giving Superman a sideways sort of smile and a shrug.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Cassandra disappears into the Coat Check area, and Raven just /disappears/, and Ethan and Jesse are both standing there very confused, considering Speedy had just pulled the same trick. Her mouth open, Jesse looks utterly /displeased/ and /happy/ all at the same time. Finally, she looks back at Superman and Wonder Woman.

"Thank you very much for showing up, as well. If you could, that'd be nice... I feel sorry for them, and worried that they both just disappeared like that." Jesse says, somewhat sadly. "I'm sure the crowd wonders if Superman can carry a tune...?" She offers, slightly mischeviously to said hero.

<Pose Tracker> Cassandra Cain has posed:

On the other side of the curtain separating off the stage and its twin flanking bars, Cassandra takes one more deep breath and briskly shakes her head. Her cheeks are still warm and flushed with a reddish shame that does little credit to her dark attire, but she's at least got the presence of mind to choose her next course of action wisely...

Or at least, as best serves the purposes of a teenage girl who's thoroughly embarassed herself.

Glancing one last time over her shoulder, she starts forward toward the exit, her lingering haste carrying her away as swiftly and stealthily as a trainee goth in Doc Marten's can really be. But also causing her to make a very silly mistake. In her rush through the curtain, a handful of tiny items slipped from the raggedy back pocket of her black denim minishorts to scatter surreptitiously on the floor. Gas Pellets. The type employed by Batman. Not quite Cinderella's glass slipper, but she doesn't plan to turn into a pumpkin either...

She's stepping from the door and off down the lamplit street long before she notices they're gone.

<Pose Tracker> Superman has posed:

Superman allows himself a semi-amused smile directed at Jesse's offered suggestion, along with a slight shake of his head. "I'm afraid they will just have to keep on wondering, Ms. Chambers," the Man of Steel begins, trying NOT to sound like a stick in the mud, despite appearances to the contrary with the not singing. "Singing is not one of my strong points."

There's something in the room that, despite the din, catches Superman's ear, and his eyes turn away from Jesse and Diana briefly as he gives the room a quick once over. It takes him but a moment to find what he's looking for, though-- and a moment later, he offers a brief apology to the ladies. "Excuse me just a moment, would you?"

Unerringly, Superman arrives at the dropped gas pellets just a few moments after the young Ms. Cain departs from the club, and while he does not mover at superspeed, he does move rather quickly to scoop up the items left behind into one of his hands. Another brief examination of them, and they are tucked underneath his cloak into what must be a small holding pocket of some sort before anyone else gets a really good look at them. In another moment or two, he is back again with Diana and Jesse.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan can't help but chuckle a little at Jesse's suggestion that Superman sing. He's got a feeling that would draw a crowd alright. When the Man of Steel declines, the artist shrugs. He quirks a brow as Superman heads off, frowning a little. When the hero comes back, Ethan shrugs again. At first, he just keeps sipping his soda. Then spatial awareness picks up on those little gas pellets in that pocket. He remembers how those feel from his encounter with Batman. Tensing again, the blond first looks right at Superman's cape and then glances a little nervously around the bar. His fight with Joker in Metropolis a few days ago and the whole fiasco in Guam have him a little worried Batman might be angry. And if Batman's in the room, Ethan wants to hide.

<Pose Tracker> Diana has posed:

At least, just Jesse. While Superman hears the snap-hiss of gas, Diana hears something else. The beep of her communicator. The odd device was powered by Man's World technology, but it served its purpose - that is, enough for Wonder Woman to lift the communicator to her lips, and speak into it. A brief, if muffled conversation occurs, any trace of joy fading from her features.

Looking deathly serious now, Diana hurries back towards Superman and Jesse, giving both a nod. "I'm afraid that I'll have to cut this short. Trouble," she offers, flickering her eyes back towards Jesse. "I wish you the best of luck on your opening night - thank you for inviting us to stop by," Diana says, before she turns, less to tempt her fate with the crowd, and more to head towards a door beside the stage. Not to sing, sadly, but to find a back entrance to make a less crowded escape from.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

"... Ethan? It might be a wise idea to get out of here." Jesse says in a calm voice as Wonder Woman ducks out of a side door tha tleads to the kitchens and then out. Jesse is not getting Ethan-the-teenager into trouble. Kinetic, she's not allowed to scold.

"Superman, do we need to...?" She trails off, raising an eyebrow at him, cautiously.

<Pose Tracker> Superman has posed:

Attention captured by Wonder Woman's conversation and departure, the gas pellets in Superman's cape are quickly forgotten in the face of trouble elsewhere. There is a brief moment where his attention focuses on Ethan as he is addressed by Jesse, but it ends when Jesse asks her own question of the Man of Steel.

He gives Jesse a half rueful smile that speaks volumes; he knew that sooner or later their night was bound to get cut short. "I'm afraid so, Ms. Chambers. It seems that there's some trouble over in Spain. J'onn can send the coordinates to your communicator."

The Big Blue Boy Scout turns to leave, pausing only for a moment to look back over his shoulder, "Sorry we couldn't stay longer. Perhaps this is a good idea for another time, though. And maybe a more secure location."

Then, Superman speaks to the crowd, even as he heads back out for the exit, "Sorry about the interruption, folks. Nothing for you to worry about-- enjoy your evening!" And in moments, he is out the front door, and then-- Up, Up and Away!

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Ethan blinks, confused for a moment. He manages to fake a little more nervousness as he notices Wonder Woman going. "What do you mean? Is trouble coming here?" he asks, glancing around again. He's hoping its not. And then Superman's going off and Ethan just looks confused.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

"Thanks." Jesse says briefly to Superman, before looking at Ethan, one eyebrow raising. "Nothing special, just a bit of a Kinetic charge in the air." She says, casually. "I need to go. If Roy comes back, tell him I'm sorry... if you're still here." Jesse smiles.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

And again, Ethan tenses up. He's not told anyone that he's Kinetic yet so its a shock if anyone's found out. "I uh...sure, Miss. If he comes back I'll let him know," the blond replies, swallowing.

<Pose Tracker> Liberty Belle has posed:

Jesse smiles at Ethan, winking at him before she disappears after the route Wonder Woman took, effectively bringing the party to a mostly close, aside from the ever missing Speedy.

<Pose Tracker> Kinetic has posed:

Lingering for a few moments, Ethan finishes off his soda in a few chugs. Tossing the can in the nearest recycling bin, he's headed out the front entrance. If there's trouble, he's not going to sit back and do nothing after all...even if he's pretty sure he won't be welcome there.

2012-03-01 - No Mouth, No Tea.

2012-03-06T00:25:16Z

ChickenFillet:

{{Logsummary|
Title=2012-03-01 - No Mouth, No Tea.
|Summary=Raven enlists The Question to help track down an (allegedly) missing person.
|Who=Raven, The Question
|Date=2012-03-01
|Where=Titans Tower
|}}

There's nothing quite like taking a road trip. Especially when one has an awesome car. Especially when one has an awesome car with an 8 track player. Especially when one has a gas-guzzling awesome car with an 8 track player, no air conditioning, and no license plate. The Question is someone, and his car fits the descriptions in all of the previous sentences perfectly. Given the fact that he is driving illegally, he is forced to do so under the cover of night. This bothers him not at all, as he speeds along the road with his windows down with an old Andy Gibbs 8 track cassette playing as loud as the speakers on his classic GTO will allow.

After a long stretch of driving, Question arrives at the relatively vaunted Titans Tower. The crusty old car looks completely out of place parked in front of the shiny modern building, but then so does the crusty old Question. He opens his creaking car door and exits his ride, placing his blue fedora atop his head. Stretching for a moment after he shuts the door behind him, his head slowly tilts back to allow him a full view of the building. "Great, now I've got to figure out which floor she lives on..."

"No need.." Almost immediately as The Question muses that quandary to himself, a whispering somewhat raspy voice responds. From the corner of the Titan Tower huddled in a large blue cloak that covers most, if not all of her figure, stands Raven trying to appear as inauspicious as one can wearing a full hood and cape at night. "Mister Question...I take it?" The girl asks from afar motioning for the man to approach her with a simple flick of her hand, she's either not very trusting, shy or just plain antisocial...probably a healthy mixture of the three from the looks of it. "Come...join me...we cannot speak here in the open."

As she says this, the girl opens her cape slightly and holds it to the side in a bull fighter fashion. Is she asking him to get inside her cloak? Why...would she do that?

"Don't be silly. It's not safe to talk anywhere." However, Question walks toward the strange girl with only the slightest show of reservation. "The only sure way to keep them from eavesdropping on your conversation is to use a signal jammer. Of course you'd have to make it yourself, the ones they sell in stores have all been bugged." He gets quite close to the girl, but stands off to the side a bit. Leaning forward, he looks straight into the cloak for a second before reaching into his coat. After a second of rummaging, he pulls out a common magnifying glass and holds it up in front of his face. He apparently doesn't see anything worth noting in the cloak, but anyone looking through the magnifying glass from the other side would see a huge splotch of enlargened Question Face.

Raven doesn't respond right away, why would she? If the Question is right and there are ears and eyes everywhere then every word that comes out of her mouth can only further incriminate her. If she wasn't incredibly defensive and suspicious already, she is now. Just as soon as the Question brings out the magnifying glass, the sorceress takes the opportunity to envelop him on her cloak completely. Darkness surrounds the Question momentarily as he feels his body becoming light, as if he were floating in the air, and just as soon as the sensation comes it vanishes. Raven takes her cloak off his face and the two now appear inside Raven's inner most sanctum, i.e. her room.

"Then...let's try to make it as safe...as it is possible." The girl walks away from the detective towards a small table with some chairs, a set tea pot and some cups already set in place just in case her guest is thirsty. She may be incredibly apathetic and morbid but at least she has manners! "Tea?..Although I don't see how you can drink without a mouth..."

The Question appears in Raven's room still in the same pose he had assumed before being teleported. IE; bent forward with a magnifying glass near his 'face.' No stranger to teleportation, he doesn't freak out. Rather, he simply stands up, slides his magnifying glass back in his coat ans says "That'll work." For a few seconds, he looks around the room, doing a full, albeit slow, 360 degree turn to get the full effect of the place. "Thank you, but I already had some Dayquil and peanuts this morning." Despite his refusal of sustenance, he does walk toward the table. Instead of sitting down immediately, he bends down to look under his chair. Apparently satisfied that noting is amiss with it, he straightens back up, and then sits down in the chair with the grace of someone who recently spent hours cramped up in a car.

The Question is probably not going to see it, what with the hood covering most of Raven's features and all, but at the mention of Dayquil and peanuts as breakfast, the sorceress ends up making quite the disgruntled face. Quickly debating if she did right on picking The Question to handle her case, Raven decides that if he's paranoid to forsake a healthy diet just because of fear that someone might put a tracking device on his food, the he may be trustworthy enough to not rat her out. "As you wish." Says the sorceress unfurling her cloak behind her to take a seat on the chair opposite to the question.

"I assure you the table is not bugged." Speaks she plainly "But feel free to inspect it...I will ask you not to touch that mirror over there though." The girl says pointing to a large object draped in a black curtain, somehow she figures that warning the Question like that is just invoking a case of the curiosity killed the cat, but might as well take the necessary precautions. "At any rate..thank you for answering my summons so quickly. What I am about to tell you however...cannot be discussed to anyone else...I know you are a man of... 'principles'" She chooses her words carefully "But I still want to hear it from you...can I have your word that you won't divulge this to anyone?"

The Question turns his head to look at the indicated mirror. His gaze lingers on it for a few seconds, or at least his head remains turned in that direction. It's not exactly possible to tell where his gaze is lingering. Regardless, his head turns back around in order to nod politely at her spoken thanks. "I guess I can promise that. With the obvious loopholes." He relaxes a bit in his chair, bringing one leg up and resting his ankle on top of his knee. "I'm assuming that you've got a good reason for asking me to keep quiet..." A few seconds of blank staring ensue. Whatever he's looking for in her face, he apparently finds it "... so I don't see a problem." He leans back a bit further in the chair and lets his arms dangle freely at his sides. "I've got to admit that I'm curious. You seem too young to have any real problems."

At some point Raven decides to stop being all brooding and mysterious. It may be because the Question has her beat soundly on that game, or it could also be because it's kind of hot and stuffy inside the room, but for whichever reason, she takes her hood off to reveal her rather young, pale skinned, purple haired face. Though she looks young, her eyes are narrowed with unspoken wisdom and maturity, too much apathy on those eyes, even for a normal teenager girl. "Hmm..." The girl wets her lips lightly with her tea at The Question's words. "Loopholes such as....torture?" Dares she to propose "I doubt it would come to that..but alas...such are the risks of this profession." She sets her tea cup down and daintily crosses her legs, cloak flicked to the side to reveal herself more, no longer feeling like she needs to be so secretive, although of course, Raven being Raven, she's secretive to some extent in every way she acts. "Well...let me put it this way."

The girl leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her knuckles looking pensive. "What would you say if...hypothetically speaking...I told you I killed someone recently?"

This sounds pretty serious.

"It would depend." A simple enough answer, but surely The Question will expound upon it in a moment. He seems relatively casual for someone who just heard a 'theoretical' murder confession. Slowly, he brings his arms up from their dangling position at his sides and places his palms behind his head, allowing him to relax a bit more of his body. "Hypothetically, if you killed someone recently, you'd probably only be asking me for advice if you thought it was justified. And hypothetically, if you thought it was justified, you'd either have a good excuse, or you'd be sociopathic." The chair creaks a bit as The Question leans back even further, causing the two front legs of the chair to lift just a bit off the ground. "So in the hypothetical situation that you had acted in self defense or to prevent a time loop that inevitably ended with the destruction of the planet because a beloved superhero was going to commit murder if you didn't commit the murder instead thereby preventing him from suffering from a moral crisis and a tarnished reputation... I think I'd be pretty understanding."

It's about the answer she would expect from someone that The Question's reputation, the long winded response doesn't quite disconcert Raven to the point where she is completely lost trying to keep up with the detective, she's pretty sharp herself in that regard, but it's vocabulary that she doesn't use frequently and it takes her a moment to process his logic. Taking a moment to organize her thoughts, her eyes narrowing more and more as she begins to comprehend what is the Question trying to tell her. "Right.." Even if she's intelligent in her own right, Raven has a surprisingly simplistic method of communicating, she doesn't see the point of using fancy jargon, so she simply doesn't use it. "I was hoping you'd say something like that." Did she really? She takes another sip of her tea.

"I won't mince words then..Mister Question..." Her manner of speech is deliberate, cut short here and there as if she had trouble breathing, but she relates her tale anyway. "I answered a distress to Metropolis a few weeks ago...an armored convoy were transporting some kind of radioactive substance from Lex Corp somewhere..I teamed up with some locals...not the cape mind you...to stop them and we engaged them, you know the drill." A dismissive wave of her hand indicates to the Question that the details are not important. "In the midst of things I accidentally threw one of the mercenaries protecting the cargo... a woman...into the radioactive substance and she fell of the train into Metroplis' sea." She pauses there, trying to see The Question's expression or lack thereof, before continuing. "The body was never recovered."

She takes a brief moment to see if the detective has anything to say on that regard, see if he has any questions, while also pointing out a few things of her on. "By the way, you should stop leaning back so much. That chair has a woobly leg."

"Hurm." The Question stretches his back just a bit more before letting the front legs of the chair rest once again on the floor. "Doesn't seem that heinous as far as fights involving radioactive substances go." He drops the resting leg, spreading his knees far apart as he leans forward. "But I'm not sure why you'd need to keep that a secret." He doesn't react visibly to the mention of LexCorp, but given his history with the man and his company, it's likely that his wheels are turning pretty fast. Continuing his forward motion, he rearranges his arms in such a fashion that his elbows rest against the table and his fingers are placed together, touching only at the tips. His expressionless chin is brought down to rest on his steepled fingers, allowing him a slightly more intimidating pose from which to stare at the girl. Most people would be avoiding his gaze and acting all manner of fidgity by now, but Raven seems to be at least as much of an expert in the field of Creepology as The Question is. "I'm also not quite sure what you think I can help with. If the body dissolved in some LexCorp chemicals, I don't think there will be much left to scoop up."

Honestly Raven half expected for the Question to fall backwards at that moment, nothing like a bit of old fashioned slapstick to break the serious mood of the conversation. She'll have to conform with simply carrying on and perhaps a bit more tea to comfort her on her time of need. Closing her eyes as she takes another dainty sip, the sorceress tries to recall the events of that ill fated evening before she speaks again. "That's what I thought as well." Whispers she. "Until I got wind a super powered woman was last seen assisting Maxima in her latest assault. I didn't participate in the defense..but I swear...she looks almost exactly like the mercenary I flung into the radioactive waste." From her cloak she procures a newspaper that she sets neatly before the question, tapping at the face of a woman flying next to Maxima. "From what I understand...she goes by the name of Wyld Knight...but I do not have any proof she's the same woman."

"If you could find any connection between this Wyld Knight..and the events that I spoke of..I would be greatly in your debt. It won't please me to know I gave birth to some kind of deranged villain, but it would put me at ease to know that she still lives."

"Luthor..." The Question seems to be lost in thought. Unless he's merely being quiet for dramatic effect. In the meantime, he manages to lean forward just a bit more, his head putting noticeable weight on his thumbs. Idly, his unburdened fingers strum against each other in a slow steady rhythm while the flesh-colored splotch that makes up his mask simply 'stares.' "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look into it, if it would help you to sleep better." It's highly unlikely that's the actual reason he's considering taking the case, but he states his reason in a convincing enough tone. Suddenly he stands up, almost too fast. "Yes... yes, I'll look into it. I should be able to find all the information I need from the incident report which was most likely scrubbed to contain no information." He clasps his hands together behind his back and does a somewhat awkward-looking stretch. "If you'll zap me back down to my car, I'll hook up my computer, see what I can dig up."

True enough /most/ people would have been greatly unnerved by the Question's take of the penance stare, the lack of a face is not something a normal person wants to deal with as it is down right unnatural. Yet Raven can hardly be considered to be most people, as it can be said the same of the great majority of super heroes and thus her only response to the blank stare is to simply keep drinking her tea. "Excellent." The faintest look of a smile can be seen in her dark lips as the Question accepts her case. "Seek out Super Boy and the Blue Beetle, if I'm not mistaken they were present when Wyld Knight was last seen, but I'm not very clear in the details..." She hands him the newspaper, just in case. "Also...there's this one new kid in the block. Kinetic I think is his name...he was there both in Metropolis and when Maxima showed up..he would be the first person I would look into..in fact..the only reason why I'm not doing this myself is because my interrogation abilities are....well..they're lacking." Sucking someone inside her cloak and exposing them to their deepest nightmares face first kind of tends to creep her allies out. "Of course." Raven extends her cloak out to grasp the Question and just as before, darkness envelopes him before he is left outside next to his car.

"I really ought to get a cape. Maybe with a question mark on the back." The Question strokes his chin as he gives the matter some thought. "An orange question mark." The argument that the garment Raven wears is a cloak rather than a cape would probably be completely lost on Question. He walks over to his car door, and the squeak of old machinery can be heard as he opens it, sits down in his seat, and then closes the door. He puts the keys in the ignition and the classic engine roars to life in the angry masculine fashion that only old muscle cars have. He peals away from the tower, leaving tire marks behind him. As the sounds of Andy Gibb compete with the sounds of the engine, The Question muses. "I can probably be done with the scene of the incident in a couple of hours. I'll need to pick up some Dayquil first though."

2012-03-02 - No Guam, No Foul!

2012-03-04T06:12:47Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=No Guam, No Foul!
|Summary=The Empress of Almerac has claimed the island nation of Guam as the home for her palace - and the location of her wedding to Superman. The citizens have been enslaved by psychic emanations, and a huge statue of the Man of Steel erected before the repurposed cathedral. It looks bad for the Guamians... at least until a cadre of heroes turns up to save the day! Warning: may contain nuts and nudity. Also ducks. So many ducks.
|Who=[[Blue Beetle]], [[Kinetic]], [[Maxima]], [[Superboy]], [[Witching Hour Lurker]], [[Wyld Knight]]
|Date=2012-03-02
|Where=GUAM
|}}

-----==[ RP Suite 1: Guam ]==

The island nation of Guam is a little-known yet astonishingly beautiful place - certainly if you like tropical beaches. Small and very flat, it's almost like one expansive beach resort, all low white buildings nestling amidst pleasant sands and palm fronds. A territory of the United States of America, it does a reasonable tourist trade; and also hosts its own defensive army. This would normally keep it safe from the few troubles it has, but said military has clearly not been up to the task of defending against a psychotic superbeing.

Today, Guam's roadways are patrolled by small hordes of brainwashed soldiers, armed with equipment far beyond military specification - including threatening LASER RIFLES that shine in the sun. The largest concentration of troops lie around Apra Harbor on the west of Guam, where they've already seized control of the major shipping routes in and out - causing the first international shockwave to herald Maxima's arrival on the island.

The centrepiece of the re-envisioned island paradise stands proudly outside the Cathedral Basilica. Where once was a statue of Pope John Paul II, now is a two-hundred foot tall representation of the Man of Steel himself, Superman! Or at least one can only assume that's what it is; this IS Maxima we're dealing with. It's clearly supposed to be very, very manly in appearance, but it's constructed entirely from heaps of household furniture and assorted trash. It's surrounded by an odd, shimmering aura - a force field, perhaps?

A long train of mentally dominated citizens is putting the finishing touches on this 'masterpiece', overlooked by the Empress of Almerac, who - with typical high regard for the cultures of her conquered worlds - has made her home in the cathedral, adorning it with tacky splendour befitting her tastes. It looks like something out of a pulp sci-fi novel, right down to the weapons turrets bristling all over it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Sandy Mahogany, coming to you live from Guam, where--"

"Where the LADY MAXIMA, Warrior Queen, head of the Royal House, and RULER of all Almerac bids you welcome to the site of her new palace - and the nation that will soon be home to none other than your god, Superman!"

The Empress of Almerac poses grandly for the cameras trained upon her - completely ignorant and uncaring that two of the three are flopping all over the place, poorly held aloft by men who appear to be drooling, their faces waxy and eyes glazed over as they fail utterly to do the jobs they've done their entire lives. The interrupted reporter appears to be about the only person on Guam who doesn't appear so woefully affected. She's a pretty young thing, a slightly uncertain but highly driven twenty-something who'd come to the island to partake in coverage of a minor political shindig taking place in the US territory.

"And-- and would you mind telling the viewers at home precisely why you've seized control of this beau--"

"The LADY MAXIMA needed a home here on Earth, and your Earth-fool governments would not cooperate in my acquisition of a suitable palatial estate befitting an Empress and her celestial husband! In order to form suitable dowry for my wedding to Superman, I have bestowed by grace and benevolence upon Guam, where I mean to rule until such time as I can convince my GLORIOUS mate to return home, with me, to Almerac!"

"N-None of which explains why you've taken to hijacking every boat entering the harbour and--"

This time, Maxima snatches the microphone away, causing it to explode between her fingertips as they tighten around it. Incensed, she leans in close to poor Sandy, looming over her with eyes practically bulging from their sockets and breath fuming from her nostrils.

"/Because/," she grates, voice loud enough to be broadcast just fine without a microphone, "In order to provide suitable dowry for my wedding to Superman I needed to redecorate this miserable excuse for an island, AND I had to ensure I possessed enough raw materials to contruct my masterpiece - my PERFECT WEDDING GIFT to my WONDERFUL BETROTHED! Stop asking so many questions or I shall have Sazu--" She pauses, brows knitting together as she glances up toward the atmosphere, huffing an irritated sigh, "What's the Earth-fool phrase I'm looking for? Ah, yes... I shall have her 'nuke the site from orbit'!"

MEANWHILE, IN SPACE

Above, indeed in geosynchronous orbit, lies Maxima's royal space cruiser. Inside, the Royal Advisor is watching on a monitor screen with a sardonic smirk on her lips - at least when she can spare time between idly buffing her nails and flipping through a trashy magazine packed to bursting with space-gossip about space-celebrities. Beside her, a duck sits on one of the bridge's padded chairs, occasionally letting out a bored 'quack'.

MEANWHILE, ON GUAM

"I... see, and would you mind if we filmed your... your masterpiece, Lady M--"

"The LADY MAXIMA would be pleased to show you, small and puny Earth-fools. Gaze upon its splendour!"

Which is when the cameras pan around to show the full, naturally incredibly regal two-hundred feet of stacked debris forming a vague simulacrum of Superman that towers over the squat expanse of Guam. Sandy looks like she can barely prevent herself giggling - probably because Maxima could crush her just as easily as she did her shattered microphone, because it's frankly pretty ridiculous. A number of small shapes move around the construction, their heads lolling but limbs surprisingly steady as they - the brainwashed inhabitants of Guam - move in a constant train to place the final few touches on the great statue.

It's been twelve hours since the world heard the plight of Guam...

Somebody really should do something to stop this madness.

Twelve hours ago, Jaime Reyes was watching the news with his parents. That'd be when the whole 'aliens invade, conquer Guam' thing became known to him. Ten minutes later, he was having a dicussion with his parents and best friends about what he could do about it. In that discussion, he pointed out that it was a Friday, and therefore not a school night. He also pointed out that he didn't have any housework to do the next day, since he'd just cleaned his room.

Twenty minutes later, the Blue Beetle was flying towards Guam. It has not been a short trip, even at his supersonic speeds. But he got to sleep on the way there, thankfully, and he packed snacks, which have since been eaten. Now, the blue, alien armor is flying over the harbors of Guam, trying to figure out what, exactly, is going on.

Warning. Energy discharge weapons. Danger level minimal individually. "What about not individually?" Concentrated fire potentially dangerous. Further, detecting Almeracian technology in weapons. "What's an Almeracian?" Dangerous. Warrior race. Other information not available at this time. Danger level considered high. "Oh, good."

Really, Kinetic had no idea what if anything he could do about the Guam situation. He'd been on his way to the MetroTower to ask the Justice League if he could lend a hand but his trip had been interrupted. Someone was robbing a bank. Some thug with some weird science fictiony weapon that was making things teleport. And when Kinetic caused it to explode accidentally, he ended up sent warping across the world. And send splashing into the ocean near Guam. Now he's pulling himself out of the water and onto a beach. "Not my best landing..." he mutters, shaking water off himsself. He pauses, looking around. "But I think it may be my luckiest one..."

"Mistress?"

That voice is for Maxima's ears only, rolling out unflustered and unhurried from the Royal Advisor on high, her cool gaze slipping from one monitor to another as the ship detects something... well, something almost exactly like the Blue Beetle soaring his way to the island paradise. It notices him before the gathered troops below have any chance to do so; they're human, after all, and not even really that under Maxima's thrall. Their perceptions are tied to hers, though this usefully just happens to include the wider perceptions of her ship.

Down below, the Empress pauses in admiration of her wondrous statuary to glance at the skies. "What is it, Sazu?" She barks, completely ignoring the presence of Sandy Mahogany, who takes the opportunity to try and slip away between three cameramen - only of whom actually meets her gaze with any sense of intelligence. She puts a finger to her lips, hushing him as she makes toward a group of buildings to the east; the location of the report she actually came here for, where a large group of politicans currently sit in a barred room.

"I'm detecting an incoming threat," continues Sazu, "Should I run a full scan?"

"That won't be necessary, Sazu. It's probably my betrothed come to receive his gift!"

"Nnnnoooo, I don't think so, Lady Maxima. In fact I think it's probably best if--"

"SHUT UP, SAZU. I have this perfectly under control."

So saying, and so still completely ignoring the running reporter, Maxima sweeps a hand imperiously toward the statue - unconcerned for the people still scampering all over it as she ignites the strange, faintly buzzing forcefield and sets the piled junk to clattering and hopping about. Superman's outline slips and sways, looking for several moments like it may topple completely, and then... something happens. It comes together with a heavy clatter, thrust tightly into what's suddenly an almost perfect semblance of the Man of Steel, indistinct lines becoming detailed musculature, the uncertain mass becoming sleek and smooth. Shiny. Tables, chairs, and so forth all morph into part of the same, impressive whole. It only lacks features on the face.

Which doesn't make it any LESS creepy, let's be fair.

A few moments later, 'Superman^200' moves his arms, placing them on his hips as the few remaining brainwashed people of Guam are sent falling to the ground. Their sad screams and messy splatterings on the concrete do rather ruin the otherwise majestic spectacle, but Maxima is too busy smiling widely to actually care.

"BEHOLD Earth-fools! BEHOLD Superman! WE SHALL BE WED AT LAST!!"

Bellowing a laugh, she suddenly soars into the air, spinning around with her arms flung outward.

Completely in the dark about who's /actually/ approaching.

MEANWHILE, ON THE BEACH

'Luck' comes in a lot of different sizes, shapes, and colours. Kinetic may reconsider his good fortunes, as on making his way to the shore he's met with the snap of a hundred heavy leather boots, and the resonant clatter of fifty high-spec laser rifles as they're lifted by zombified soldiers to train upon him. There's nothing said, nothing spoken, but he has about ten seconds to react before they open fire - each weapon hurtling a hundred and eighty searing bolts per second - and a further thirty seconds before the disturbance reaches the ears of Sazu and an alarm klaxon rings out across the island.

Up in the air, Maxima still doesn't notice, giddy as a schoolgirl as she continues bellowing her laughter and her monstrous statue continues to pose, though the finishing touch finally appears; unravelling from its broad, shiny shoulders is a cape of psychokinetic fire, burning bright red as it trails in the sunlight.

Reachtech does not resemble Superman to the sensors, but that probably doesn't matter to Maxima herself. The fact that a Reach Infiltrator unit is here might matter if she cared to scan - but until she does, well, it's another threat flying around. Jaime, meanwhile, his little idea he's being detected, though he's sure he'll be spotted soon. He doesn't really care - that's part of the job, right?

"Okay, Scarab I need some adv-" He glances over at the statue. "Track those people. I want a full count. Now!" Tracking. Flagging on visual. Advise focus on armed soldiers. "NO! We have to save them! Come on!" The Blue Beetle dives forward, racing through the air as fast as he can. "What can we /do/, Scarab? Tell me! How can we protect them?" Advise focus on- "NO! Protect!" Energy shield. Focus point. Can manage three. Fly and catch the rest. "Right. Will do." Blue energy spheres appear around three of the falling people, stopping them in midair until the Beetle can get to them.

For the rest, well, he's flying aorund trying to catch people, deposit them and catch the next one as fast as possible. Jaime Reyes is one of those idealistic heroes who doesn't like when anyone dies.

Kinetic is just wringing some water out of his vest when he notices those soldiers. He opens his mouth to say something but it just comes out as a little 'eep' when those rifles are trained his way. He's got just enough time to take to the air as the bolts glass the sand where he'd been standing. "What the heck, guys!?" he scowls, sending a quick telekinetic shockwave at the soldiers.

Of course, we couldn't all be out frolicking in the daytime, could we? Forget that a country like Guam was hot enough to make Abel's life a living agony even if he was safe indoors, but one step outside and he wouldn't last 20 minutes before being a nice, kentucky fried bloodsucker.

But, the man who currently called himself Abel Thatcher was all about making lemonaid when life gave him lemons, and found a way to improvise. Hearing about the commotion over in Guam, he had a rather ingenius idea of sneaking into the local morgue late at night, knowing things were so hectic, that nobody would come in here...nobody but squishy criminals trying to avoid all out warfare, that is! A good thing his hunch paid off, too, he was nearly dying of boredom inside a metal little sliding compartment when he heard them enter. The spider grinned to himself, letting the flies gather before making any moves. He just hoped they didn't destroy the hard work he put into this place, what with boarding up all the windows and all. Planning ahead, that was him...

Maxima's not a bad person.

Hey! Stop laughing. She isn't; not really. Conquest of a thousand worlds aside - but they probably asked for it, and who doesn't conquer the occasional country or planet? The point is, that homicide really wasn't the point or purpose of this activity, it's just an unfortunate side effect that she doesn't concern herself with when there are more important things. Like Superman. So while she's cackling on high, the Blue Beetle is left to his own devices - saving the dozen or so people of Guam unfortunate enough to be in dangerous positions when the vast statue was given animation. Others may have bruises, if he's a mite slow but...

Well. Reach technology is impressive-- he'll save the day this time. But each person he assists does nothing to thank him, even the occasional one who does fall won't actually react, just staring glassy-eyed into the void for several moments before wandering away. Even brainwashed, their survival instinct at least leads them to move in a direction other than that of Maxima or her horrible creation. Humanity is good like that.

Speaking of Superman^200, Jaime does have that to worry about with more immediacy than Maxima herself; whose attention is only called to the situation at all when she notices the massive thing suddenly moving with more speed than it should rightfully have, removing hands from hips to squat down and aim a massive double axe-handle with its shiny metallic arms, seeking to cleave the Blue Beetle - or at least about twenty feet of concrete - in twain with a disturbing roar somewhat akin to the ocean rushing through a cave.

"What--- WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Booms the Empress of Almerac, lowering her own arms with a huff before swooping forward, placing herself above the hunkered statue and the doubtlessly-evading Beetle, eyes aflame with arrogant indignation at the disruption of her ceremony. She's aware of the alarm at this point, too, but mostly it's the superhero who bothers her. "You're not Superman! And I DIDN'T send you an INVITATION!"

Kinetic, meanwhile, succeeds in disrupting the wave of laser fire coming his way, the group of soldiers parting like a mentally-deficient wave around his countering blast. Several of them are sent tumbling head over heels, landing on the grass with limbs akimbo and laser guns bouncing before coming to a clattering stop; the first part ensuring that errant blasts go wide and far, setting aflame to a fair few palm trees. Those soldiers that manage to evade do so with admirable grace for zombies, their military training dimly remembered, and it's a matter of seconds before they're fanned out in small, tight groups, still blasting away at the young hero.

Two of them seek to get close, using the covering fire to dash in and get beneath the airbone Kin.

They're wordless as they do so; and don't even appear to be properly LOOKING at him. Weird.

MEANWHILE, IN THE MORGUE

The politicians within are mostly huddled together, talking in low voices hurriedly as several of them hammer at cell phones and laptops, trying to get some form of signal off the island - but the efforts of Sazu in orbit are blocking any direct communications save the live feed from the camera crews. Unfortunately she's ALSO monitoring for any attempts to circumvent her efforts, and her painted nails skim across a command console to send a psychic signal via Maxima to one of the many groups of soldiers patrolling the island.

Approximately five seconds later, there's a HAMMERING on the front doors to the Morgue, at the exact same time as a more urgent but far less thunderous rap-tap-tap comes on one of the side entrances, nearest to Abel. If he cares to get close he might just happen to hear the whispered voice of Sandy Mahogany. "Hello? Is anybody there? We need to get off this island! She's gone mad! Crazy!" Understatement of the century.

See, there's irony here. A fair bit of it, really. At the moment, Superboy lives in - or rather, is stationed in - Guam. An off-duty tour de force, birthed of his absolute demand for 'choice beachfront'. That was his key condition. Older, wiser times. Now, any other day, this means the Teen of Steel would be first on the scene. Maybe even fix the problem before this crazy space bitch finishes broadcasting her space crazy all over the airwaves. Today, however, SB is off duty. He made it clear he was not to be disturbed. He took a nap between some secluded dunes, he jammed /out/.

Except now his superhearing is telling him shit just isn't right, as he stirs. Now he's checking out the youtube video so crazy this Maxima chick -has- to be a super-troll. Now everyone is shooting. "What the fuuu..." It's close, too. In a blur of motion, Superboy bursts into adventure clad for combat in his space age... red swim trunks and sleek shades. He barely pauses long enough for Kinetic to get a look at him, landing opposite the squad firing on the teen telekinetic at about the same instant Kin's telekinetic burst comes out. He touches down hard, sand spraying to all sides, showering the area in a circle around him. At least until his own burst comes from a palm planted on the ground, erupting beneath the soldiers and threatening to outright shred their alien weaponry.

His intent, at least, is to be halfway to the screams he hears coming from the center of this mess by the time they realize it. Or that they may be flying, too - into Kinetic's forceblast, for that matter.

Jaime lets out a long, low breath as the people are saved, releasing his energy spheres. "Okay. That's handled, now - ohcrap." The statue's hands come down at the Blue Beetle, and he leaps into the air, his translucent blue wings spreading and buzzing, keeping him in it. "Okay, that was...not expected." He looks up at Maxima, blinks, and then focuses on a point somewhere to the left of her head. His mother raised him not to stare. "Um, no. I'm not. I'm the Blue Beetle!" Pause. ".../a/ Blue Beetle!" Since, you know, Ted Kord is still around.

Threat Assessment: High. Detecting superhuman strength and durability. "...oh good." And ability to project energy. "...what else? There's got to be more. It's got to get worse." Capable of withstanding atmospheric reentry and vacuum conditions. Neural development high; possible enhanced intellect. Alternatively, possible psionic abilities. Likelihood of the former: 35%. "...so, uh...how do I...?" Jaime is basically talking to himself, to all appearances. He circles around the big statue quickly, trying to get a hold on the situation.

Suggest neurotoxin projector. Small risk of collateral death but crowd is fleeing. "Small risk of /what/?" Likelihood of fatality: 88%. Will need more time to analyze for better odds. "I don't want to kill her, I want her to go away! Look just -" Jaime sighs - and then decides to deal with the /other/ threat first. Which is to say, he launches himself at the big statue's shoulder. "How about this thing?" Analyzing structural weaknesses...

"Okay, seriously? I have some crazy alien warlord to stop, guys!" Kinetic raises a shimmering telekinetic barrier around himself to defend against the blasts. Before he can do more, spatial awareness is going nuts. He ends up just staring at Superboy. "Uhh...okay, who the heck are you?" he really has no idea what's going on here. So much for a simple 'go to Guam, stop alien crazy' trip.

"Well, curiouser and curiouser..."

Of course, in a warzone, a little chaos was to be expected, but all the same, this didn't sound like what he planned for. And so, when your plans weren't going to work, what did you do? You examined the situation, and figured out why not. And so did the Witching Hour Lurker softly push open the metal door with his feet, careful not to alert anyone, before sliding out, and slipping on to the ground. Clad all in black, he kept to any shadows he could in this hopefully dark room, trying to peer in and figure out what the situation was...he wanted to figure out what was happening...

"Oh, PLEASE," booms Maxima in response to the Beetle's introduction, rolling her eyes and waving a hand dismissively in the air. It's interesting to note that when she does that, the massive statue seems to jerk in that direction, just slightly - suggesting some form of immediate link between it and the scantily clad Almeracian. "Sazu! Run a scan on this ANNOYING INTRUDER in relation to the Earth organisms known as 'beetles'. Cross-reference with 'moths' and 'butterflies', please. Mwahaha!" She throws her head back, flipping her enormous mane of scarlet hair, "You have to get up pretty early to catch out the LADY MAXIMA!"

"Mistress, I really don't think--"

"PRETTY EARLY, SAZU. DO IT."

"Very well, your majesty. Running scan now."

Jaime's assault against the statue isn't something the Empress seems bothered about, hovering with smug satisfaction as she almost nonchalantly watches him slam against the vast metal. It's built to the specifications of the Man of Steel himself; and while it may lack the energy and powers of a Kryptonian, the structure is INCREDIBLY solid and unlikely to buckle so easily; it flinches away somewhat, but comes spinning back around with another incredibly loud roar, this time swinging its right arm in a searing uppercut, then following up by planting a foot between the slowly-retreating citizens of Guam to throw in a swatting backhand.

At the beach, Kinetic's efforts are successful, laser fire ricocheting from his barrier, the soldiers soon dwindling to change their tactics. Superboy's arrival puts paid to any immediate plans they may have, his own blast scattering a dozen men into the air. They land with the incredible awkwardness suggesting either broken limbs or concussions, though in their wake come two dozen more, stomping down the roadways of Guam following Sazu's island-wide alarm. Kin and Mini-Supes are treated to a second wave of blaster fire, backed up by the sudden metallic 'tinking' of something new...

Grenades. Four of them fan out in an area beneath the pair of heroes.

Never mind that two soldiers are pretty much right on top of them and still firing carelessly upwards.

IN THE MORGUE

"Hello? Is anybody there? We need to get /off/ this /island!!"

Sandy continues to repeat herself in an ever-rising tone as Abel takes his sweet time, at least until the front doors of the morgue building suddenly explode inward under a hail of high-powered blaster fire, flung so hard that what little of them doesn't disintegrate ends up cleaving through an interior wall and penetrating the chamber holding the politicians. They're panicked into ineffectual dashing and shouting, taking cover under tables bearing corpses and some making it to the back, where one flings open the door and comes face to face with the Lurker.

"OH GOD!" He screams, rearing back in both hands with the laptop he's holding and seeking to brain the vampire - marking probably the first occasion that a Macbook has been used to attack a superhero. It's a sloppy strike, horribly slow by his standards, but the man's fevered in his fear. It's at least pretty dang strong.

Further back, Sandy just screams and starts hammering harder on the door. She's still trapped out there.

Wyld Knight had been held back as a surprise for team hero, it's not like many if any of them knew she even existed yet. That was about to change as Wyld had a job after all. She'd been hired by a Queen. Sure a Queen from space but nobility is nobility after all. Sop here she is perched on a building looking down at the beach.

"It seems they can not hold against two such as that? Then it seems I will come to their aid."

She leaps from the building causing some sparks from her boots scraping against the surface of the roof. The agile armoured woman flips several times in the air as she descends towards the beach and she lands in a crouch before looking up at both Superboy and Kinetic.

"I am afraid you will not be allowed to disturb my My lady. It also seems your both beyond reason. Very well then I shall put a stop to the both of you..."

There's a strange look on the woman's face as she looks at Kinetic staring long and close at him. She knows him, she tries to remember him. It finally hits her. As she realizes whom Kinetic is. She scowls for a moment but says nothing about whatever she's realized, she pulls her blade off her back and it expand about a half a foot farther and she makes a bring it on gesture. She doesn't seem to be afraid, perhaps she's just dumb?

"Well." Superboy takes off the shades with a sweeping flourish - it's classic. Possibly genetic. Not that Clark Kent lets people see him make that gesture often, and usually not with sunglasses. Then, the Teen of Steel puts them back on - "I'm afraid that information is need-to-know." While it probably -is- protocol? SB clearly enjoys the line entirely too much. The Kryptonian clone, notably, doesn't move immediately as the soldiers converge on their position.

Looks like they got out a call, alright. Maintaining his position further up the beach, behind the initial squad, Superboy seems glad to draw the majority of the fire. Beam rifles sting, but fizzle against nigh-impregnable resistance. He staggers a step after they sustain their efforts, and then shoots skywards. He's green enough to wait till he ascends above the beach to accelerate to supersonic levels, a tremendous boom sending palm trees reeling in all directions as he descends anew, right through the grenade screen and into the line of soldiers, working from one end and basically slamming one into the next about as quickly as he can. They don't have time to touch the ground, generally speaking.

"Lock down their other flank!" the modern mystery man requests of Kinetic. "Lady, you don't even know what you're talking about. Why don't you stand down while 'accessory to psycho super stalkering' is the worst thing they can charge you with." He doesn't stop disabling troops to worry about Wyld Knight, not right away.

Solidly built. Undistracted, it would not be a problem. Cannot handle midfight. Structural integrity too high. Jaime sighs. "Great. Do you have any /good/ news?" He flies backwards, getting just barely out of the way of the uppercut. He turns quickly, crossing his hands in front of his face as the backhand comes. A blue metal shield sprouts from the arms, catching the swat and sending the Beetle tumbling end over end through the air. Fortunately, he doesn't hit anything. His hands unbind from each other, the shield melting away to nothing as he gets his balance.

"Guh...my ears are still ringing from there. Right, let's - let's not do that again. Wait - look at her move." Weapon options needed? "...nonlethal, please." Jaime flies upwards. "I think I have an idea. If I stick close to her, it can't swing at /me/ without hitting /her/...at least it didn't step on anyone." Almeracian biology lacking specific weaknesses. Resilient. Physical force bad plan. Energy weapons suggested. "Okay. How much do I need?" Calculating. Power output should be enough to kill if utilizing strong nuclear force dis- "NO! Give me something nonlethal!" Electrical energy may disrupt nervous system briefly. Highly unlikely, however. Addendum: Earlier calculations revised: enhanced intellect only 3% likely. "...well, that's...good?" Possibly.

Jaime flies upwards, trying to get close to Maxima. "Uh, look, Superman's not /here/, and I don't think he'll /be/ here. He's probably fighting someone in space or something." Lightning crackles over his arms, and one hand forms itself into what looks like a crackling tesla coil. "So maybe you could just - leave?" As he says this, Jaime fires off a blast of electricity at Maxima, hoping that going for her will mean she swings up at him and smacks herself with the statue.

Or at least it'll do /something/. Hopefully. He isn't sure how much that electricity will hurt, beyond 'it won't kill her.'

Shields still up to defend against laser blasts, Kinetic gives Superboy a flat look. "So...you're nobody?" he rolls his eyes. The boom sends him tumbling, crashing into the sand. When he rights himself, Kinetic spits out some sand and curses. "Yeah, not listening to you until you give me a name, dude," he chimes, dusting sand off himself. He frowns at Wyld Knight and sighs. "Look, can you just...get out of the way, lady? Got to stop the insane alien warlord woman and I'd really rather not fight you too..."

In fact, Abel saw the panicked figure in the suit take a swing at him with that laptop, and rolling his eyes the vampire grabbed at the device, trying to pivot his body and hurl the piece of technology like a Discus at the approaching gunmen. HARD. And a moment later, he'd grab whatever was close by that wasn't nailed down, most likely a rather large desk, chucking that at the gunment as well. HARDER. He threw out his back and over-extended his shoulder to compensate for the wait, wincing his still human eyes as the pain set through his body. It would pass and heal in a moment, but it wasn't a fabulous feeling, let us just say. If that worked, he'd look around at the politicians, pointing to where he just came from.

"Go, lock yourselves inside...I'll deal with these ninnies, rest assured. For I am...The Witching Hour Lurker!"

He even made sure to stand properly, leg up on the seat of a chair, brow raised, cloak...slightly flapping. A little, anyway.

Maxima's abominable 'wedding gift' may be faster than it ought to be, but it's still two hundred feet tall and weights hundreds of tons; it can't go that quickly, and once Beetle is knocked away he is given his respite. Superman^200 stills a moment, cocking its blank-faced head to one side and then deciding apparently to beat its chest in triumph at scoring such a mighty hit. The Empress smiles indulgently, tipping her head back in obvious pride as she looks on at her pet. Meanwhile, the results of her scan come through....

Beetle's approach is met with a sudden barked laugh, a derisive 'ha!' made as the crazed woman spins in the air, raising a hand out flat as though to stop his approach by command alone. "Leave?" She spits in response to his attempt to sway her benevolence, "I'll do NO SUCH THING! This is my wedding day and you shall not ruin it!" Her teeth bare in a savage grin as his blast comes spiralling in, and she sways to one side, voluminous cape fluttering off her shoulders to catch the energy in passing. It's burnt up immediately, causing a hard, shocked gasp from the Warrior Queen. She's wearing a scowl a beat later.

"Do you KNOW how much that COST?" Booms Maxima, before parting her lips in a war-cry, deep and rumbling in her breast as she hurls herself forward at supersonic speed. Tesla spark is countered with a brutal swipe of her left arm, a backhanded chop aimed directly for the throat - an attempt to stun the hero, before she twists her body in the opposite direction, floating a little higher as she aims a searing roundhouse kick to send him toward the ground below. If he gets hit, well, he'll find out just how accurate his Scarab is.

Bitch hits HARD.

ON THE BEACH

"Wyld Knight," Sazu's voice is suddenly in the young woman's skull, coolly matter-of-fact as she continues to examine her nails while the other hand tap-taps away at the command console, "Our mistress bids that you take maximum caution in dealing with the interlopers. The blonde shouldn't be any trouble for you - he's just an Earthling, but the brunette shows signs of alien origin. I'll tell you more when I know."

Her voice is dissonant against the instinctive grunts and screams of the brainwashed soldiers as the Kryptoclone slams through them, his shockwave tearing up asphalt and cracking trees in twain - there's no hope for the mere human men he comes into contact with, flung into a scrabbling mess, laser beams going far wide if they're even eked out at all from jerking fingers. Still, there's a lot of them, and collateral damage is always possible, particularly as he reaches the end of the encroaching column; super-speed or not, Maxima's enslaved troops don't seem to care enough about themselves not to be firing down the line in preparation, only the speed of Superboy saving themselves from murdering the men he scatters.

The few remaining on Kinetic's side keep firing, but they're starting to run out of energy - literally, their guns sputtering out as the torrent begins to subside, but they're responding to psychic orders and well... Maxima is quite busy. Blankly, blindly, they keep pulling the triggers anyway. Life seems to be getting easier for the heroic tag team if not for anybody ELSE on the island.

IN THE MORGUE

The striking politican is startled by the Lurker's quick response, gasping and falling back onto his butt as his precious work-aid is flung over his head to take the frontmost soldier square in the chest. There's a nasty snapping sound as ribs give way, and the astonishing pain seems to both break Maxima's spell, a scream uttered from his lips as he falls to his knees, sobbing. The second missile tears over HIS head to send his squadmates scattering - or at least the largest part of them, several others going the way of the Dodo as well. Meanwhile, the panicked men all flock toward the back of the room, scooping up their fallen compatriot and hustling past the dramatic vamp.

It's only a few moments before one of them hears Sandy's banging and lets her in before rebarring the doors.

She's a wreck, gasping and crying, but looking over at the Lurker-- well, someone's eyes turn to beating hearts instantly.

The remaining men at the front of the building come staggering almost drunkenly over their own fallen, before levelling a trio of laser beams toward Abel, one missing entirely to set immediate flame to a corpse beside him; the other two aiming a little better, one for the knee and one for the face. They're not bad shots, for brainwashed mooks.

"Your, uh, wedding, right...your wedding dress is a bit, um. Small." The Beetle focuses on Maxima's face, since there's not a lot of safe places to /look/. Fortunately, the suit is made of tough stuff. "Look, no, I don't know how much it cost!" Raise left hand. Form shield. "Huh?" Jaime obeys without thinking - on defense, he tends to. The shield sprouts out of his left hand, catching the throat strike - and sending Jaime hurtling back. "Ow! That hurt!"

He dodges upwards as the roundhouse kick comes in, both shield and tesla cannon gone. He rubs his left arm with his right hand. "That - wait, that /hurt/! You weren't kidding when you said she was dangerous!" Extreme strength. Need to disrupt focus. Body not suggested target. "What?" Eyes. Photon flare. Follow up with neural shock, induce brain death. "No brain death!" Fine. Sonic burst. "Nonlethal?" Yes. Will hopefully daze, give more time.

Jaime is pretty sure Maxima is stronger than he is. She can hurt him through his armor, and that's not easy. He dives in close regardless, bringing one hand up towards her face. The palm flares bright. Photon flare: a flashbulb. Hopefully, Maxima's /senses/ are not super-resilient. He flies back then, following it up with a burst of noise from a sound cannon, trying to rattle her. Unfortunately, rattling isn't painful, really - just, at worst, disorienting.

But Jaime has a /plan/! It's not a very good plan, but it has at /least/ two steps.

Wyld Knight looks at Kinetic says "Humm it seems you have changed little. I have my duty, I always carry out my contact and finish it. I am giving you a chance you never gave them. To just walk away." There's a scowl on her face she seems to know the young hero from somewhere but who knows. She looks at superboy and just laughs at him. "So says someone who behaves little better than a highway man?" Lighting starts to form about the blade as she looks between the two.

"I am afraid you are the ones who will be in for trouble."

"Ridiculous Earth-fool!" Laughs Maxima, concealing her frustration at the Beetle's successful defensive manuevers by tossing her hair once more, setting a hand to her hip as she rather effortlessly controls her flight patterns to match his motions - keeping them at range as he banters with his Scarab and she... preens. Preening is very important. "This is NOT my wedding dress! Would you like to see my wedding dress, Mr. Blue Earth-fool?" Because she knows he's not a beetle, now. Can't fool her. Nope.

His dive interrupts her subsequent smirking, and puts paid to whatever it is she starts to do that sets her entire body to glowing, flesh igniting from within and what little material she /is/ wearing starting to shimmer with an irridescent light. It probably doesn't help her complete failure to evade a fraction of an instant later, his flaring palm instead met with the disdainful raising of an arm as if to block or parry. She's sensed his strength isn't on par; she's ignorant and self-absorbed but she's not entirely stupid. However, she's forsaken what he hasn't - and done no research whatsoever.

She flinches /hard/ at the bursting light, thrown back fully six feet as she reacts explosively, snarling and throwing both hands over her eyes to rub them clear. "HOW DARE YOU!" She's yelling through gritted teeth, which is really quite impressive - a shame that she's drowned out by the piercing whine of his sonic cannon, though a second whine echoes from the very depths of space as the orbiting ship sends down a disrupting counter-signal.

"Hmph!" Maxima draws herself up and her eyes begin to flash, going from odd anomaly to searing fire in a half-second to send a broad bolt of psychokinetic energy through the air toward the Beetle. She's fast enough to track him, but he's had time to prepare by then; and her vision's not 100. It's mostly an instinctive blast, fired off as fast and hard as she can possibly make it. It's enough to shatter buildings or induce...

Well, induce brain-death. Speaking of which.

"Mistress, have you noticed how much he /talks/..."

"Little BUSY, SA--"

"/Pay attention/, Lady Maxima! He's talking but I'm not picking up any signals! It's. His. Suit."

It's at that moment that Maxima's eyes widen with alarm. It's not something she'll let herself show often.

Is it the revelation? Is it that Sazu DARED to interrupt? Is it a bird? Or a plane?

Or... has something else happened? Tune in next pose to find out, readers!

With his brow still raised, he managed to dodge two deathbeams with one stone, or chair, as it were. Seeing a laser aimed dead center for his face, and knowing these things were very bad to get hit with, Abel 'kicked' out at nothing, launching the chair he was keeping it on toward that beam, to let it explode from the impact. At the same time, it kept his leg out the way of that attempted laserrific kneecapping, but he snarled when he heard his cape singing.

"Well bugger, isn't that beautiful! That's it, away with thee!"

Wanting to act before these guys fired again, or before they got another bead on him, he leapt through the air, using sudden vampire agility to try and land in the center of the men, immediately launching out with open-palmed slaps(that were as hard as haymakers, here), and roughly grabbing at weapons, trying to use improvised, slightly unorthodox Judo manuevers to flip and disarm these ruffians all at once. Of course, the key word was attempt, wasn't it? He had no idea if these were each little Deathstrokes or the like, and things could end very poorly right now...

"No, no, please don't take off your shirt! Really! I don't need to see your wedding dress!" Jaime does not want to explain to his mother why a supervillain offered to change clothing for him. This is /already/ awkward. At least part one of the plan is going well. Energy. Psychokinetic. Addendum: chance of enhanced intellect 0. Brain development not notable enough to handle both psionic power and intellect. "Yeah, I got that!" Jaime weaves through the air quickly, trying to dodge the blasts. Each could be deadly if they hit.

But he has to handle part two of the plan, too. He moves to try and keep himself between Maxima and the statue. This blasts could easily hit it - and she seemed attached to it, since, well, it looks like Superman. Jaime isn't attacking now - he's focusing entirely on surviving and keeping his position relative to the statue.

"Okay -" Detecting communications signals. Patch in? "How long would that take?" Variable. Divert focus? "Um...no. I need our focus." Half an hour. "Yeah, how fast if we divert a little focus?" 1 minute if no weapons systems are brought online. "Do it."

So Jaime now has no guns for the next minute, as he tries to patch into Maxima's communications. Or, rather, the scarab does. That's okay. He doesn't need guns. Hopefully.

IN THE MORGUE

Mentally-dominated they may be, but the men 'employed' by Maxima were - and are, if they get woken up - trained American marines, posted to the island of Guam to serve and protect some of the wealthier exported citizenry of the United States. However, they're still not match for vampires; Abel's charge is met with fairly ineffectual counter-fire, their weapons slower than the assault rifles they'd normally wield, and psychic seizure no replacement for actual training. Laser blasts go wide, and one even cuts close on the inside as the Lurker lands, roasting one of the poor men to a crisp without so much as a by-his-leave.

The others act as fast as they can, though one is disarmed and struck unconscious in what seems an instant - likely because it IS. By the time two are down, the remaining man has spun away, taking a reeling blow on the temple but moving through the pain and shock of the move, dropping low to charge at Abel in a rapid double-leg takedown. Moving through the gap of the doors are two more men, one taking point to fire into the back room with his rifle; presumably seeing the politicians as a lingering threat.

The other leaps to join his friend on the floor, seeking to pin Abel while he reaches to pull a combat knife.

"Look, dude... right now I don't..." Toss. WHAM. "Much..." Toss. WHAM. "Care..." Toss. WHAM! On down the line, blurring from point to point, "Whatyournameis!" Just what side Kinetic is on. "We'll have to care and share later." Right now, SB is focused on fixing the abundant amount of freeeaking mess going down in his general vicinity. Like the Nanoknight out avenging her royal madmatron. He's a little occupied keeping the professional zombie-soldiers from headshotting each /other/, too.

The last two members of the squad are tossed (relatively speaking) gently back behind him, making a last haphazard little pile, each containing four to six men all gathered together in groaning groups. The weapons seem to fall apart in his wake which crackles with crimson energy, as if of their own accord. They just don't have the will to fight, apparently. "The Highwayman? Nope, wrong name, sister." He doesn't elaborate further, he just flies up above Wyld, vivid blue eyes never leaving her. "So, are we going through, or do we need to have a little tea party first?" He quips, flippant in the face of danger.

"Excuse me one moment," Kinetic glances over his shoulder, sending a telekinetic shockwave at the men still firing. Not even watching the results, he turns his attention back to Wyld Knight and frowns. "Okay, one...who are you and what do you mean I've changed? And two...they started shooting at me first before I said a word to them and then that guy," he points in Superboy's direction. "showed up and things went nuts," he pauses when he sees the lightning. "of course there's lightning. Nothing here on crazy island is simple," he sighs. The costumed blond watches Superboy a moment before shaking his head. Touching back down on the sand, he concentrates and focuses on sending the sand around Wyld up around her to obscure her vision.

Jaime's conversation with his Scarab goes uninterrupted again...

*FOOM!*

Because Maxima is busy staring in utter horror as she blows the head clean off her wedding gift to Superman. It's not a subtle process - the second or third bolt she fires off, they come out so fast it's hard to be sure, ripples past the agile Beetle to explode against shiny shiny blank-face. The stalwart structure crumbles in an /instant/, showering vicious metal across the skies, some of it raining down upon Jaime and the rest either on Maxima herself or the fleeing citizens. There's a good chance of injury from that; the stuff is red hot, so fatality is certainly not unlikely, but for the Empress of Almerac...

They're just flesh wounds, at worst. Most zing away, some draw crimson lines. These only serve to infuriate her further when she snaps to, mouth a terrible rictus as she whirs upon Jaime and suddenly moves faster than she has /yet/, leaving a sonic boom in her wake that ravages the topside of the cathedral, tearing away some of the unused weapon emplacements and caving in the roof. Maxima's busy trying to brain the Blue Beetle, roaring incoherently as she swings far and wide with scorching hooks and the occasional straight jab, a blitzkrieg combination of blows designed to just completely smear him across the clouds.

"THAT!" *thwak* "WAS!" *whoosh* "FOR!" *smash* "MY!" *crunch* "BETROOOOOOTHED!!!"

Hell hath no fury. Of course, she's angry; anger makes people dumb. It makes Maxima DUMBER.

Meanwhile, the giant statue lets out a dull, hollow roar that oscillates between chest-rumblingly low and earthquake-shudderingly low, the square around the cathedral starting to fragment a moment before it seems to lose its head (pun intended) entirely. One lumbering step is taken, causing an impact crater that thankfully flings most of the Guamians free from further devastation as it takes a second and a third, then belts into a full-bore sprint across the territory of the island. It's going to reach the beach where Kin, Mini-Supes and Wyld are battling in... oh, about one minute or so, roaring all the way.

Supezilla is not a happy bunny.

He was feeling rather good, then, but that was before he got grabbed around by the back of the knees, and felt himself in free-fall, his shoulders clearly about to hit the ground. With his face tight-lipped from effort, he merely concentrated and relaxed his body, doing his best to slip his feet up, and his knees from that guard until the soles of his boots found themselves on the chest of that ambitious soldier. If this all worked, then when he hit the ground he'd tuck his legs in...before launching that soldier out, aiming him like an impromptu projectile toward his allies. Of course, vampire or no, he'd be unable to get right back up after that, for now just trying to deal with the other soldier that had landed on him. Always the danger of fighting multiple opponents, really...

"Crapcrapcrapcrap I forgot about the people!" Jaime can't use his guns to shoot down the pieces, either. Instead, he dives around Maxima, forming up shields on his arms - that's not a weapons system. Energy discharges are. He grits his teeth, but several of her blows manage to land. That's gonna sting later. Hell, it stings /now/. "Scarab! How are we doing?" Nearly patched in.

Jaime dives for the falling debris, trying to tackle it out of the way of the people. Maybe he'll get lucky and he can even use Maxima's blows to help hurl them away. He can't let people die! Even if it means he takes some hits. Even if it means he has to change plans midstream. He manages to avoid most of the blows...

But this is not a pain-free flight by any means.

The Teen of Steel opens his mouth again immediately, probably to fire out some other arguably witty crack, but he stops midstream. Cants his head slightly to the side. "What the fuu..." It's the second time in five minutes he's been completely distracted from what he was going to do, with what needs to be done, "Uh, dude." He sounds kind of chagrined at this. "People are dying. Hang on here. I'll.. try to hurry." To Wyld. He aims one hand, and finger-guns, "Your lucky day. We'll have to tango later."

Then, he's gone. A flash of color and motion, a resounding *KRAKOW* in the air, an invisible shockwave rattling the scenic shoreline buildings and boardwalks. SB has been around enough crushed buildings and terrified crowds to know that what is going down with giant Steampunk Superman is /bad shit/. He's not the Flash, who would be there even before Jaime changed his mind to seek to stem the new chaos... but he's there instants after the Blue Beetle turns his focus to blasting debris and rescuing babies. That same blur of motion, coming in as the crow flies.

Full bore into the Kryptoclone's replicant idol's chest. It's the kind of sound most dudes don't hear unless they're mid-warzone. Step one: Stop this behemoth in its tracks. Maybe even knock it back the way it's coming from.

Shields, pfft! Maxima does her best to keep on pounding, just completely and utterly abandoned to slugging the Blue Beetle in the mush right now. There are more intelligent things she could be doing - but even were she so inclined and not hormonal beyond all rational belief, her attention is split across the remaining several hundred soldiers on the rest of the island; not to mention still attempting to keep control over that rampaging statue. But then, nobody knows for sure that's what she's DOING, do they?

"Mistress! Stop! I'm monitoring your emanations and... you're losing control. If you keep this up--"

"SAZU!" *sock* "He's RUINING EVERYTHING!" *biff* "I am the LADY MAXIMA and--" *whamwhamwham*

That last combination sends civilians scattering, freeing the last of them from immediate threat range. And then Maxima is snarling more viciously, focus entering her rabid gaze as she swings back away from the Beetle, keeping speed but not closing for a half-second as she watches for a breach in the pattern of his shields. Surely he can't be focusing so completely; while still being a ridiculous hero? She's not sure why he even cares for these petty fools, but-- he broke her things!! The last thought drives the sheer, galaxy-shuddering brutality behind the kick she swings her tall, muscular frame into an instant later, driving it with a spark of psychokinetic energy - giving the attack enough speed it lifts another minor sonic boom in its wake.

It leaves Maxima herself panting. "This... is not... ACCEPTABLE!"

"Your majesty, if you keep attacking like this you /will/ lose everything! I'm releasing the final stage of our defenses, and you /will/ teleport back to the ship /immediately/! Are you /listening/ to me, Lady Maxima?"

Sazu's sudden air of command is coupled with her slamming both fists onto the command console, a familiar yet more intellectual fury entering her gaze as she stares full bore into the monitors, driving her words home with a tiny echo of Maxima's own psychic eminence creeping through her tone. It's not enough to give her any actual control over the Warrior Queen, but it might just give her pause for thought. A second later...

She hits a button, just as Superboy slams into the behemoth headless form of Superman^200.

A gigantic crack rips down the central portion of its mess, and the thing ROARS all the louder, stopped in its tracks only so long as it takes to throw an arm out to either side, and then clap both mighty, hundred-ton palms down toward its chest, seeking to swat the fly bothering it by destroying /itself/ if necessary.

MEANWHILE, IN 'MYSTERIES OF THE WITCHING HOUR LURKER' VOLUME 10,461

Abel's efforts are rewarded one more, his opponent flying into the frantically-firing soldier behind him a moment before he can actually remember how not to aim like a stormtrooper. The braver of the politicians manage to get the door slammed shut a beat later, a bar falling into place over the back room doors just in time to drown out Sandy's besotted cry. "Good luck, handsome str--" *BOOM*

The last laser bolt sizzles a small hole in the woodwork, but it holds.

With just one man left, Abel is treated to the shining glint of a US-issue combat knife, drool working down the lips of the man holding it as he seeks with unheeding skill to drive the edge down against the vampire's throat and make a short, sharp slit across the jugular vein - his thighs squeezing to either side to hold the Lurker still. He's reasonably strong, but lacks the near-superhuman heights a creature of the night may reach.

All those sonic booms are giving Kinetic a major headache, the blond holding his head a moment. When the giant metal superman comes stomping their way, Kinetic's jaw drops. "Oh crud muffins..." he trails off. When Superboy stakes off, Kinetic jumps. "Yeah, done playing with the mooks," he says, letting his aura flare into view around him. The telekinetic teen takes off, ignoring Wyld and heading as fast as he can fly to catch falling people and stop dangerous debris.

Wyld Knight says, "I am Wyld Knight and you don't remeber? Somehow I'm not suprised you do not." She doesn't get much more to say as she watches Superboy take off. "Who was /that/. She's a bit ignorant of the world, but even she has no idea who the heck or what her might be. She turns her attention to the remaining hero.

"Oh you think your done do you?"

She leaps after Kinetic with a powerful bound heading right after him and as she's airborn launches a bolt of lighting from her drawn blade at the young super hero.

"Run like a coward and I will hunt you down!"

Even 'trapped' under a deranged, murderous mind-controlled soldier, Abel can still chuckle at the situation.

"I can tell you're a reality television fan, aren't yo-"

He never gets the chance to finish that quip, as he sees the knife slash forward, he brings his hand up to cushion the blow, knife tearing through leather and stabbing right through the palm of his hand-but he grabs at the man's fist, trying to keep it clenched, now painfully tight...and now, he pulls another trick out of his hat.

This trick involves the masked man's face CHANGING. Cheekbones get higher, face itself grows more gaunt, flesh paling, and fangs growing visibly now, sliding out and eager to sink themselves into warm, willing(or unwilling) flesh, even as Abel now fought that urge.

The biggest change, however, were his eyes, changing from their regular gray playfulness, to black. Jet black, save small, red circles that made for his irises. He spoke in a lower, more commanding tone of voice, dropping all playfulness as he (hopefully) works his magic...

"Listen to me. You're going to stop this foolishness, you're going to let me get up, and we are going to have a rather long chat about what a bother you've been. Is that clear, dear boy?"

Jaime's focus on pure defense is paying off. His shields don't exactly /have/ a pattern, either - they're just two big metal plates on the ends of his arms, which he swings around to try and block the attacks. The holes are easy to spot - Jaime is not a trained fighter by any stretch. Comms patched. However, he now has a new plan. As Maxima holds back for that moment, he comes up with an idea.

As she flies at him, he does his best to defend, bringing the shields together. One of them cracks and shatters under the force of the blow, sending the Blue Beetle hurtling through the air. "GAAAAH! That really stings!" Repair time: 24 hours. "That's great, just - look, get me their radio." Transmitting.

The scarab dives through the ship's systems, hoovering up data on every weapon it can get its hands on. Jaime's eyes widen. He frowns...and then Maxima's radio system releases a burst of Reach language before shifting languages. Jaime's voice, with a background hum translating it into her own tongue, as the Scarab analyzes the language it is reading. "Lady Maxima, huh? Stand down. I'm in your ship now, and I don't even /know/ all of what I could do with it! Just stand down and deactivate your weapons or I'll go play around finding out! That /includes/ your living weapons. If you hurt anyone those are attached to..." Jaime shifts in the air, allowing one arm to protrude a long, jagged blade. "Then I will do whatever I can to mess up your ship - and given I'm in the system, that could be a lot."

Jaime is not a hacker; the scarab /is/, but Jaime has no idea how much his bluff is actually a bluff. (More than he'd like, he's certain.)

All it takes is a touch... but Superboy would rather that not be a crushing blow between the titanic Superidol's palms. "Heh." He has time to smirk. It looks for an instant like the Teen of Steel is crushed, the behemoth's hands crashing together with window-shattering force, nearby buildings lurching in their foundations. In the third-of-a-second before that, though, the Kryptoclone blasts /through/ the giant doppleganger's left palm in a flare of red. Pure solar energy smelts metal... then /vaporizes/ it. It doesn't drip clear, it doesn't run like wax. The eyebeams are full bore heat vision.

... and another pair of shades bites the dust. "/Damnit!" Superboy manages the protest before darting back into the titan's grill, and mockingly clapping his own hands before pressing both palms to the bottom of the cracked replica 'S' shield. "Man. This is the worst tribute since Fatal Attraction." Superboy's words might be lost to the wrenching scream of bending, rending metal as he vastly worstens the splintering wound down the statue's front. Near-invisible energies ripple and expand, tear through on the molecular level, holding nothing back. All it takes is a touch. It takes him a moment to follow the wavelength to pick up on Jaime, amid the Reachtech's distortion particularly, but he's not waiting to find out if the gambit pays off... he's tearing the thing down now.

Possibly the most alarming part of the effort to disable the creature is the way it all rends down towards the monolithic thing's not-quite-booted feet, nothing falling free. The collateral is already bad, here... but he's not making it worse if he can help it, instead shoving the thing down towards submission. From what he's picked up so far this Beetle dude at least has the crazy space stalker /occupied/. Don't let her look at him don't let her look at him...

Just setting down some falling debris, Kinetic blinks when he senses Wyld Knight leaping his way. "The heck?!" he yelps, using the debris to shield against the lightning. "Lady, what is your problem? There's more important things that need doing than fighting you!" he calls, sending the chunk of debris rocketing at Wyld in hopes of knocking her off path.

By the time the Beetle gets inside Maxima's systems, well, the button is pressed.

"Quack," says the first thing that emerges. "Quack!" Echo all the others. Hundreds of them.

Ordinarily mere ducks might not be a threat to powerful superbeings, but not only are these also under the thrall of Maxima's psychic prowess; they're loaded forebear, tiny flashing lights visible on their wings and each feathered undercarriage carrying a small but incredibly potent bomb. Almeracian tech, each carries a payload equivalent to a cruise missile. The flock spreads wide and high, then comes arcing down at all angles; with perhaps three or hundred to go around, that's quite a few for each individual hero to deal with. Though their aim is not perfect - it's a wide and scattered spread. Sadly this means enough to level most of Guam.

Fortunately for Guam and our heroes, there's a very simple 'disarm' button of sorts.

The initial burst in alienese causes Maxima's face to scrunch like she's just smelled a particularly loathesome fart, some recognition flashing through her gaze with the natural confusion. "Sazu..." she begins to address her indignant Royal Advisor before Jaime's voice cuts in. Up on the bridge, her childhood friend hammers at the console, cursing herself and the ship for not having better /automatic/ hacking defenses, but it's too late to really do anything more than she has.

The Empress of Almerac has other ideas, and she's rushing at Jaime before he finishes, throwing herself at him with devastating fury, her eyes beginning to spark with more of that explosive psychic power when-- he utters that threat, and suddenly her brain goes a cartwheel as it wakes up. The entire purpose of this excursion was to make Superman marry her; she needed POSSESSIONS to do that way, she needs a DOWRY. If she squishes this beetle, like the pathetic Earth-fool she assumed he was, then she potentially loses all of that...

But there's another question in that reasoning.

"What ARE you?" She demands, billowing to a halt in the air, putting on the brakes hard but still coming to within striking distance of him. Arrogantly she flings out a hand, stopping short of hitting - but pointing a single digit directly into his face. "I demand to know! You may have control of MY data but now I have yours; my ship's scanners will know what you are. I /recognize/ that language you spoke, and your suit..." Her eyes narrow to perilous slits, and she seems to think for a long moment, then belts out a laugh, throwing her head back, crimson hair rippling in the breeze - both the wind and her own, released energies.

She's actually lowered her guard. And the psychic links across the island with it.

"Hmph!" A smile curls upon her lips. She's still /seething/ and it shows in her eyes, but there's something else there now. Because what she assumed to be a pitiful, worthless planet just might be something more. Her collossus falls to pieces as Kon tears it asunder nearby, but with his final efforts it's falling apart of its own volition too - released from her control, from the only thing binding it. His final shove sends it crashing down, where what remains falls into the component parts, tat and toot gathered from the island and the intercepted boats. It's nothing, now; as useless as the men and women now regaining their senses and falling to their knees, sobbing and shaking, by the thousand. They don't matter to Maxima, not any more.

"VERY WELL, Blue Earth-fool," announces the Empress, flying backward, arms spread in a vast shrug, "You may keep your pathetic excuse for an island nation. I shall build my palace elsewhere! Relinquish control of my ship and I shall have Sazu beam me aboard. You may consider this a LUCKY ESCAPE. But be aware, little one..."

She flings an arm forth, one more pointing directly and incredibly rudely at Jaime's covered face.

"We SHALL meet again!"

Across the island, ducks begin to land, doing so in pools or on beaches, quacking in confusion.

It seems like she might actually be... capable of keeping her word? So far, so good, at least.

IN THE MORGUE

The release of Maxima's control carries with it respite for the Lurker; at first, all he gathers from his efforts if a confused and drooling face, saliva pattering down over his chest as the poor bemused mook appears stunned more than frightened - the knife hanging an inch from cutting throat, fingers quivering and gentle, uncertain grunts coming from between those moist lips. But when he finishes speaking...

It's like a spell is suddenly cast, or rather removed. The US trooper suddenly casts his knife aside and sinks back, tumbling off the vampire with a whimper, wiping first at his mouth and then at his face as tears begin to course down his cheeks. NOW he's terrified, looking at the nightmare face in front of him with a grimace of childish horror, reduced to little more than a babe despite his uniform and physique. A glance goes to his men, and then instinct cuts in-- he's up and on his feet, and running a moment later, leaving WHL alone...

A monster in the gloom. A monster who's saved many lives today.

When the man pulled his knife back, he pulled it through flesh, not slicing through bone, but cutting it enough to count, and causing Abel to wince and curse at the sudden sensation.

"I would have given it back to you, you sodding..."

But now, he lets it recover, and not quite knowing they were mind controlled, he puts two and two together by the looks in their faces and the sudden "daring escape" by the last soldier...as Abel let his 'Vampface' fade away to something more normal and suitable, and his hand mended into a simple fleshwound, he took care to round all the weapons away from the incapacitated soldiers, just in case...when said weapons were in a big pile in the middle of the room, THEN he knocked on the doors where the politicians were hid.

"Alright, it's safe to come out, then!"

Jaime closes his eyes, preparing for the hit that will smash through his defenses. You should have killed her. "I..." He doesn't answer his suit, looking up at Maxima as she stops just short of striking him. His eyes focus on the finger. "I...I told you. I'm the Blue Beetle. That's all I have to be." It's much more confident-sounding than he actually is. Jaime has no idea where his suit came from or what language he spoke. It's just /there/.

He looks down at the ducks. "Anyway...thank you. I appreciate it. Disconnecting." You're sure? "/Do it./" The scarab drops its connection. Jaime keeps his word, too.

The scarab, at this point, alerts him to another threat nearby. It flags 'Kryptonite gas' as a weapon to use. "...wait, what?" Highly effective. "Just stop." He hangs in the air, letting out a long breath.

He is, at least, smart enough not to vocalize his thoughts here: 'Man, I can't believe that worked.'

The deconstructing idol is managed as efficiently as possible, Superboy basically crushing it down like an invisible baler, its components compressed around themselves in a tight little cube. More of a mass, really. He's not taking time to be geometrically proper, just smooshing. It affords him cover from Maxima, which proves to be a large part of the extensive effort, as the clone of her 'betrothed' flies upwards once more, out into the open at least for a moment.

He's near the Blue beetle in the next, looking up after the space queen. "What the hell?" It's not something the other hero is likely to be able to answer a whole lot better. The Teen of Steel pauses. Considers. "Uh. Who are you talking to?" One thing he can't hear: Reachvoice in Jaime's head. Then he remembers the Telekinetic and the Nanoknight, "Oh, crap." He bolts back the way he came, to Kinetic and Wyld. It's not an odd encounter next to Maxima; but it sure ain't normal at all.

"Seriously," Kinetic groans, strengthening his bodyfield. "why me?" he mutters. Catching the chunk of concrete he threw, he sets it down and quickly grabs any other debris he can to set down safely. The ducks just get a stare from Kinetic. "What....why...Kamekazi Ducks?!" he yelps, flying out of the way of where he thinks Wyld Knight will land. As things start to settle down, the telekinetic just looks lost. Remembering Wyld, Kinetic turns back towards her. "Your boss is leaving. Gonna stand down yet?" he asks, almost positive she's just going to attack him again.

"Sazu?" Maxima rarely sounds less than entirely confident, but she's testing the waters slightly with that, an eyebrow quirking as she maintains eye contact with the Beetle. Her word is her bond, in spite of all else that she is, but that's no guarantee that his is also; clever he might have proven, selfless and just, but she's not entirely sure that's he a WARRIOR yet. Her command is answered only by silence for several seconds, and her gaze begins to narrow once more, a reddish-purple glow subsuming the whites of her eyes.

"...I'm back in control, mistress. Prepare to teleport?"

"Hmph." Her hands clap to her hips, and the Warrior Queen goes so far as to cock them, swaying in mid-air to show off her curves top and bottom with a sauntering physical arrogance she probably believes is coquettish. It's mostly really, really slutty, not helped at all by the fluttering of her eyelids at the besuited Beetle. "I accept your gratitude, but must repeat my assertion with full and..." She pauses, biting down on her bottom lip as she glances out over the island, the island she's given up for what? For this? For HIM? Her eyes are back on Jaime a beat later, and she leans forward, smiling wide and predatory. "/Honourable/ intent."

She doesn't make it sound very 'honourable'. She makes it sound like the least 'honourable' thing EVER.

"We SHALL meet again. SAZU! Take me home! And then run a bath! I have a lot to... think about."

Oh dear. There's thankful little time to think about that as she breaks down into individual molecules with a whirring, pulpy sci-fi hum as the ship's teleporter engages. Within a few seconds, the resulting rainbow-coloured motes have coalesced into a loose beam and thundered heavenward with a dynamic *whoooosh*. Back on the ship, five minutes later, Maxima drops what little clothing she was wearing onto the floor and dips a toe, squeaking with pleasure at the perfect temperature of her tub. Behind her, Sazu is back to buffing her nails.

"Mistress?" She asks boredly. "Hm?" Replies Maxima. "What should we do about Wyld?"

BACK IN THE MORGUE

The doors are flung open, revealing to the saved faces of the politicans their hero of the hour. A 'hip-hip-huzzah!' is soon in full force like we've entered some terrible timewarp to the 1950s, until the wave of fat, reddish faces parts to reveal a woman clad in business attire, clutching a ruined microphone to her breast and gazing at Abel as invisible birds sing a hymn around her dazed and exhaustedly relieved skull.

Sandy Mahogany wanders forward like she's in a dream and then...

With no more fanfare at all, flings herself at the Witching Hour Lurker and tries to get a woman made of herself.

Love is /definitely/ in the air today.

Jaime coughs as Superboy asks him a question. "Um...voice in my head." Accurate. He then backs away in the air from Maxima, trying desperately to maintain eye contact. This is kind of an effort; he's /sixteen/. "Um...yeah. Uh. Okay." Neurotoxins are still available. Jaime does not answer as Maxima teleports out, instead shaking his head and then flying after Superboy.

"Uh, thanks for the assist with the statue. I'm the Blue Beetle. The, uh, I was talking to my armor." Threat Assessment: High. "Stop that! Anyway, um...is it /normal/ for supervillains to hit on you after you get them to go away?"

Wyld Knight is still keeping after Kinetic and she looks right at him. There's something strange about her that's for sure, something's off but more than just the standard villain working ofr another one. The Ducks however ruffle her feathers shocking her as well. She sees her employer is leaving and it's time for her to go. "It seems you have a point, it seems my contract is finished for the moment."

Not the thing you expected she turning, droping towards the ground, she's now sprinting at high speed trying to get the heck out of here before she's left behind.

Contrary to popular belief, vampires -could-, in fact, partake in activities that they used to, as long as it didn't involve tanning or firebathing. Abel could sit down and eat a meal without suffering any ill effects. He wouldn't truly 'benefit' from it, but he could still enjoy the taste, enjoy the smells, but it would never be as big a part of his life as it used to be. It moved from a necessity and thus sort of 'addiction'...to more of a passing interest, at most. A novelty he indulged in from time to time.

It was much the same way with sex, and physical attraction. Much like an adult viewed his once important childhood obsessions, so did Abel Thatcher view the act of physically joining with another. A pleasant, fond memory, but something that didn't hold sway over him any lonver. And so, when she beelined toward him, he opened his arms wide, grasping Sandy and immediately putting her in the arms of her colleagues, speaking authoritatively toward them as he did so.

"Poor thing, she's in shock, and still hysterical from the danger of it all. Go get her to a warm bed, and insist she rest and stay hydrated. Perhaps a damp cloth over her head, it should right itself quick. I'm afraid you'll all have to let yourselves out, can't bare to be outside. Deadly allergies, horrible stuff, you understand. I'll wait here until it's not as powerful tonight, then I'll be on my way...toodles!"

Fast talking them, rushing them out, as long as it didn't bring him to the broken doors outside. No, no, he needed to wait, needed to make his exit when he could...

Well, unless there were any hidden tunnels underneath the morgue. He started tapping the floor with his shoes, checking for hollow points.

MEANWHILE, IN SPACE

"Hm?" Maxima repeats, then waves a hand, "Whatever you like, Sazu."

"...you know, sometimes I wonder who's really in charge here."

"What was that, Sazu?"

"Teleporting her up now, mistress!"

A flick of a switch, a push of a button, and Wyld Knight is next to break down to rainbow molecules.

The Empress of Almerac sighs, hooking a leg over the edge of her tub and sinking deep into the frothy bubbles. Win or lose; it's GOOD to be bad.

"Man." It's somewhere between frustrated and just /confused/ as he sees Wyld speed off. It's the space between seconds where the Teen of Steel arrives, suddenly commentating from just above Kinetic, floating there easily. "Just a minute." He's gone just as fast. First, make sure the ducks aren't... detonating. They're not right? No death by ducks. He arrives back on that same street only perhaps a quarter-minute later, now wearing a rather LOUD blue shirt over his trunks, and a fresh pair of shiny sleek silver-framed shades.

"Superboy." It's offered to Kinetic simply when he arrives. He pauses a moment. Looks around at the mayhem. The destruction. The zombies regaining their senses. He looks for words. He echoes himself. "What the hell man?"

Wyld Knight is there running one moment, poof rainbows and she's gone. She'll reappear where ever that Maxima has teleported her too. She's thankful though and now doesn't regret at all working for the alien queen. She seems to take care of the hired help!

The Blue Beetle lands by Kinetic and Superboy, looking around. "No, really. Is that /normal/? I mean, I was not expecting her to hit on me. Anyway, uh..." Big red S, Kryptonite recommendation. "...you're with Superman, then?" He shakes his head. "Man, I hope she doesn't actually come back for me. The last thing I need is explaining to my mom why a crazy alien lady wants to jump my bones."

He already sent the politicians out of the morgue. They might be seen by some of the heroes, who would most assuredly tell them about who rescued them if questioned. Lurker would take care of this himself, but, you know, there was that minor obstacle...

"With Superman? Not.. exactly." Family matters are complicated, sometimes! Particularly when you don't have a mommy or a daddy, not really. "Normal? Well." Superboy floats in a bit neared to the Blue Beetle, stage whispering, "Sometimes they hit on us, yep. I think they're all a little crazy, too. ... not usually island-shattering, population-cleansing batshit, though." The Teen of Steel scratches pensively at the back of his neck, shaking his head.

It's a pretty important distinction. "You're.. the Blue Beetle? Why not.. Stellar Scarab, or Azure Avenger, Cobalt Carapace or like..." Pause. Maybe he realizes the guy might just like beetles, or that it doesn't really matter. "You alright?"

"Uh..." Jaime rubs the back of his neck. "...because the thing I got is the Blue Beetle's. There was this scarab, and when we looked it up online it turns out it belonged to the first Blue Beetle. And the second one. I'd give it back to him, but, well, it kind of...I can't any more?" Jaime shrugs. Explaining that he got a giant metal beetle lodged in his spine is never easy.

"And, uh...well, she hits pretty hard. I think I might have cracked rib..." Two. Will heal in two days. ".../two/ cracked ribs. But I'll be okay in a few days. At least, that's what the suit says."

"Gotcha." Superboy doesn't, not really. It's a start, though. He takes a moment to peel back the layers, going inward on the onion with a look of focus as he confirms the stability of Jaime's injuries briefly. He's seen a couple emergencies in the field, now. Enough to look out for unforseen problems on that front, for sure. "Wouldn't strain them if I were you." Not that 'broken bones' are on the forefront of his frequent experiences list, but... he still remembers just being 'boy', before any of the sun-fueled powers started kicking in properly.

He hovers there a moment, another hero carrying a lost legacy, without fully knowing the purposes behind it. "Come on Blue Beetle, uh, teke-dude." He starts flying off from Beetle and Kinetic, "There's a safehouse this way, you guys can nurse your wounds." While the emergency crews tend to the others... they may have averted major casualties, but damn. Close shave in the islands today.

Superboy

2012-03-03T02:18:47Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Superboy
|Image=[[Image:Superboy-Profile.jpg|200px]]
|Name='Carl Grummett'
|Alias=Hey Kid, The Teen of Steel, Subject Thirteen, Agent Thirteen.
|Species=Human/Kryptonian Hybrid
|Age=6? (19ish)
|Affiliation=[[:Category:LFG|LFG]][[Category:LFG]]
|Quote=""Y'know, everyone says criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot... but how come no one ever mentions the '''stupidity''' factor?""
|Powers= 
* Super-Strength
* Super-Stamina
* Super-Speed
* TACTILE TELEKINESIS
* Enhanced Senses
* Super-Vision
* Flight
|}}
'''Superboy''' is the hybrid clone of '''[[Superman]]''', a headstrong young hero with enigmatic origins and benefactors.
==Background/Timeline==
Incoming

==Personality==
Incoming even more!

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-03-02 - Becoming the Mask

2012-03-02T21:02:41Z

Brock: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Becoming the Mask |Summary=Analysis of the Red Hood's patterns and tactics leads the Batman to finally intersect the mysterious vigilante again. The bigge..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Becoming the Mask
|Summary=Analysis of the Red Hood's patterns and tactics leads the Batman to finally intersect the mysterious vigilante again. The biggest question now is whether more questions were raised, than answered... but it's a sure bet that the believed-to-be-dead Robin is back on his former mentor's radar.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Red Hood]]
|Date=2012-02-27
|Where=[[Gotham City]]
|}}

It's night time in Gotham, it always seems to be night time in Gotham.

Even in the day time.

It's a clear, not a single cloud in the sky, the city lights rendering the stars invisible, the deep, abyssal black of the sky marred only by the crescent moon, looking like the thumb-nail of god, about to peel it open and take a peek in.

Of course, tonight doesn't have anything to do with that vast void that surrounds their tiny planet, or even a god that seems so often to be absent. No, tonight is about a van.

The van, stereotypically white, idles in the alley way of a 'burlesque theater' beams it's headlight against the waists of two men. One seemingly reluctant to hand over a set of keys to another.

"You sure you ain't no cop?" inquires the first retracting the keys just out of the man's grip. "Yous gotta tell me if you a cop."

The second man's features etch into a look of agitation, "This the fifth time I told you fool, I ain't no Cop! Now gimme those damn keys before I bust yo' face in." he snapped, snatching the keys from his cohort aggressively. "Dumbass. Why all you idiots think that? Cops ain't gotta tell you shit, you think that badge like some kinda magic truth thing?" he continues to deride the other.

Mook number one begins to voice his protest. The pair of them are two busy to notice a shadowed figure drop down from the roof a adjacent building. He is silent.. quiet.

Right up to the point where his boots hammer down on the roof of the van. The metal thud snaps the pair from their arguement. The first man's eyes go wide with shock and fright. "Oh shit, it's Th'Bat!" he near shrieks, staggering away from his vehicle as the figure atop it looms upwards... It takes both of them a moment to notice the lack of cape, the missing ears... and the pair of guns pointed towards the both of them.

"Nope." intones the man behind the red helmet with a wry mirth, "Guess again, dirtbags."

Some have told him that the alignment of those heavenly bodies, the very nature of the cosmos, does indeed have a direct relationship to the events of this evening. To the nature of the Earth herself; to the universe, and everything. That Earth is a nexus, a center of alarming spiritual and magical energy, of great Order and alarming Chaos, of limitless 'good', and unfathomable 'evil'. To say nothing of everything in between. The Batman's never operated on a lot of high-myth-mysticism, despite his own philosophical warrior poet soul... what's important is what's here, what's now. What impact his actions have, what impact those of others around him have; what they change, what they create for the future.

The Dark Knight doesn't spend a great deal of time on this level of hood. He doesn't run down the middle-man dealers, the distributors, unless they're spinning out dangerous weapons and heavy amounts of hardcore drugs. It begs the question why he's here, surveilling the street level... or more appropriately, running surveillance on whoever might be running surveillance on the street hoods, the greedy and desperate, trying to make a quick buck in a world with no security, and no trust. The Batman frowns, from his own perch, a small unit affixed to his cowl affording a bird's eye view of the city in autofocusing, wavelength-scanning magnification.

It's unclear when the Detective notices the Hood, searching actively not for the vigilante's targets... but for the operative using tactics the Batman knows all too well. The stalking and stealth the Caped Crusader himself was taught, the techniques of the League of Shadows; augmented in the Bat Family's case by some of the world's foremost stage magicians, trackers, detectives, and assassins, but. It's not the minutia of the style that the Dark Knight uses to stalk his -own- prey. It's the personal finesse that brings him down scant seconds after Jason, however, his batnoculars already stowed in his utility belt, a line affixed to a batarang replacing it in his hand. Where the Red Hood lands with all the impressive impact that a muscular fellow's drop should yield, the even larger figure behind him seems to drop in his wake, all but soundlessly. A shadow, Jason's own shadow, desynched for just a moment. He'd probably realize he's got a stalker of his own well before the thugs he's after do.

They do indeed mistake Hood for the Dark Knight, who in fact flits like a momentary breeze down -behind- the van, crouched in the shadows, removed from all three men. He taps three black buttons on the batarang, peering not under the vehicle, but threw it in thermal optics, before releasing the thrown weapon around the van in a wide arc. The deceptively hefty, well-balanced batarang whips around something like an actual boomerang, in this case. Out around the front of the van and back around the side, its momentum wedging it in the wheel well as the tire suddenly goes flat. It might jar the Hood's stance the same moment the Batman gives a tug on the affixed line, meaning to take the feet right out from other the lower-case hoods, as he leaps up to the back. "/Why them/?" The Dark Knight demands, like there has to be some insightful answer there.

"Or are you just a killer, and I'm looking for meaning where there's only /avarice/?" The snarl would be familiar to the Hood, though he's not often been on this end of it. "/Why are you here/?" Who is he? The Dark Knight's own conclusions to date do not seem to land in Jason's favour; Batman is already advancing down the scarce width of the lame, leaning van.

The two realize the depth of their situation. The first blanches in Jason's sights, the second scowls. Both are heavily weighing the options of fight or flight. The sound of a popping, air bursting free around the tip of the batarang startles the first. With a shrill cry, he topples backwards, scrambling in the grit of the alleyway.

The van lurches, dropping to the wheel-rim on the side of the blown tire, Jason's footing is sure however, his weight shifting with the van, pistols lifting up from their level. He should have figured that he'd be having company tonight... Or did he figure he would be? Is this some kind of double-trap?! Did Batman expect him to be expecting him and expected the expectation in return?! Triple traps?!

The second man goes down, a cable suddenly lashed around his ankles, binding them together and sending him into a cursing drop to the concrete.

Jason spins, a tight 180 degree turn on the ball of one foot that has him facing his accuser. White eyes in black pits of a crimson field narrow. Agitation, amusement? Batman couldn't see that quirk to the young man's lips through the hard-shell mask that encased his head. "Why not them?" he answered, a pistol hefted between them... perhaps more for appearance's sake than any actual threat. "If you want to take out a king, you're going to have to drop a few of his pawns off the board first. Make them notice, shake them up and see what runs." he claims, prattling. "You think this is killing, that guys like these are worth getting a second chance? How many times have you put the same faces behind bars again and again? My way, they don't come back. The devil's not one to let too many people out of hell for good behavior. So what if I make some money while I'm at it? It's controlled, kept in line and away from decent people. Takes money to manage the life style of a dress-up crusader and not everyone's born into it." he continues at gun point, seemingly quite willing to trade words. He seems happy to stand there and wait for Batman's rebuttal, something about morality and decency, lines that shouldn't be crossed. In the space between the lines of the prodigal son and the welcoming father though, someone else's gotten a idea.

A bolt rocks back and snaps forward, chambering a bullet into a MAC 10.

Number two's pulled the weapon free and has it leveled towards the pair atop the van, "I got both you mother fuckers!" he sneers before pulling the trigger. Shots ring out at the rate of thirty a second, peppering the grill, hood, and windshield as the muzzle jerks upwards to turn the hose-like spray of lead towards the two men. Red hood dives off to the right side of the van and out of the way.

Jason is facing him before he even reaches the rooftop. Batman's not surprised, but perhaps a little impressed. Alright, maybe a little surprised; it doesn't slow him down, though. "/You/ know they're not?" It's downright disgusted at the implications, actually. Really, Bruce does know these things... the rehabilitated, the desperate, they abound in Gotham City. Sometimes, they're inexorable, uncompromising criminals and madmen... others, they just don't want their kids to starve, and no one will hire an ex-con. It's all about the individual, the microcosmic level. The street where the Batman operates now. As mentioned, the van rooftop is not large. The gun comes around, and it's like synchronized motion when the Dark Knight takes it. His left hand whips out of the shadows of the cape with acceleration that a human eye can't consciously follow, his body shifting the opposite direction. The Red Hood has plenty of half-instant to pull that trigger. Plenty of reflexes himself; but it will be about the time the Caped Crusader's hand clasps on the side of the barrel, grip already ironclad. The ninja-turned-vigilante will also be out of the line of fire in that same split second, by just a hair's breadth, the gun aligned on shoulders reinforced by cape and batsuit.

Then, the weapon is twisted away in the next split second, thrown with alarming precision at the face of the firing mook, even as the street sweeper sprays small-caliber fire almost literally /everywhere/. It's worth noting that this move, too, seems to flow perfectly from the disarm, as Batman crouches low and twists, the slow motion kicking in somewhere in Hollywood as the Red Hood tumbles clear of the van, and the 9mm parabellum rounds reave through the air around Batman, a sweep of his cape following the heave, so precise he couldn't have planned it better. Like the sound of the round chambering in fluidly adjusted the whole plan on a subconscious level.

If anything, the Dark Knight has improved in the years they've been apart; it's something they have in common, but still likely worrisome. He crouches low on that roof for only another instant, hidden behind the shielding layer of cape as he rolls off the van on the other side, landing far softer than the dealer with the pistol-whipped face. "You think gunning down somebody's brother, somebody's son, somebody's father, that's going to make the world a more peaceful and well-adjusted place?" Batman does retort, as he lands, coming about in a stance ready to sprint after Jason. He darts around the van, coming around the rear and seeking to intercept the Red Hood with a series of jabs and quick knees. Notably, perhaps, it's nowhere near as brutal or efficient as the Dark Knight could be. Testing blows, a professional would note. Sparring, herding Jason back into the narrow alleyway between van and stonework.

Forcing him to fight. Perhaps something beyond that. "You call blowing up a museum and putting a bullet in a homeless girl /control/?" Yea, that pisses him off too. Still, it's a decent chance to undersell Cassandra. The Hood didn't see what happened. "Not to mention stumbling over Catwoman. Can you smell your own rampant bullshit over your arrogance? You don't have control, you're not solving a problem. /Blood/ begets /blood/."

War never changes.

That's the price you risk paying when you wave one of your toys in Batman's face, he just might take it.

There was a instant where Jason could have pulled the trigger, tested how whatever mesh-ceramic, space-age unstable molecule material Bats' new suit was made of stood up to a .45 caliber bullet at point blank range. What if it didn't though? He'd have gone through all of this, all of his training, all of that heartache and sorrow... For nothing. His finger slides from around the trigger, clearing the guard so as not to be twisted when Bruce snaked it away.

He almost seemed to give it up.

He has a spare after all.

He gets that boyish flicker in his chest for just a moment, nostalgia and familiarity seeping in as he watches that pistol caroom off of the forehead of the banger before they both crumble to the floor.

"Well-adjusted?! Do you think there is a single solitary soul in Gotham that is Well-Adjusted, Big Man? Hell, even this city's savior could use some time in Arkham!" the moment was gone, time to get back to talking shop again. He did so love watching him work though.

Bruce comes in and Jason's ready. He's quick, spry. Maybe it's not the wild energy of his boyhood days but it's keener, more focused, honed. A jab or two clip off his crimson-covered jaw, sometimes a knee snakes in past his guard. They don't carry the weight that Jason knows they can though. He's testing him, pushing him back into the alley. Thinking this will go exactly as he plans, like always.

Not tonight, Bruce.

At some point, Jason decides he won't just trade blows, a jab is shifted away with a wrist block, a knee clips off his hip and he surges forward. Punches, quick, harrying, snapping in and out like the strikes of a serpent. A elbow comes in after a hook swings to shallow to be a sincere attempt. Something to put Bruce back on his heels, give Jason just that ounce of room it takes him to explode.

"In case you're forgetting, this is a war!" remarks his AWOL Soldier, bouncing toward the van before ricocheting off of it and sweeping a kick at the side of the Big Man's head. "Besides, from what I saw, she ain't exactly your everyday girl. You saw that too though, didn't you? How long did it take you to snap her up as your very own? It wasn't even a month before she was running around with a belt and a pair of bat-pajamas. She's good though, I'll give her that. Not as talky as the ones you usually pick up though... Guess you don't need two Robins at once." makes sense to keep a spare though, considering...

An army never wants to have its back to the ocean. It's a simple tenet of war. Of combat. One must be able to maneuver, to adapt, it can be the meaning between victory and defeat even when one has a clear picture of the adversary's capacity. It's an early lesson, a stalwart and versatile rule. It's also a way that the Batman can force Jason to fight back, to cut loose. To prove how far he's come, in this case. He doesn't need to see the man beneath the hood to know the tone, the attitude.. but fighting him, seeing that instinctual, honed edge. It's better than fingerprints, to some.

Years and years separate this style from one he's fought before, so the Dark Knight takes care to absorb and analyze every single motion. It's exactly what the Red Hood sought to avoid; exactly what his fallen father figure planned, wanted. The good news for Jason: This makes the Dark Knight unusually easy to wail on. After a fashion. He's in contact with each and every testing flurry, glancing off jaw, off armored guard, off elbow or knee. Batman barely gives any ground, but neither does he counter and adapt to the style with his own formidable skill, immediately. A forearm guard still meets that blow to his head. His bones are rattled, but the Caped Crusader steps into the assault, feels the strength. All the while, slits in the cowl are focused on every minute detail of motion.

The words are grunted out in tandem with the defense. "'This is war.' As if that justifies it." It's not an excuse the Caped Crusader buys, really. Dropping Cassandra into the debate carries its own layers of irony, given her very nature. "People love to.. say I indoctrinate them. Enslave, manipulate, abuse, use. It just shows how little you really know any of us." Or perhaps himself, in this case. There's that additional layer of irony, to be sure. Gauntletted palm snaps in at chest level, looking to claim his position, make the Hood work to dislodge him. "These are people who've had all choices stripped away, except for one." He just makes sure they survive making it.

Jason doesn't exactly like tipping his hand to the detective but even if the blows are taken in stride, they're cathartic. It lets him vent some of that anger, that hurt. It's far from enough to call this whole song and dance off, but maybe he'll sleep a little easier when he slinks back to whatever hole he's claimed for himself come morning. Batman won't find purchase against the armor, he'll be able to get a good idea of what it is though, hex-plates beneath a kevlar coating. Not exactly something you could order online, definitly not hockey pads. His jacket, that's easy enough to grab hold of, leather, maybe custom. Holds the toys that the pouches that won't fit in the pouches and compartments at his waist.

"Oh trust me, Bats. I know plenty about you and yours." replied the man behind the helmet, the white slits in the dark sockets of his eyes glaring right into the detective's critical gaze. He didn't mind Bruce getting handsey, just meant that his mentor was anchored there for a moment. He made his own grab after firming his footing, lead-foot shifting forward in the grit of the street before he sought to latch onto the cowling of Bruce's cape at his left shoulder. His head would snap forward as soon as he found his grip, the brow of that red helm used as a bludgeon against the head and brow of his ex-mentor. Once, twice, thrice. The mask didn't look any bulkier, Jason was betting his helmet could take the abuse better than pointy-ears could.

It's a lead in, something to try and rattle the bats in his belfry while Jason tried to put himself a few steps ahead, try and make him not notice that stray hand as it dipped down to the young man's hip and wrapped around the handle of a knife. The blade was serpentine and long, wickedly sharp. He could try and plunge it into Bruce's side... but that would be far less fun. Instead he sought to slide the flat of the blade between Bruce and his belt before giving it a twist and a pull, trying to rob him of the majority of his toys for just a few, stray moments.

The Red Hood... it's a crafty new identity. He's changed; perhaps even been distorted. It's not a fog that Batman can immediately penetrate, like the identities of... more superheroes and villains than would care to admit it. Worse, all the pieces are there, in stark paradox to the mystery. The utility belt. The tactical stealth armor. The espionage and reconnaissance tactics. The Yellow Brick Road....

~~
"No, Jason; it's not that. Theft isn't always evil. Sometimes, theft serves a purpose, promotes the greater good. It's not a popular opinion, but it's truth in mine. Say, for example, you're cut off, blacklisted overseas." It's still foreshadowing if presented in retcon, right? "Or can't use your civilian identity or alias for some reason, you'll be forced to rebuild infrastructure from nothing. The mission remains our priority, and at that point.. you have to take the means. Target the corrupt, drain their assets, expose their secrets... build a -new- reputation, subtly and swiftly - come back at your problems, your enemies, from an entirely new angle. You can find a powerbase anywhere with will and vision. Just remember the mission - we're building something /better/."

~~

Of course, the Batman is genre savvy; but he's not /that/ genre savvy. His first thoughts aren't 'sidekick risen from the grave' they're more along the lines of 'League of Assassins stalker who's obsessively honed to my own methods'. It's really equally likely, if not more likely, let's be fair. Even so, none of it /really/ makes sense, not yet. The Dark Knight doesn't really retreat in the face of the Hood's assault. He weaves to the side, towards the volatile vigilante's hauling hand. It doesn't bring him clear, but it keeps his nose from breaking. The blows ring his skull, but his own cowl is modernized, if not precisely /reinforced/. It would be immediately clear to the Red Hood that tonight's stylish batmask is heavier on miniaturized electronics and bulletproofing, with a degree of ballistic resilience. None of that means a lot when someone's heavy helmet hammers home, but on the plus side: the human skull is a wondrous thing.

That, and it's Batman. The knife comes around, along with the Hood's wrist, into his descending hand. The intercepting grip is ironclad. Now, at least for that moment, he holds nothing back. "So, what, you're here to remake Gotham by carving a bloody hole through anything that you lay eyes on?" Jason would know that voice. He's gone and made the Bat mad. "And you think this is a new idea, and you're just the most progressive obsessive idiot ever to try to stab me?"

Really, it's something of an honor that he growls at the Red Hood /that/ long. Before trying to put a knee through his right lung, in the proverbial sense. In the next instant, the Batman would seek to wrench the Red Hood's dagger-wielding wrist around. Thumb and forefingers seek the fine bones and tendons in that gloriously complex and fine instrument as he does so... seeking to crush, twist, and disable them with alarming amounts of perfectly precise pressure.

No cigar this time, he'll have to try for the prize again sometime.

In consolation though, he did manage to ring his bell a little. Hope Alfred's got some tylenol on hand...

Who am I kidding, of course he does, he's Alfred 'Motherfucking' Pennyworth.

Bruce's voice dips into a lower register even for his Batman growl. Those whited-eyes narrow further. Wayne can't see it, but the damn Ginger's grinning. "Oh, not just anything. Only the people that deserve it. I'm a killer, big guy, not a murderer. Besides, these people? They're hardly even human any more." He has more to say... but taking a knee to the ribs has a way of rattling the oratory. His breath comes in a 'Hoof!' and he can feel a twisting screw of pain that stays hot and sharp after the impact. Maybe a cracked rib. He'll have a shattered wrist to go along with it if he doesn't do something however. He won't be able to break the grip or snake away, it's like a bear-trap with fingers instead of teeth. He can't move the mountain, he'll have to move with it. Loosing the cape, Jason seems to twist bonelessly. One booted foot thumps against the side of the van, his weight opresses forward and he seems to steal a page out of some kind of arachnid-themed superhero's book, walking up the side of the van for all of two steps before he flips, saving himself the need of a cast for a few days. His fingers loose the knife, simply letting it drop into his free hand, his fingers playing the handle into a quick, forward grip that he works around in a quick slash at Bruce's chest while he trys to work himself awat, the profile of his hand now leaner without the weapon as fingers uncurl and try to escape the grasp.

"Oh I know I'm not the first to come in here trying to be the big, brand new damn hero for Gotham. How many do you get a year now, five, six? They either wind up dead or you run them off. Any good they did by sweeping the streets clean of the filth that keeps getting pumped back out of Black Gate and Arkham is forgotten when the headlines report another murder. How much of a difference have you really made in the last five years, Bats? The same thugs, murderers, pimps, rapists and peddlers. The same bunch of psychopaths in spandex running around. All because you're too good to get your hands dirty, your damned, unshakable moral code that lets the same people go out and hurt, maim, and murder time and time again. I might not be the firt, but god damnit, I'm going to be the one that gets it right. I'll be the one that makes Gotham safe again, even if I have to rip out its black, twisted heart and shove it right back down it's throat!" he monologues, providing a bit of motivational exposition.

"But hey, maybe we're getting off on the wrong foot here. You're worked up, I'm worked up? You know what always helps me unwind?"

Not getting nearly beaten to death with a crowbar and then blown up.

"A nice run." and with that, he's off, in a shot, he's scaled a dumpster and used it as a springboard to grasp the bottom edge of a fire-escape platform. Eschewing the handy ladder that they all come with, Jason just climbs up along the side of the wrought iron scaffolding. It's not as elegant as a bat-grapnel, but it gets the job done in about the same time... It'll also put them out of earshot of most folks.

"/Deserve/ it?" The Batman's not just angry. He's approaching a quantum singularity of some kind. Whatever this Hood's real motives... they're very clearly personal. The Dark Knight tends to take threats like that rather seriously, by now. "The world's full of heroes." The Batman is waiting for Jason, now. Every nerve on alert. Every muscle on a twitch-ready alert that would make a relay champion jealous. That knife comes down, and he heaves himself backwards, leaning away as his own right boot drops back, away... and then he steps in.

Sure, the Red Hood gets his chance to run. "More /every/ day." That part, they agree on. "Every time someone says the end is here, every one of us gives it all to step in and /fix/ it." This edition of 'The Reason You Suck' is sponsored by another forceful kick, snapping around from the Bat's left boot as he steps in on the passing knifestroke, bracing it away from his body with a guarding right gauntlet.

The Dark Knight is ready to fight on - but his quarry flies. His pursuit is likely predicted, the bat grapnel fired to the top of that building that the Red Hood scales. The Bat -might- even beat him to the top. The way this vigilante moves... it's uncanny. It doesn't do anything to ease the Caped Crusader's mind. Over the edge he goes, with uncanny grace and silence, balance reflexive as he paces the Red Hood. "/You're/ no hero." the Batman insists, picking up right where he left off, mid-fisticuff. "Just another arrogant hood, here to make it all worse. We all have our demons - what makes you so special that -you- can make it better with a few bullets and bombs?"

He flanks the Red Hood along the tenement's ledge, not immediately assailing him again.. but not letting him gain ground, either.

And there it is, finally a little private time. Just Jason, Bruce and the Gotham skyline against it's bleak, starless backdrop. He's cornered at the ledge, he'd done all that work to get up here to, only to be cut off at the pass.

Annoying.

At least there's empty air at his back and not a wall.

"That's the million dollar question, isn't it, Big Guy?" replies Jason, a hand making a grand sweep between them, knife tossed from one hand to the other, blade slid away into it's sheath. He's giving up? Maybe he just doesn't want it waving around for their little bit of dramatics. "I'll admit it, maybe putting bullets in the skulls of gangsters and bringing the roof of a crack house down on top of all the gun-toting addicts inside isn't the most heroic thing in the world... But it gets the job done. Not too many get parole in hell after all. You want to wrap stories around them? Fine, but when someone starts shattering the lives of others just to make theirs a little better, they cross a line. And unless there's something hard and deffinite across that line that's a little more daunting than a few years in jail, maybe they'll think twice. You've done all you could to try and make this city a better place but it's just not good enough. It's not good enough because you refuse to take that last step. I can do that, I will do that. Already I'm getting results. The difference between me and every other gun-toting whack-job that's come before is that I know what to do. I've got the training. At the end of the night, Bruce, it's all just going to come down to the fact that I'm the better Batman than you" he finishes, his gesticulations rounding up with one final brandishing of his finger towards the man in the bat-suit.
GAME: Save complete.

"Gets the job done? You think there aren't a thousand more people desperate enough to be pushed to the edge? You think that if you kill the right people, the violence stops? So do the worst of them. The worst of us. Broken down and too deluded to see what they've become." Yes, the Dark Knight thinks highly of killers - and murderers. "Because I can't save everyone, because the war isn't won, it's time to resort to the same brutality and rhetoric that /got us here/? Never." Never never. "You're not saying anything new, you're not doing anything new. Whatever you think you're going to accomplish - you're going to drown it all in blood, send the inferno in all directions, consume everything you want to preserve. If you succeed, you'll only bring Gotham to her knees."

The Caped Crusader clearly does not like this option. "You come in here spouting the same old crap like it's your new epiphany, and you think it makes you /Batman/? Your big violent, murder-spree-justifying complaint is that I haven't /done enough/ for this city? Even /I/ have to note .. you're /insane/." This is coming from a guy who's fully aware how short of a full deck he may be. Even speaking relatively the Bat seems sure of his observation. At some point during the conversation the Dark Knight slipped a microgrenade from his utility belt into his hand. At some point during the last sentence he released it. It's such a snap motion, almost sleight of hand, but too forceful to fully miss.

Halfway to Jason, the pellet explodes, showering the area the Hood occupies in a fine, colorless, odorless spray. Whether the Red Hood is caught in the cloud, or not, the apparent effect is the same: absolutely nothing.

The mini-nade goes off, its eruption used as concealment, the right instant.

Seems as good a time to call it a night as any.

Jason simply rocks back on his heels, gravity does the rest as he vanishes over the edge.

He's not so graceful as to vanish that easily. A grapnel's left biting into the lip of the ledge where he had been, it leads down a legth of mountaineer's rope to a broken window. Maybe he just called a cab home?"

2012-03-02 - Of Secret Lore and Legacy

2012-03-02T19:11:54Z

Brock:

{{Logsummary|
Title=Of Secret Lore and Legacy
|Summary=Ted Grant gets a [[Batman|night caller]]. Intelligence is shared. Plans are hatched. Ties are cemented across generations of crimefighters and warriors.
|Who=[[Wildcat]], [[Batman]]
|Date=2012-03-02
|Where=[[Grant's Gym]], [[Bludhaven]]
|When=Late, late night.
|}}

During the wee hours of night, Ted Grant enforces curfew at his gym. There's no staying up late and partying. No drinking. No smoking. All those interested in training with him have retired to quarters for the night so they are ready to get broken down again the next day. The trainers, save for the in house trainer, have all gone home, which leaves Ted Grant alone on the workout floor. Everything except for the emergency lights are out, leaving plenty of long, dark shadows all over the place. The only exception is the solitary light shining down in the middle of the ring, lighting up the squared circle.

Being alone on the gym floor might seem lonely for most-- but it's second nature for Wildcat on those nights when he's not spending company with another. And lately, he's been spending more nights alone than not. The aged prizefighter is sitting on one of the bleachers to the side of the ring, feet up on the bench seats and a cold beer in his hand. Sipping the cold beer at a leisurely pace, he's somewhere in the neighborhood of the 5th out of the six pack of beer that's on the bench next to him.

The old man seems lost in thought, simply watching the boxing ring with its solitary light that currently shines down in the middle, highlighting the focus of Ted's current attention.

"Do you still see all the old bouts?" The voice comes from behind Ted. Not threateningly close, though any line of sight is threateningly close when one recognizes the voice; but not for Wildcat. "Or are you planning tomorrow's?" The words are calm, if intoned in that ever-intense, focused depth of the Batman's 'stage' voice. It carries even if whispered, in this quiet space. The Dark Knight doesn't look at Grant, but rather studies the same spotlighted ring that his onetime mentor and longtime ally focuses on so intently.

The Detective is hard to see in the shadows, even following the voice. His cape seems to swallow him up, and then meld with the darkness where he all too casually lurks in the upper bleachers. "We need to talk." Sometimes, the World's Greatest Detective is the World's Tersest Master of the Obvious.

There's no start of surprise from the former Heavyweight Champ, but a swig of his beer instead. "Little bit of both," Ted says casually before lifting his feet and sitting up to polish off the bottle and place the empty in with its fellows. "Mostly running through some of the lessons plans for the kids tomorrow."

The Champ leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, similarly continuing to watch the ring instead of looking around at the Dark Knight behind him, though a slight half smirk plays at the edge of his lips. "So talk, then." Despite the curtness, there's no sting to the words; just getting to business.

There's just a pensive nod from the Dark Knight, whether Ted is looking or not; it doesn't seem to matter particularly. He does grunt a simple, quiet little affirmation though, thoughtful. It might leave one with the impression that his inquiry was more than simple small-talk or passing curiosity, or the first thing that popped into his mind in the attempt to make Ted jump or lose bladder control. Of course, Wildcat already knows Batman's seldom got time to waste with useless questions.

For that matter, neither does the bruiser. The Batman smiles a bit, in the shadows, despite the gravity of his news. "Weapons are coming into Gotham. Advanced weapons. I intercepted one shipment at the docks." That was also already intercepted once before he intercepted it. It's complicated. He gets right into it the simple way, instead. "Cutting edge military gear. A team outfitted to the gills tried to take out a bent businessman. Micah Gibraldi." There's a dossier offered over from within his cape, as the Dark Knight moves through the shadows to Ted. "Amateurs don't tend to float that kind of bankroll." The Bat's analysis of the attempt. "But I have reason to think it's tied to a much bigger player."

Which brings Batman to the first reason for his visit, at that. "With the heat on in Gotham, they may diversify, try to move their gear through Bludhaven. Even to Bludhaven gangs. I need to know who's rising faster than their star deserves." The Batman pauses, and more quietly, and less ominously, appends, "And you need to watch yourself out there keeping the peace." 'Spread yourself thinner, work harder, fight on longer, but oh don't hurt yourself.' Dick Grayson spazzes out in a tantrum, somewhere.

Ted turns slightly, reaching out a hand to take the dossier from Batman as he feels the shift of movement from the Dark Knight. He leafs through the file, eyes poring over the information within as he listens to the Bat give the overview. With every continued word, the Champ's expression becomes just a little more grim, ending with a brief scowl as the folder is closed, clutched in his hand.

"I'll be fine," the old man replies simply, almost curtly, to the Dark Knight. "Been doing this for too long to let some stupid punk punch my ticket." That's probably his way of saying 'I understand. I'll take it under advisement'. "I've been hearing some rumors-- even had a visitor the other night. Someone callin' himself the Witching Hour Lurker." The NAME is said with a slightly sardonic twist of grim humor as the champ's blue eyes glance over at the Detective, a very slight grin teasing at his face. "His costume looked pretty damn familiar. Minus those ears."

By the time he finishes explaining, the Batman mirrors Ted's features, beneath his cowl. "If you turn anything up, let me know." Which is also his way of saying 'If you need help....'. It's just one of those things that can go unsaid, right alongside lecturing Wildcat on how all it takes is one lucky moron with a clear shot. Now, if the fellow heavyweight were one of his /students/. Well. Could be here all night.

"That one." The Batman notes with a familiarity, if unreadable neutrality in his tone. "Somehow... I think he's on our side." For some reason, this seems like an anomaly to the Dark Knight. An anomaly within that in itself, given the extent of the Justice League at this point. "Seen... anything else?" Like, Nightwing?

There's a brief snort that accompanies Ted's own judgement of the Lurker, "He's on our side, alright. Just got a flair for the dramatic." No trace of irony, just a vague amusement to his tone, certainly not as unreadable as the Detective.

Setting the dossier back down on the bleacher next to him, Ted grabs the last beer in the holder and twists open the cap to take a drink. Rude SOB that he is, he doesn't offer to get one for the man in the cowl. He does look at Batman sideways, though, studying his former student for a long minute. Whatever he gleans from that look, he takes a sip of his beer before answering, "Seen some signs here and there of his handiwork. Heard a few rumors on the streets. Nothing in person lately, though." It's the vague sort of answer that won't mean anything to anyone other than Batman, really.

There's just a brief pause, the beer stopping partway up to his lips before the Champ lowers it again, this time cocking his head to look over in the Bat's direction again, "But that ain't what else you came here to talk about, is it?"

Ted's endorsement of the Lurker seems to mean something to Batman, drawing a nod from the Caped Crusader as the confirmation is offered. "Theatricality and deception are powerful tools, Ted." Even if the heavyweight legend has always been a bit more, well.. direct when compared to his onetime protege. There's a certain theatrical element inherent in ramping a modified chopper through the side of a second story meth lab, anyway. As far as the 'report'? Batman's reply is even more unspokenly cryptic. "Sounds like we're all keeping busy."

It's easy to imagine this isn't the first, second, or fourth time they've had similar meetings. It's also not a stretch to guess that Ted is well aware the Dark Knight doesn't drink. Of course, it's also possible that Ted Grant is just a little bit attached to his last beer. He'd have to get up to get more, and he's an old man.

"Not entirely, no. I have a new student that can benefit from training with you." This, too, is not a new conversation. Once, the heavyweight legend had spent hours upon hours in the ring with a teenage Bruce Wayne. ... to say nothing of the many times since. Or Dick and Tim's own trials in this learned gym. "Your techniques will fill a vital hole in her style." Batman is no longer Ted's student, though; his words bely decades, now, of his own study and confidence.

"How'd you manage to find this one?" The words come from the cantankerous old man with an affectation of long-suffering. And yet, Bruce knows well enough to hear the excitement and challenge at the prospect of a brand new student underneath that grumpy old man exterior. Finally, he takes a drink of his beer again before sitting back just slightly. There's a brief pause, and then he adds, "And what's she know already?"

Ah, those two questions together, they're worth something like $128,000. In the metaphorical sense, at least. To some, they'd be worth much more in the literal sense. To Ted? Batman charges no fee, save the favor already asked. "She had been running from the League of Assassins, from David Cain." Ted might know the name of the assassin. "He raised her. Tried to indoctrinate her as a weapon, not even human, Ted." It's appalling to the Dark Knight. It's one of those times it's plain in his voice, the disbelief, the sorrow, the disgust, the anger.

Vengeance. Wildcat isn't the only master Bruce Wayne trained under. Once, he was the star pupil of Ra's al Ghul. It didn't last nearly as long as the immortal madman he now opposes wished, but the methods and lessons learned left Batman with /reasons/ to stand alone against the legions, determined to take them down one by one. "She chose to take a stand here, and I choose to help her survive it. Though honestly, in an all-out fight? Even now, I wouldn't put money on you."

There's no pride in the immensely impressive statement, if true. None. It's somber. Still sad.

The disgust and anger in the Dark Knight's voice reflects on Ted Grant's face as he takes another drink from his last bottle of beer. Or at the very least, the last bottle out here. "Christ," Ted breathes out before taking a second drink, as if to wash away the sudden taste of bile in his mouth. Then there is the quiet moment of reflection from the former heavyweight champion before he looks over at the Dark Knight again, "She's that good, huh?"

Suddenly, the old man pushes up to his feet and walks over to the ring, running a hand along the lowest rope within easy reach as he paces along the side of the ring, his eyes glinting in the solitary light. He sets his beer down on the corner and turns back to face Batman, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright. So she knows how to kill," Ted starts, sounding matter of fact as he watches Batman steadily. "What do you need me to teach her?"

The old prizefighter sounds like he knows already what Batman's looking for-- and yet, it's good to be clear.

Batman's nod is similarly somber, singular, and steadfast; he's sure. The Caped Crusader's gaze tracks Wildcat as the heavyweight legend walks the ringside, considering the further question. Not so much looking for an answer, but deciding how to word the parts of the answer he gives. Some facts would just ruin Ted's fun, and the Dark Knight knows it.

"She also knows how -not- to kill. To an extent; her style is specialized, honed to a hard edge. No mercy in it. Quick and brutal is necessary, but you could teach her to cut loose without rupturing internals." Barring a concussion or five for repeat offenders, at least, right? "I could tell you specifics. Where her strengths and weaknesses lie..." how if one doesn't see them, they've already lost to her... "But you'll see for yourself quickly enough." Yes, the Bat seems bemused by this fact, even as he amends, "Let's just say I want you to teach her to be an irresistible force, -and- an immovable object."

Ted's answering grin is an affirmative to the Dark Knight's request, the old man giving a slight nod. "I can do that," he says with some modesty, uncrossing his arms and picking up his beer once more. "Maybe help her think like one of us, too. 'Course, she's already started on that path if she's on the lam from the League of Assassins."

The prizefighter takes the last drink from his six pack and walks over to put it back in its home with the others.

"Alright. If she's gonna train, she'll need to have her own rules while she's here," Ted starts, but then pauses to grin. "But she and I can go over 'em together one of these nights. I'll keep my eyes out."

"You may be surprised." Batman notes simply, and somewhat enigmatically, to Wildcat's assertions. Exactly how he means it, well. That's left to Ted to decide. By the time he's finished accepting the mission offered, the Dark Knight is simply gone without so much as a breeze. It's not always this way; sometimes, old comrades talk, sometimes they spar.

Too often? They're too goddamn busy.

The Question

2012-02-28T21:32:15Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=The Question
|Image=[[Image:VictorQuestion.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Victor Sage
|Alias=Vic Sage; Charlie
|Species=Human
|Age=32
|Affiliation=[[Justice League|Justice League]]
|Quote=''"It's like looking in a mirror."''
|Powers= 
* Investigation
* Deductive Mind
* Scary Intuition
* Anonymity
|}}'''The Question''' is secretly Victor Sage, intrepid journalist. With a keen eye for unseen connections and a focus many call obsessive, he makes masked investigation his life's purpose.

==Background/Timeline==

The story of The Question begins with investigative reporter Vic Sage. A Randian libertarian, Vic Sage never pulled punches in his on-air interviews. But his public status made it necessary to disguise himself when he needed to investigate a special story. His old professor, Aristotle Rodor had come to him with information regarding an old colleague of his named Dr. Arby Twain. The two had invented a special plastic called Pseudoderm which was intended to be used as an emergency bandage due to its skin-like properties. However, Rodor had discovered that the chemicals in it were actually harmful to humans when applied to exposed wounds. He and his partner had agreed not to use the product, but the partner had reneged on his promise and was attempting to sell it to hospitals in Third World countries despite the health risks.

Vic Sage realized that he wouldn't be able to stop the sale simply by doing a news story. He would need to take action, but had no desire to get himself arrested for vigilantism. So Professor Rodor suggested that he use a mask made of the Pseudoderm to disguise his very public face. Using the blank mask that Professor Rodor devised, Sage was able to stop the sale and extract a confession from Dr. Twain. Vic Sage was conveniently the first reporter to get wind of the story.

This marked the beginning of The Question, though his superhero moniker didn't catch on overnight. When Sage wanted to get information that wasn't available to a reporter, he would put on his featureless mask, spray himself with a color-changing chemical, and go about his crime-fighting business. After he started leaving behind business cards with a question mark on the front, he earned the name by which he is now known. For a while, his superhero antics proved beneficial to his career as an investigative reporter. However, he gradually began spending more time behind the mask than he did in front of a camera.

Eventually, whether from repeated exposure to the chemicals that facilitated his costume change or from the psychological stresses he placed upon himself, Vic started to become a bit unhinged. The more investigating he did, the more he became convinced that there was a vast conspiracy behind virtually every component of commerce, government, and the media. His lack of attention to his job resulted in his being let go from his cushy network job, and he began to spend virtually all of his time as The Question, sometimes going for long periods without taking the mask off or changing his clothes.

Despite being clearly unbalanced, he still managed to gain enough of a reputation as a detective to be recommended by Batman as a new member when the Justice League expanded its roster. While there, he spent the majority of his time hunched in front of a computer screen and worrying the other members. But on a few occasions he was able to provide members of the team with aid, such as the time he helped Supergirl get to the bottom of her nightmares or the time he helped the Huntress go after the man who murdered her father. He even proved instrumental in proving the link between Lex Luthor and Cadmus Labs, bringing himself closer to discovering the truth behind the conspiracy. He also discovered video footage of a parallel universe, which showed that world's version of Superman killing Lex Luthor and ushering in the age of the Justice Lords. Determined to prevent that, he attempted to kill Lex Luthor himself to protect Superman from having to make the choice. This ended badly.

The Question's attempt to kill Luthor failed, and The Question was tortured for information. He proved to be very hard to interrogate, as he ultimately started spouting nonsense when pushed to the point of breaking. However, he was eventually rescued by Superman and the Huntress, and was able to sit out most of the ensuing crises.

Recently, he has taken even more of a backseat role with the Justice League, preferring to focus on what he does best: finding answers to questions. In order to get his message out, he has started writing once again as Vic Sage, operating from an obscure newsblog with barely enough advertising revenue to cover the costs of hosting the site.

==Personality==

To the outside observer, The Question appears to suffer from a complex of progressively worsening neuroses. He is suspicious of everyone, notably digging through the trash of everyone he knows. And he is paranoid to the point of having agoraphobia-type symptoms. He can go days without leaving his rooom, never taking off his mask or bathing.

However, focusing solely on his questionable mental stability gives one a very narrow perspective of his personality. He is, at his core, a very heroic person. Without the use of superpowers, years of training, or a vast fortune, The Question is doing his best to make the world a better place. However, he isn't especially interested in chasing down purse-snatchers or foiling bank robberies. There are plenty of heroes doing those sorts of things. The Question tends to focus on trying to find the root of the problem, rather than treating symptoms.

Despite his proclivity towards making people uneasy, The Question has come through for his teammates often enough that many of them trust him or even consider him a friend. The general consensus seems to be that his heart is in the right place even when his head isn't. Furthermore, The Question is actually /right/ about a lot of his claims. Cadmus really was involved in a conspiracy against the Justice League, and Baskin Robbins really was hiding a secret flavor from the public. It's easy to make fun of The Question when he's in full-on hermit mode, sticking pins into newspaper articles and linking them to other articles with yarn, but the fact remains that he's frequently able to find information that nobody else can.

So no, The Question isn't completely stable. But he's also not insane. If he likes someone, he'll get over his personal issues long enough to help them should they need it, but good luck getting him to change his shirt more than once a week.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

[[2012-03-01 - No Mouth, No Tea.]]

2012-02-27 - Beyond Venutian Skies

2012-02-28T05:59:36Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=Beyond Venutian Skies
|Summary=An anomaly out in space attracts a diverse set of attentions to the Kryptonian supercomputer known as The Eradicator. Supergirl and Booster Gold might protest but naturally, it's all a ploy by Superman to lure his destined mate to the most romantic spot in the Milky Way. It's a beautiful night for a wedding.
|Who=[[Maxima]], [[Booster Gold|Missile of Love]], [[The Eradicator|Pretend Superman]], [[Supergirl|Superdaughter]], [[Superman|Superman, Future Emperor of Almerac]]
|Date=2012-02-27
|Where=SPACE
|}}

The core of the sun is incredible. Truly cosmic levels of energy, of raw heat. It's not a place that the being that eyes it now would wish to be, even in his shiny new Kryptonian form. It started with the Fortress' own arrays, the reserves of power within the Antarctic, alien refuge. It continued out here, with no need to breathe, or feed, the being of pure energy given material form simply floats with his thoughts, all but imperceptible for their inhumanity. Not just an alien Kryptonian mind; a computer.

The Eradicator can predict the temperature of the sun within a millionth fraction of a degree, it's how he knows to stay well away. Unfathomably away, really, by human reckoning - distances in space are vast. It's what still keeps him, effectively, somewhat local to Sol; a bit past Venus, for the curious. His position is an orbit of its own, altering to intersect the sun's direct light at all times, an all but imperceptible eclipse between it and the Earth. All but indetectable, save if one is looking in the right sector of space.

... but who would do that?

Supergirl's calculations that led her to this point in outer space are far less precise and far more intuitive -- though she's startlingly intelligent, a fact many are prone to forget, preferring to focus on her blond hair or miniskirt.

But no, she comes here when she wants to contemplate deeply "because it's the warmest spot," which is technically untrue in at least twenty different ways she can think of, but is perfectly true when it comes to her comfort. The cosmic rays are particularly nice here, and the sunspots are spectacular to observe.

As she drifts by, arms hooked behind her head, she floats alongside... "Clark?!" The question is more startled-sleepy than actually alarmed, but nonetheless.

Slung forbiddingly in orbit about the tender husk of Earth, Almerac's royal flagship is a sleek masterpiece straight out of a pulp sci-fi. Bristling with state-of-the-art weapons and lit by glowing fluorescent lights that scream 'I WANT YOU TO KNOW I'M RIGHT THE HELL HERE', Maxima's carriage is about as subtle as a thousand-kiloton hammer to the heart of the sun. This is precisely how she likes it. She also likes it warm and bubbly, which is why at this precise moment her long limbs are draped over the sides of an overflowing tub, packed out with sizzling bath salts. A duck bobs idly in the water between her spread thighs.

No, no. It's not a RUBBER duck. It's an actual duck. It even goes 'quack' every now and then.

The Empress of Almerac is studying the amphibious bird with a lazily critical eye when a bank of sensors - mounted on the shiny metal wall of her personal bathing chamber (every battleship should have one) - begins to blink steadily and emit an hypnotic *whoooop-whooooop*. Unhurried, the ravishing space-bitch leans her head back and yawns widely before flicking a hand imperiously. Nobody can see her; it just makes her happy.

The effect is slightly ruined as a handful of frothy bubbles goes spurting across the room.

"Yes, Sazu?" She drawls, reaching out with HER VERY MIND to active communication with the bridge.

"You asked me to report if I detected any... 'anomalous signals', Lady Maxima."

"No, Sazu. I asked you to report if you detected my beautiful betrothed approaching!"

"Well-- yes, I suppose you did."

Maxima rolls her eyes. "So don't BOTHER ME unless you find SUPERMAN."

On the bridge, the Royal Advisor smiles slyly, "...about that, mistress..."

Approximately one and six sevenths of an Earth minute later, the glorious Lady Maxima is clad in a profoundly revealing, voluminous robe of finest spacesilk as she powers her way through the upper atmosphere toward the signal. She's making pretty incredible time but-- well, even for someone as amazing as she, simply flying beyond Venus? Little bit boring. Takes too long. If her husband-to-be is to be kept waiting, that JUST WON'T DO. Which is why she grinds to a sudden halt, arms folded across her chest. "Don't wait up, Sazu," she intones, lips pouting an instant before she suddenly flickers into a rainbow smear of molecules. If she was flying fast before... well, no mere human could see how fast she moves now.

Another one point-two-eight-four Jispexian weeks later (this isn't very long in Earth time) she appears with a splendid flash, arms spread and head flung majestically back approximately seventeen kono-clicks (that's so a thing) from what she assumes to be her very sexy, very ready and available hunk of man.

"Behold, my love! I have come! Let us BE WED and MAKE FABULOUSLY POWERFUL BABIES right here, RIGHT NOW!"

Yes, she can shout in space. Fear.

For some, space is a respite, silent and beautiful. For others, it's where you get sent when you get caught racing the zero-G forklifts in the Watchtower's loading bay. This is not to say that Booster Gold is exiled to space; he was just sent out here to pick up space trash. It is important work, as floating debris can wreak havoc on the hulls of space-going vessels. At least, this is what Booster keeps telling himself, because who wants to dwell on the fact that they've been placed on trash duty?

Booster does not pick up any indication of the Eradicator's existence. He does, however, see the streak that is Maxima as she zooms by. "Skeets, was that something dangerous? I bet it was dangerous. I should probably look into it!"

"Sir, may I remind you that you are currently working off your probation?" Booster's golden valet droid, floating nearby, broaches this as politely as possible.

"Yeah, but it's boring. Also, if it's dangerous and I deal with it, it's gotta be better than..." Booster gestures at the bag of broken satellite parts he is holding in one hand. "It won't hurt to -look-."

"... it probably will."

Clark? The question would only possibly carry to the nearby figure by virtue of super-hearing, and he does indeed turn in space to regard Supergirl, eyes hidden behind dark, blue-black visorlike shades. He could be Kal-El. Is nearly the spitting image. His hair is cropped short, a military-appropriate buzz, however. While Superman ages gracefully, this one is still notably younger, just entering his prime, shoving that Maxima-coveted physique into a different costume. Darker, no visible 'S' shield, just a similar, Kryptonian-etched gold shield clasping his trademark flowing red cape.

The Eradicator comes about to regard Kara, but does not immediately address her, or her presumably rhetorical shock.

This could be partially due to the arrival of a robe-clad, sex-crazed space hussy. The militarized Superweapon shifts attention once more, now regarding the Empress of Almerac over Kal-El's comrade. It seems to take even the unfathomably advanced AI a moment to fathom what Maxima is even /talking/ about, or maybe just formulating any kind of rational reply to the single-minded spacemaiden. "Negative. Procreation and habitation are not preeminent. Do not interfere." The voice is similar to Clark's. Deep, intense, projected, commanding. In this case, though, it's also utterly cold. He turns his back on Maxima immediately, returning attention to the flaring corona of the sun.

As the Eradicator turns to face her, Kara shrinks back. She's had enough bad experiences with brainwashed and crazy Supermen to be immediately wary. "No... who /are/ you?"

She's spent tons of time in the Fortress over the years, helping Clark with various projects and even pursuing a few of her own, but she can't really be expected to anticipate the computer going off on a tangent.

Or, considering Brainiac, maybe she can.

Then Maxima shows up and Supergirl just boggles even harder, her completely dumbstruck expression eventually leaking away into horrified laughter. This is not the Superfamily's best day ever, that's for sure.

Most women would be rather put out by the response derived by their throwing themselves across space - and at that speed, possibly time - to drape the sexy sex all over a sunbathing specimen of masculinity. It's like she's found the only gay beach in space, if space had beaches and gay people. Of course, it doesn't; though it probably has a number of gay aliens. Still, the sun IS delightfully warm and there's no sand to get lodged in unfortunate cracks and sandwiches. Er, space-sandwiches.

Waffling aside; Maxima is single-minded IN-deed, and doesn't bother to acknowledge the presence of a top-league superheroine and whatever Booster Gold is - whether or not she actually glimpses them in the fringe of a glaze-eyed gaze that finally settles upon her quarry to take in every rippling ounce of his glory. He's exactly what she expected from looking at his publicity shots, and her mouth turns up into a delighted smile.

Then... there's no way around it; she pretty much just out and out /growls/, a basso rumble that begins behind her bountiful chest only to twist and curl like a lascivious, lustful tapeworm all the way down into her gut and-- lower. We should probably skirt around that part. It's pretty disturbing.

"Oh, but I love it when you talk dirty. Sazu didn't tell me about /that/ part. Why don't we send your daughter away," apparently she did notice Kara - though she's already blurring past her as she telekinetically thunders through the vacuum to now quite literally drape herself over the Eradicator, a thigh creeping around one side of his body as one hand goes for his chest and the other for his cropped hair. It happens in an instant; but doesn't everything, with these people? Best not to answer that. "And skip straight to the CONSUMMATION."

Protip: shouting at point-blank range is not particularly sexy. Then again, neither is...

"W-Wait? You ALREADY have a DAUGHTER?"

"Oh wow." When Booster catches up, or at least gets close enough for his visor to amplify the scene going on near Venusian space, he laughs a little. "I was wrong, it's not dangerous at all. Just some half naked chick trying to get her freak on with uh. Huh." He squints slightly, as he continues his approach. "Wow, that guy looks totally familiar." Out of habit, he shades his eyes with his free hand, since the other one is clutching a bag full of space junk. "And Supergirl." He knows who she is, at least, so he gives her a vigorous wave of his arm. "Hey, Supergirl!"

The replicant Son of Krypton has been up here for some time. Somewhat alarming how quickly it becomes downright /busy/. Money on the trouble being somehow Maxima's fault. "No?" The being's attention is momentarily diverted by Supergirl. Then she makes more sense. "I am.. was.. the Eradicator." It's not a name that means a damn thing to anyone, though, except the Eradicator himself. Still, that is the technical answer to the question. The same 'Making more sense' thing? Yea, that doesn't apply to Maxima.

There's tension when she violates his personal space in an instant. It's only the lack of a clear and present sense of threat that keeps the response from being similarly instant. That, or another instance of sheer does_not_compute nonsensicality. Stern jaw clenches, and the dark-suited Superman replica comes about with force and speed to match his template, right hand aligned for Maxima's throat.

It's actually a remarkably humane start, gentle, as these things go. There's a moment to calculate Maxima's durability with a progressively harsher squeeze, and if he finds that measure, she'd be abruptly hucked clear into the broad expanse of space, albeit on a collision course clear of other heavenly bodies. "I said no." No means /no/!

Kara's laughter just gets harder at Maxima's consternation... tears flow from her eyes, turning into little saline spheres that freeze instantly. Someday, given the right set of collisions, perhaps one of them will become a comet. Or maybe they'll all just melt into the sun.

But she becomes instantly serious when 'the Eradicator' starts manhandling Maxima so roughly. "Hey! I'm not sure where you got your manners from, but you do /not/ handle people like that." Maxima only dubiously applies as 'people', really, but this is not a good way to make a first impression on the increasingly worried Supergirl. "Not unless they deserve it, and sexual harrassment doesn't have to be solved with violence."

No matter how satisfying it might be.

Booster Gold gets a slightly distracted return wave, as a sort of afterthought; at this point the faux Superman has the drastic majority of her attention. The piercing way she looks at him is far more than a merely visual scan. But she can spare a worried "Hi there..."

Gripped in a tender chokehold, Maxima looks quite the opposite of displeased, her eyes practically gleaming as they widen in a sort of heart-fluttering alarm that's quickly boiled into the simmering lusty stew. Teeth catch on her lower lip, tugging at the painted flesh as she stares hard past those oh-so-mysterious shades. She couldn't be any less worried if she tried; he can have that measure and MORE, it seems. At least she's not quite so deluded to believe the follow-up is just more violent flirtation, right?

...Right?

The Empress of Almerac gasps at being whipped about so rapidly, scarlet mane sweeping past her vision as she tries to keep those dilated pupils firmly riveted on her would-be lover. By the time she can realign she's already flying backwards through the cold vacuum, soaring so far and fast that she's a glint of flesh within the void by the time she puts on the telekinetic brakes. Palms out and back bowed, she breathes a whistling sigh and tosses her head, taking a moment to straighten and recover. "Sazu?" She asks tentatively, flitting a glance sidelong toward the tiny speck of Earth against the vast backdrop of stars.

"Yes, mistress?"

A wild and dangerous grin pulls at the Warrior Queen's lips.

"I've /found/ him, and he's /magnicifent/."

When the Lady Maxima stops shouting, it's so incredibly ON that entire solar systems tremble and quake. No surprise that she crosses space in a flash of voluminous intergalactic loveliness a beat later, tearing a path with her fist aimed directly for the copious pectoral muscles of OBVIOUSLY SUPERMAN, the grin remaining on her face all the while and a bright, girlish flush enveloping her cheeks besides. It's the kind of punch that ends wars; or more often, begins and ends them simultaneously, but she's more than positive he can take it. She's more than positive he'll like it just as hard as she would. After all - they're destined to be together!

"Oh, my love!" She crows, "In front of the children too! You have NO SHAME!"

That's a good thing, when you're a frustrated nymphomaniac who's sat the Almeracian throne for *time redacted*. Though, somewhere in the back of her mind, she's questioning Kara's laughter.

"Wow. That was so rude." Booster stops waving, as he is too busy boggling at the Eradicator's attack on Maxima. His expression is one of confusion, because there seems to be a fight going on. Or it may be flirtation. Or both. "Uh..." Grabbing Skeets with his free hand, he flies over to where Supergirl is hovering and says, "I think they're trying to... you know." He waves Skeets in a vague gesture that is meant to indicate something salacious is going on, but all it really does is elicit a few complaints from the robot. "I think it's probably -private-."

"She was not harmed." The Eradicator points out coolly to Kara, as if he were entirely certain she was a high-end alien superbeing monarch capable of enduring extreme trauma. Which, really? He very well may be. Regardless, Supergirl's complaints don't seem to dissuade the strange Kryptonian from being certain his course was the right and only solution. Particularly proven when it's not even extreme enough to dissuade his sudden psychotic swimfan. He's /just trying to charge his batteries/.

Instead, anything further he might say as he considers Booster and Kara in a more alert posture, hovering there silhouetted against the flaring sun, difficult to focus on fully, is rapidly drowned out by the /thunderous/ re-entry of Lady Maxima the Shrewish. It's a shockwave that would have blown out windows all around them, back on Earth. It sends him hurtling, in the frictionless void. Luckily for him, perhaps unluckily for her, as mentioned... the Eradicator has been up here awhile. He doesn't have Superman's whole 'world of cardboard' fixation, either. He stops dead not far off, and doesn't even bother crossing the distance back to her in a flash, not immediately.

What /does/ cross the distance is a tremendous surge of solar plasma fired from a projecting fist, flaring white and gold and almost ungodly amounts of hot. The raw release is focused on Maxima, the yield not unlike heatvision on 'nuke them from orbit' level. Most lesser beings would be utterly vaporized. After all, look how hard she just hit him! Only one of them seems to be into this, notably. Though it's easy to mistake brutal counter-efficiency for enthusiasm. Of course, /now/ she might be harmed a bit.

"I guess not, Eradicator, but still..." Supergirl sounds distracted.

That's because Kara is having a furious internal debate about what to do with the Maxima Identity Crisis issue before her.

Angel-Kara, in a white and gold Supergirl outfit that does not look at all like Galatea, dammit, sits on one shoulder. "You simply must tell her the truth! For her own sake, and because if this guy gets mad enough he could probably really hurt her, or this fight they're having... it could hurt a lot more people! And because honesty is the best policy." Toward the end there, she started to look a little bit more like Clark, in a white and gold Supergirl outfit.

Devil-Kara, in a red and black number that Clark would kill her for wearing, never mind that she's twenty-one and he's not her dad, stops laughing her ass off exactly long enough to say, "You might as well let her harrass the imposter, spare the real thing the headache!" Then she goes back to her severe gigglefit.

Booster Gold derails her train of thought, and she shakes her head. "Yeah... no. I think only one of them wants it to be. Still, there are some pretty big forces being thrown around here, you might want to clear out..."

Though why she'd stay to chaperone Not-Clark is an open question, until he launches that plasma. "...NOW!" Then, faster than thought, she's interposed herself, fists crossed in front of her face, so that nobody else takes the heat. The flame, it stings and burns, but Kryptonian biokinetic sheaths are pretty tough and so is she. One immense punch at a time, she starts making her way up the beam towards its source. "STOP," punch, "RIGHT," her knuckles are starting to blister, "NOW, /LAST WARNING/!"

"Mmm," Maxima glances at her extended fist in the instant after meaty impact, drawing it slowly back toward her and then lifting her gaze as it nears her mouth. As soulful brown eyes linger, painted lips slip seductively around her leading knuckle, and she suckles upon it like-- well, you probably get the idea, and naturally she shows every sign of enjoying both the experience and the taste of RAW KRYPTONIAN MUSCLE assuredly gunked up all over her hand because that's obviously how it works. Punch, alien probe, same diff.

Let's be honest here. The Empress of Almerac could be called many things; but 'well-read' certainly isn't one of them, which is why she stops her disgusting display with a dull blink as the Eradicator's mighty arm is raised, looking upon the ensuing storm of plasma with surprise that quickly turns to sheer, total joy. She even makes a girlish *squee*, both fists clenching as she trembles with excitement and prepares herself for impact. It's the kind of moment that's really best left unexplained, but... well...

"YES! Fill my ROYAL WOMB with your MAGNIFICENT SEED!"

Thanks, Maxima. Thanks so much.

Her delight is short-lived, however, and her subsequent motions mercifully cut short as the stream of searing, burning, complete-opposite-to-sexy stream of unrelenting pain is met by the figure of SUPERDAUGHTER (that's so her name), drawing a raised eyebrow and a scowl from Maxima that couldn't be any more disgusted if she'd just made out with Guy Gardner or something. Almerac may be a center for genetic research, intent on creating the greatest possible superbeing from an infinite pool of material, but some things you just DO NOT DO. Impregnating your daughter is pretty bleeding high on that list, let her tell you.

Her horrified gaze slips to Booster Gold, and she shows no particular sign of only noticing him for the first time as she zaps over, arms folded about her chest as if she has just realized how completely exposed she is. Making it the first time ever that the Lady Maxima has shown any kind of inclination to hide her wondrous curves from the universe. "What... what is this?" She manages to croak out, staring at the shiny shiny man without any particular camaraderie; she's just desperate for an explanation! "I don't even..."

Yeah. They don't have memes in space.

"Or, you know, I could be wrong and he's into this at all," Booster remarks, half to himself. At this range, it is much clearer now that this is no ordinary flirt-battle. "Wait a sec..." his eyes narrow, and then he brings Skeets up as if he were a cellphone and says, "That guy kinda looks like -Superman-!"

"Yes, sir. That is a very perspicacious observation!" enthuses Skeets, because he has found that it is best to be encouraging whenever Booster manages to be perceptive, even if it takes him a while to get there.

There is something about Maxima's exclamations and presence, however, that cause Booster to clutch the bag of space debris in front of him, as if they were somehow a more potent forcefield than the one that is already surrounding him. "Uh. Well from what I can tell, you are hitting on the wrong dude, ma'am. Which is why he's not going for what you're selling. So to speak." It occurs to him that this might be a bad choice of words. "Not that you're selling yourself. Unless you are. I'm not going to judge."

There's a bit of puzzlement as Supergirl suddenly interjects herself, and the distant but admirable mimicry of the sun's own heat cuts out as swiftly as it began. "This woman has been informed I do not wish to procreate or cohabitate. She is a tyrant with no sense of boundries or restraint." Maybe he knows her better than anyone thinks? "There is no quarrel with you, In-Ze."

Indeed, the Eradicator does not make any further aggressive action towards Supergirl - she doesn't even need to hammer up the beam for long, for that matter. "Beware. This one brings only chaos." Maxima's made a hell of an impression, either through first time enthusiasm.. or her interstellar history. "I can quite simply stop her here." Yes, clearly the obvious solution is to batter the bejeezus out of the Queen of Almerac and send her home. Really, the Kryptonian replicant has a point, after a fashion.

"HE'S NOT SUPERMAN, HE'S A FAKE, AND I THINK HE ONLY HAS ONE SETTING -- ERADICATE!" hollars Supergirl, in the interests of clearing the air. Vacuum. Whatever.

All that shouting makes her feel a little silly when she realizes that the Eradicator has cut the heat, and she begins to relax out of her lowered fighting stance. A little.

"Well... from what I've seen, you bring only violence, and that's not much of a recommendation for someone claiming to judge chaotic tyrants," she replies rather more thoughtfully, folding her arms over her chest. Her cape billowing a little bit behind her, she drifts closer. Her eyes are a bit narrowed in that cross-spectrum viewing sort of way, rather than an aggressive way. "I see... you. /Please/ tell me you're not Brainiac," she asks, a little bit desperately.

It's hard to catch a minute of privacy when you can hear a pin drop on the other side of the world. It's even harder to have a minute of privacy when concussive blasts of force rip through the atmosphere, causing subtle but noticable shifts against an amazingly fine-tuned and sensitive eardrum. And where moments before there is only a Superman look-a-like hovering in the lower atmosphere of Earth, there is a blur of blue and red--

And suddenly, Superman is there. The real thing. Clad in his own familiar suit, red cape flapping behind him, his arms folded across his chest in a look of severe consternation. The Man of Steel looks over each of the assembled heroes (and Maxima) with a glare that would make even Bruce proud.

His voice has nothing on Maxima, for he doesn't enjoy bursting eardrums when he chooses to speak, but it is still strong, full of power, and of concern for his cousin in the face of the Eradicator, much less Maxima. "Who would like to tell me just exactly /what/ is going on here?"

Even a stunned and confused Maxima still follows certain patterns, obeys certain rules. Which is why it's a truly terrible idea for Booster Gold to tell her that she's wrong about something; let alone her choice of mate. His collection of incredibly valuable and desirable space junk goes staggeringly disregarded as the practically-nude woman goes straight for the throat - and by 'throat' we mean 'eardrums'. It's really quite amazing how she goes from 1 to 11 without even considering anything inbetween.

"MY BETROTHED is NOT the WRONG DUDE!" Her eyes cross a bit as she says that, her vast and powerful brain reminding her that she doesn't even know what a 'dude' is. Maybe she'll ask Sazu later. Shaking her head, she thrusts herself a little more uncomfortably close to the shiny shiny man with the golden pelvic region, "Who SHOULD I be HITTING ON?" One more for Sazu. "You? SUPERDAUGHTER? Do you even know whom you address? /I/ am the Lady Maxima, Warrior Queen, head of the Royal House, and LEADER of all Al... mer... ac...?"

She trails off, eyes narrowing to dangerous gleaming slits. No, literally, gleaming. That's probably not a good thing-- though any conclusion that she might have noticed the man from the nature just called her a space-hooker goes quickly banished for now as her stare sliiiides to Kara and the Eradicator; moreso the latter, though she does take a moment to feel horrible, horrible envy at the smoking nature of the former.

"/Tyrant/?" She echoes, the word grating from between clenched teeth as her eyes continue to glow brighter and brighter with the yet-fiercer reddening of her cheeks. "Chaos?" She's gone from 'schoolgirl flush' to either 'raging space-bitch' or 'raging space-HOOKER' at this point, it's sort of hard to be sure with the wispy gown billowing in the complete lack of space-wind. It becomes a tad clearer as she echoes the final and most biting of all the unforgivable insults against her august person. "Not... Superman?!!"

As soon as that word is out, her psionic aura breaches mere eye sockets to consume her entire person, a flaming whirling mass of energies capable of overcoming all but the most stalwart of minds. Lest we forget that 50% of her power comes from PULP SCI-FI, the Lady Maxima is also emitting an oscillating, repetitive humming sound in eargasming waves. There's probably some alien woman singing in the background. Which is about perfect; because, before she can act, birds suddenly appear. Wait, no that's not birds...

It's not a plane either... it... it's...

"Superman~!"

It's lilted out in the way that usually goes hand-in-hand with a swooning, suddenly useless woman. And this is the case, with one very important royal Almeracian twist; Maxima doesn't just swoon against nothing, she's gone in an instant from her former position and very suddenly, very definitely falling against the REAL Man of Steel, floating a little below him because she's so spectacularly tall, so that she can conveniently fall against his bursting pectorals, and get a good grope with her 'limp' hands while she's at it. It doesn't hurt to compare him to the fake version he surely planted to get her all riled up...

No harm, no foul! It certainly worked, as she gasps, all adoring eyes turned upward and lips parted with breathless wonder as the invisible non-existent space-winds pull at her scarlet bangs, "I knew you'd come for me!" This is what's going on, apparently. Isn't it great to be enlightened?

"Then do not heed my warning." The Eradicator suggests simply of Kara's protests, as if she were simply being foolish and trying his patience, though there's no hostility there. He doesn't seem angry about or with Maxima, even. Makes it a little more troubling if anything, though. "I am not Brainiac, though vulnerability to his capabilities is only one potential threat in this planet's future. As is..." The Kryptonian intelligence ceases, silenced by the arrival of its charge and template.

"Kal-El. I am the Eradicator. I have come to help you deal with the injustice and erosion that dooms this world." It's meant to be comforting, really. It's even sincere, just mechanical, lacking in emotion; soul perhaps. That, too, is what is going on. "This interstellar tyrant wishes to procreate and cohabitate." He reiterates, possibly due to some strange affinity for the unusual explanation. "Predictive matrices suggest you focus on other goals."

Even if the visored Kryptonian -does- look to the clingy, half-dressed Maxima, it's largely to utter, completely drily, "I am in fact 'the wrong dude'." Apparently, he's concluded she might be just slow enough to need the explanation.

"Guh!" Booster Gold ends up dropping his bag of collected space-debris, or at least, he lets go of it; it just floats. His super-suit augments his senses, and so Maxima's assault has him curling up a little and clutching his hands over his ears. "Well, excuse me, princess! Queen. Whatever." Snatching Skeets out of the space beside him, he flies backwards just in case Maxima decides to punch him. From what he's seen so far, she does this whether she likes you or hates you, so it's a lose-lose situation either way.

As much as he is concerned for his own well being, Booster cannot simply flee without offering -some- aid. He calls out to Superman, "Look out! She's trying to make babies! With YOU!"

And then a lot of things happen at once, followed by a lot of people speaking at once. After all that, further explanation from Supergirl feels unnecessary.

"Oh, I'm heeding, I'm heeding," she mutters to the Eradicator, "I just think you need to learn some restraint." She chins at Superman. "Watch how it's done." No pressure, Clark. Show the lady a good time. Or at least a less violent one than eye-nuking.

He can't help it! It's an instinct that's been ingrained in him ever since Ma and Pa Kent found Clark in a cornfield just out of Smallville. When there is a woman swooning and about to faint, Superman has to step in and catch her before she gets hurt. Ignore the fact that they're in space. Ignore the fact that Maxima is suddenly on him like white on rice and faster than Booster can even blink. (Don't you feel slow now, Booster?)

The Man of Steel's hands come up to catch Maxima handily as she falls against him, though his are most definately placed in FAR MORE APPRIORIATE places. The concern that suddenly turns to surprise on Superman's face should surprise no one except for Superman himself, especially as those around him weigh in an oh-so-delicately explain the situation to him.

Perhaps Superman's attention should really be for processing the Eradicator's first introduction to him. And yet, those are not the words that stick with him. Coupled by Booster Gold's strident warning and, really, Maxima's full lack of suitable clothing, it's perhaps no shock that Kal-El's attention revolves back once more to the redhead in his arms, even as she gropes him and he does his best to ignore that fact. She needs his help, right?

Sadly, Kal-El's attention to Maxima is most likely far less flattering than she would like, and he moves to disengage, pushing her away to an arm's length as he raises his eyebrows in mild shock, "I'm sorry. And you are?" Let's just conveniently forget about Diana's report filed a few days ago, shall we? Surely that will make Maxima feel all better.

So many explanations, so many helpful people! But there's only one actual, real Superman.

This makes it astonishingly easy for Maxima to know who she ought to be paying attention to, and she remains rapt as the words of lesser genetic specimens wash over her ears like the scattered motes of broken civilizations. A few of them do end up rattling inside her skull, though, and she's so drunk on love she can't help but echo them in steamy murmurs, "Procreative, yes. Cohabitate. Babies," she whimpers a bit at that one, then flicks her tongue against her upper lip, rolling her head back a little further to mouthe, "Restraint."

It would be a wonderfully seductive moment if he didn't ruin it by suddenly having her at arm's length, the robe-clad space amazon flailing briefly back toward his chest before he distracts her from entering an outright grapple by asking what is clearly a most HEINOUS and INSULTING question. How could he forget her? Didn't he receive the wedding plans she sent on that captured Earth probe. What was it, the Voyager something-or-other? Hmph. Clearly Earth probes do not travel so fast and directly as Almeracian ones!

"I--" Something holds her back from righteous fury, however, her mouth opening and closing before she settles for what she thinks is a very cute, wide-eyed pout. But a puppy-face really isn't that terribly convincing on a frightfully tall woman who just punched a Kryptonian supercomputer right in the chest and is emanating a crushing psychic aura. "I am your betrothed, of course! Let's leave your daughter and these other silly people behind and retire to your orbital battle-station? I've waited for DAYS! I have taken many baths in preparation for our ritual lovemaking, and await prepared to TAKE YOUR SEED and--" Oh dear, she's getting carried away again, posing dramatically, "CRUSH THE PEOPLE OF EARTH BENEATH OUR COMBINED HEEL!"

She breaks it off with a coquettish eye-flutter, "But I'll cook first, if you like~!"

Booster lets out a low whistle and murmurs to Skeets, "Clingy type." He rescues his bag of space debris, shoving a few stray bits of metal back into place. Although he was tense with alarm, before, now that Superman is here, Booster is relaxed. Superman can handle anything. The day is probably saved, or will be saved, although out in space the concept of 'day' becomes a lot more abstract. "Oh..." He gives a wave to Supergirl in a bid to get her attention, then brings his free hand up to the side of his head, thumb and pinky extended as he says, "Hey... is it okay if I call you?" Booster points at Supergirl, then, as he finishes his question.

"Yes, clearly my reaction was far in excess of this restrained and eminently positive situation." It's pretty much the Kryptonian intelligence's version of a burn, in response to Supergirl's dubious analysis. He doesn't seem particularly convinced this time, either. His interjection comes pretty perfectly timed as a quiet aside in between 'OUR COMBINED HEEL' and having dinner first. The visored Kryptonian looks between Booster, and Maxima, and Superman. The latter's focus is on.. helping the sex-crazed space amazon? Well, alright then.

The darker red of the Eradicator's cape floats weightless behind him as he maintains his own position nearer to Supergirl and Booster Gold than Superman and Maxima. It's about that time that Booster's query falls on ultra-alert ears, and inspires the Eradicator to study the hero from the future for a moment before noting, "I was not aware so many of you focused this fully on procreation." It's really the optimal aid to a pick-up, that observation. Spoken with calm dispassion save a note of... surprise?

Supergirl looks over the immense, heaving, tyrannical redhead. She tries to keep the evil grin off her face, but it leaks into her voice anyway.

"Yep, this looks like a job for Superman."

She glances at the Eradicator and shrugs. "When you use your considerable capacity for violence to force people you don't like to do what you want, you're being a bad guy. The difference between that and us is bookkeeping, but it's important bookkeeping. Put your considerable intellect to that detail for a day or two and let me know what you come up with."

She raises an innocent eyebrow at Booster Gold. "Why do you need to call me? I'm right here." Apparently, after all that, she's the only one in the room to /not/ think he's being seedy.

Superman's eyebrows lift in mild incredulousness at Maxima's words, his face clearly reflecting some measure of surprise at her sheer audacity. Despite the warnings about Maxima's sexual proclivities given to him moments before by his colleagues, the Man of Steel cannot help but remain a little wrong-footed at the rather strange attempt to seduce him.

And then, of course, she has to go and ruin the moment with the talk of tyranny and crushing people underneath her heel. Instantly, a frown appears on Superman's face, and his arms fold in front of his chest once more in clear disapproval for the Almeracian Queen. "I do not know what you have heard about me, but I'll have you know that we do not subjugate the people of this planet. Nor any other planet."

Supes /would/ glance over at his cousin and at Booster in solid disapproval-- don't they know there are better times to flirt? But Maxima remains his focus of attention, the Last Son of Krypton continuing to float formidably between the planet below and the newly come would-be Queen. "If your intent here is to rule this planet, then I'm afraid that I will have to ask you to leave right now."

"Wha... whoah!" Booster Gold looks genuinely startled at the Eradicator's comment. He holds up a hand, waving it a little as if to fend off this accusation. "I am -not- trying to procreate! I mean, that's the last thing I want to do. I was just..." He pauses, because the person he really needs to clarify this for is right there, as she just noted. So, he says to Supergirl, "I mean, I was asking if it'd be okay for me to call you so I could talk to you at a better time with regards to..." He thinks; what did people in this era usually do? "Seeing a movie. Or something like that." Raising his index finger, he then tells the Eradicator, "It's not all about... what you said." Then he points at Maxima and adds in a supercilious manner, "You should take note."

Well, that's disappointing. Blindsided again in mid-flirt, Maxima actually recoils somewhat this time - an action that causes her to drift several feet back in the vacuum, though she's too astonished to care or bother correcting this. "That," she points out with a frown, lifting a finger loosely toward the distant Earth and the Watchtower; unseen from this distance, "Is what your 'friend', Wonderful Woman, said. I didn't see what was so /Wonderful/ about her," her arms fold about her chest again, this with a childish huff.

Beneath the curling cascade of scarlet capping her royal crown, the Empress' brain is spinning cartwheels as it reaches desperately back toward the track of blind ignorance; where things are easy and none of this despondence and uncertainty has to get in the way of THE ULTIMATE GOAL. While she thinks, her eyes meet Superman's, brows slowly raising and mouth slowly restoring itself to a smile as she remembers all the private moments they've shared on her journey from Almerac. And during her time in the bathtub since! Well, 'shared'. She'll have to share /his/ side of them later, when they're alone. She's got a lot stored up!

That thought does it, and suddenly she's grinning and throwing herself at him again - this time stopping short to tease his surely-lusting body with a waggle of her hips and a youthful giggle, reaching to run a finger along the curve of his statuesque jaw, lingering on that /gorgeous/ chin.

"Very well," she purrs, "We don't have to call it subjugation. And don't misunderstand me, my love... I don't want to rule the pathetic backwater of Earth-fools! I just thought-- perhaps you would. I'm here to please you and only you, my delicious and destined mate. We can crush any world you please! Or simply... crush..." NOW she eases closer, attempting to pour her B-movie physique up against his, melting into him as hard and for as long as she possibly can, "Each other." Yes, Booster Gold, she probably should take note.

Which she does by lifting a hand to the side, an idle wave carrying with it a shockwave of psychic energy bound for the shiny man's interfering brain, a sort of psionic suckerpunch he probably won't see coming. She doesn't bother noticing if it works; she's BUSY just now.

"Of course." The Eradicator notes, possibly actually believing Booster Gold. "My mistake." It's an easy one to make, just now. So far, courtship had appeared to (d)evolve to a single step, so it's likely actually something of a relief. As far as Supergirl's admonishment, the visored Kryptonian doesn't seem quite as enlightened. "Stopping Maxima of Almerac has little to do with what I want. Her goals and power level demand a clear response and the establishment of non-negotiable boundaries." At any rate, she's at least not trying to grind herself on -him-, anymore.

"The abundance of injustice and selfishness in this world must be addressed." One might even say eradicated. There's a moment's pause, as something fails to track. The Eradicator can already see numerous ways for this to end horribly, so he has to ask, eyeing Superman and Maxima as he murmurs towards Kara, "Exactly which part of this is a job for Superman?"

He sounds downright perplexed.

"I think perhaps you misunderstood me," Superman says firmly to Maxima as she starts to talk once more of world crushing, his arms still folded quite solidly over his chest in a clear sign of disapproval. Maybe it's his way of warding off her eloquent and subtle (as a planet in the face) charms. "I have no desire to rule /any/ world, nor subjugate, nor crush. And I would oppose those that insisted upon doing so themselves."

For all of her flirting, Superman remains rather stoically unflappable, ignoring the finger that runs along his chin as his eyes meet hers. Even as the Empress of Almerac tries to squeeze closer, Superman drifts backwards enough to keep a reasonable gap of space between them-- the only time he moves is when Maxima lifts her arm and swings it out in Booster's direction.

Only then does the Man of Steel catch Maxima's wrist firmly, preventing the full swing of her hand, even though he can no more stop her psychic onslaught than Guy Gardner can stop talking about himself. There is a real flare of anger as he feels the weight of her psychic assault upon his teammate, and his grip tightens quite noticably as he speaks authoritatively, "/Enough/." Enough what, Supes?

"It is possible to respond and establish boundaries without extreme violence. At the very least, it is possible to try. You've gotta try, Radi, or else you're no better than the ones you're out to stop. Justice and selfishness aren't simple concepts, I'm afraid." Kara gazes steadily at 'Radi', wishing that she could communicate with him in a way more effectively than words. "And... I was being facetious. This," she gestures at Maxima, "is really a job for a good therapist." Or Batman. He could probably develop some sort of anti-pheromone that'd scare her off of Clark.

But someone else demands her attention.

"Dude," Supergirl murmurs to Booster out of the corner of her mouth (because her eyes are still fixed on the Eradicator, Clark and Maxima having gone from amusing to gross-out in terms of quality of the show), though not so quietly that the other Kryptonians can't hear her, because then her actual intended recipient definitely wouldn't be able to, "I'm flattered, but between Nuke First, Question Later Superman -- sorry, Radi, but it's true -- and Hail The Conquering Nympho showing up today, now's really not the time."

She raises her voice. "Three out of three Kryptonians off Earth is at least one too many, I'm going back." Part of her is reluctant to leave Clark to the mercies of the Eradicator and Maxima, but... he can probably take care of himself. Besides, Radi's at least trying to be a good guy, he's not going to sucker punch Superman in the next two hours. Give it a week. "Later."

In a red, blue and gold blur, she's gone.

"Well, she didn't say n--AAAGH!" Booster is too focused on Supergirl's response to even notice the attack Maxima has flung his way; but the truth is, even if he had been alert to it, there would be no way for him to avoid it. Despite having an alpha-level force-field, it does nothing when it comes to psychic attacks. Once again he drops the bag of space detritus, which serenely floats away, as he clutches at his head. And that's it--he's knocked unconscious. If there were any gravity pulling him down, he would be plummeting even now. As it is, he just floats like another piece of space detritus.

"Sir?" Skeets lightly flies up to tap against the side of Booster's head, clacking against the forcefield.

"Huh?" Mouth forming a startled 'o' as her arm is seized and expertly, manfully controlled, the Empress of Almerac stares at Superman for a moment or two; expression whipping rapidly from confusion to indignant fury to... oh gods no... frantic arousal. Her eyes are afire as with a surge of incredible effort she /rips/ her hand away from her betrothed and uses the gathered momentum to keep on twisting, her opposite arm thundering forward in a full-powered blow to the jaw; in theory somewhat equal to the one she nailed the Eradicator with a few minutes before. But she's practically buzzing now - it makes her stronger, faster.

Any lesser man would probably be flung back hard enough to hit the surface of nearby Venus. For a fleeting instant she almost wishes that he were such a man; it would be so romantic! Their first date, and their first time together, spent destroying the surface of the Planet of Love. Alas-- she'll have to try a bit harder against the mighty Kryptonian, which is precisely why she's already reaching out with her mind, eyes burning.

Her target is once again, the poor Booster Gold.

Only this time, she means to use her enviable telekinetic strength to hurl him through space at the hopefully-stunned form of her betrothed. "NEVER ENOUGH!" She booms behind the hurtling unconscious form, "I give you this and MORE, Superman! NO AMOUNT OF TRIBUTE COULD EVER SUFFICE TO DESCRIBE MY UNENDING DEVOTION!"

So loud is the Lady Maxima now that, back in orbit around Earth, Sazu cringes and grips at her temples.

This is NOT going to end well.

The energy behind the psionic signature is noted once more - the way it distorts the wavelengths detectable by the replicated Kryptonian, the way it sends Booster Gold reeling. It's fairly obvious what the Eradicator's first instinct is, here; it's only Superman that forestalls execution of that mandate. The Big Blue seems to command his unknown counterpart's respect, at least. That doesn't mean that the bodyjacking AI is -about- to let Booster Gold become a missile of love. Which also just sounds -horrible-.

It's a flash of blue and black, a trail of blurring red afterimages as the Eradicator interjects himself between the Man of Steel and the flung Booster, absorbing his momentum with the precision of a computer in a careful, full stop. Then he carefully heaves, again with an inhuman and swift precision, sending Booster Gold drifting back towards the Watchtower, back towards Earth. He'll wake up or be intercepted sooner than he'll hit anything, one would expect.

"I reiterate, Kal-El, she is disturbed and dangerous and now expressing heightened levels of emotionality and inappropriate sexual arousal." Beat. Totally serious. "Anticipate approaching crisis point whether we act to eliminate the threat or not." In simpler terms: Eradicator is pretty sure she's going to hit him again if he doesn't change his attitudes about spaceborne insemenation.

Unfortunately for Superman, he wasn't actually around earlier in order to realize just how quickly Maxima engages her power seduction mode. Her violent moodswing does indeed catch him off-guard and send him rocketing backwards through space as Maxima's fist strikes the side of his face. Fortunately for the Man of Steel, he /does/ have the ability to withstand such a mighty strike and not fly all the way to Venus before being able to recover.

Even as the Eradicator moves in to prevent Booster Gold from becoming a gold and red mess, Superman rights himself back around again to orient himself on Maxima once more, a small scowl hitched onto his face as he calculates the best way to end this without any more injury to himself or those around him. "I see that," he replies to the Eradicator, though he does not give himself away, nor what his plans may be. There's even a glance over to Booster Gold, the Man of Steel quickly calculating his trajectory towards the Watchtower; no doubt that Skeets will be able to summon help for the unconscious hero.

"Alright," Kal El says, speaking primarily to Maxima, his voice perhaps more firm and less seduced than she could hope for. "If you want me, then you're just going to have to catch me." If it's a lure, then Superman is surely offering himself up as the bait in this case. In a blur of red and blue, Superman is off like a shot, heading back into deep space and heading away from Earth. If Maxima wants to catch him this evening, then she'll have to play a wicked game of hide and seek. At least long enough to take her well away from Earth and hopefully cool her ardour and lust long enough that he can return back Earthside without the redheaded Empress tagging along.

Eradicator's interference is met with a furious puffing of the cheeks and an outflung hand, index finger extended to dramatically highlight how unwarranted and unfair the PRETEND SUPERMAN's interference actually is, though it takes a second of angry staring before Maxima can find sufficient words. Long enough for him (it?) to get his (its?!) machinelike barbing out, which really doesn't help matters. She's hovering forward as she begins to speak, the rules of DRAMA and NARRATIVE all that save Eradicator from another terrible chest-crushing insta-punch from the half-naked intergalactic menace.

"The only POINT we're approaching is the POINT OF INSEMINATION!" Bellows Maxima, drawing back both hands as though she means to try and deliver a chop straight outta Space Mongolia, perhaps ending the Kryptonian artefact in one fell blow - at least in her dreams - that Space Andre the Giant would be proud of. Her hair streams behind her as she closes the remaining distance (about six space yards) in a flash, and then--

And then...

Superman does about the smartest thing anybody in the vicinity of Venus has done all night.

The Empress of Almerac practically gurgles with unrestrained glee at the suggestion, instantly forgetting her need to destructify his pet supercomputer and instead turning to face the retreating blur with her mouth wide in pure, not-quite-orgasmic-because-that's-the-entire-point-here pleasure. Her eyes dilated to a ridiculous extreme, she gathers her robe about her with ladylike determination, drawing a breath that inflates her mostly-visible bust to similarly ludicrous proportions, and then takes off without a word to the Eradicator.

"Sazu?"

That's said en route to the Earth, her eyes frantically searching for her betrothed.

"Yes, mistress?"

"Ensure my quarters are prepared and sufficient lubrication is at hand. Tonight, I'm getting married!"

"Lady Maxima, you /do/ understand that there's more to marriage than--"

"I WILL BE MARRIED, SAZU!" The future starts here.

Ra's al Ghul

2012-02-26T16:31:48Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Ra's al Ghul
|Image=[[Image:Rasalghul01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Ra's al Ghul
|Alias=The Demon's Head
|Species=Human
|Age=700+
|Affiliation=[[The League of Assassins]][[The Society of Shadows]]
|Quote=''"The earliest case of this disease you call a horror was recorded in the fourteenth century. The natives called it Teli'Aroa... "The Blood of the Demon". Half a world away, yet in the very year of my birth. "''
|Powers= 
* Blood of The Demon
* Skills Mastery
* Brilliant Scientific and Deductive Mind
|}}'''Ra's al Ghul''', the Demon's Head, is the mastermind behind a globe-spanning conspiracy geared towards genocide, justice, and the uncompromising purification of the entire world.

==Background/Timeline==

He is Arabian. That is the most important thing one may glean from the centuries of time that Ra's al Ghul has existed on this earth. He was born to a nomadic tribe some seven hundred to eight hundred years ago, though his name was different then. What it was is a matter of some speculation. In truth, the details have ceased to have importance to the only person alive to remember exactly what happened back then.

He had left the tribe early on, to move to the city to pursue his interests in science and alchemy. He became a physician, a profession at which he excelled and through which he found contentment and companionship in a wife, Sora. That was a very different time.

Eventually his name--or at least, the name that was known back then--gained some notoriety as belonging to a genius medicine man. Of course, this largely translated to wealth and status, and the attentions of more privileged people. Unfortunately, the city's ruler had seen his skill and offered him a great sum to heal his dying son. It is through the treatment of the young man that Ra's al Ghul discovered a rare chemical existing deep in the natural earth. HE had discovered his first Lazarus Pit, and he was able to successfully restore the prince to full health.

What he did not, could not fathom was the inevitable outcome.

The prince went mad upon rising from the pit, his body revitalized to the point where he was able to overpower the physician, and strangle Sora alive when she intervened on his behalf. Unfortunately, the sultan refused to believe his son could be at fault for the heinous act, and had the physician declared guilty of murder.

He was to be buried alive with his wife's corpse for his so-called sins.

It is unfathomable, how someone could survive being buried alive with the love of their life, as a reviled member of society while the men responsible walk free. It is inconceivable. Truthfully, it is not possible.

The part of him that truly cared for people began to die that day.

He ended up being saved by a young boy, who felt indebted to him for his charity in easing his dying mother's last hours soe months before. He took him under his wing, and returned, a different man, to his nomadic tribe. Understanding the germ theory of disease before anyone else, he was ably to infect the sultan's son with a deadly illness by sending him fine linens, repenting and begging his forgiveness. When the sultan and his son came to demand that the physician save him once more, the physician killed them both.

He erased all evidence of his existence from that point onward. Leading his tribe to prosperity through war, he razed the city that was once his home to the ground. He and his riders killed everyone within the walls, pillaged every house, and burned every thatch until there was nothing left of the city but a smouldering ruin. He erased his name, he erased all traces of his history within that damned place. This was the beginning of the man--the group--feared as The Demon. His name from then on was "Ra's al Ghul."

There was to be nothing left of his legacy there, nothing that existed or could be traced. The influence of iniquity in men was too strong in this world, their minds too ready to persecute and corrupt. There was only on option. To be something stronger than men, something elemental. The world was in peril.

Ra's al Ghul and his brethren would save it.

He took the boy and his uncle with him through eternity, the Pits that he'd discovered bringing them and him to the precipice of immortality. Together, they had forged a formidable thunderhead of fortune. Wars were fought. Atrocities witnessed and atrocities eventually committed. The world, civilization as it was, was corrupt, and at the heart of that corrupt was the heart of man itself. Though good people still existed, they were preyed upon by their own decadence.

Even the boy who he looked after as he might have his own son, had fallen to the succor of potential fame.

There was to be no mercy. Ra's al Ghul strangled him himself, though his uncle escaped with the memoirs that he had expressly forbidden writing.

Since then, Ra's al Ghul has existed only as a suggestion, the apparition of a man who is said to be at the head of the worst organization imaginable. He has destroyed and brought ruin to countless cities all without 'They' ever knowing exactly who it was behind their downfall. For those privileged few who know him, he is nightmare personified, genocide his left hand and atrocity his right. There can be no mercy for the criminal or the corrupt.

He is the Demon.

==Personality==

To first understand how he thinks, one must understand the wear of time upon the mortal mind as it ascends to immortality. Over the span of centuries, the words of any one human ceases to have meaning, and each becomes unto themselves a representative of the species; a dull, iniquitous and puerile little thing whose lifespan in the great scheme has only been measured in the span of a single raindrop. As a result, Ra's al Ghul has precious little pity to waste on mewling parasites, and no concept of limiting honor or moralities.

He is a thing of fear, an elaboration of rumor more than man at this point. Few have had the dubious pleasure of meeting him, but those that do rarely find the will to doubt his influence and power, comensurate with that of a great sleeping dragon. He is completely ruthless, and endlessly destructive--one glimpse into his eyes will tell anyone they need to know of their value in them; none.

He truly has no limitations as to what he will and will not do. As he sees it, the world he lives in is inextricable from corruption and he has no love for it nor owes it any kindness. Ra's al Ghul's goals are nothing short of the absolute destruction of modernized society as humanity has molded it. He wishes to return everything to ash and plunge the world back into the Dark Ages, in the hopes that humanity will rebuild itself in a vastly more moral form.

It is not to say that Ra's al Ghul hates humanity. It is more specific to point that he abhors their excesses. In his mind, dishonesty and sin have colluded in the hearts of men, causing them to build a system so corrupt that it can be manipulated with only a few pieces of gold. To him, this is the antithetical of justice: A world that allows rapists and killers to go free while innocent men rot in prison for the rest of their lives for failing to pay the correct tithe. To Ra's al Ghul, there can only be one solution to such a system: A great purge.

Following this, Ra's al Ghul is almost priestlike in his devotion to the concept of absolute justice. However, his is not the understanding with which most would associate. While killing a hundred to save one may be considered abhorrent by society, Ra's al Ghul would not hesitate. He would not only kill a hundred criminals to save one innocent life, he would kill a hundred innocents to punish one criminal. Even more--he would kill a thousand. Criminals thrive on society's indulgence, but there is no society that would harbor criminality knowing what the true cost of their own sloth and laziness would be.

Though a violent idealist and one that will not hesitate to kill when necessary, Ra's al Ghul is not by measure an impatient or rash man. He is an intellectual, rarely one who gets his hands dirty, preferring instead to wage his wars from miles away. He is deceptive and manipulative, not hesitating to use his considerable resources, intimidation and knowledge against others, leveraging against their weaknesses until they do his bidding. It is not uncommon at all for them to be doing so without their knowledge in the slightest.

Though his ideals may be noble at heart, his methods, means and modes are not. Make no mistake, Ra's al Ghul is incurably insane from his centuries of life, and everything that was 'noble' about him has been eroded away by the sands of time. Though appearances may on occaision seem otherwise, there is nothing that means anything to him but his goals and his mission. All that is left of that noble Arabian doctor centuries ago is a desert wolf, a predator that sees nothing before it but prey.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-25 - A Game of Shadows

2012-02-26T06:13:05Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=A Game of Shadows
|Summary=Micah Gibraldi is just one man; what hope does he have against a pair of infiltrating monsters? But all is not as it seems - and three creatures of the night all end up learning a little about each other.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Witching Hour Lurker|Sherlock Dracula]]
|Date=2012-02-25
|Where=South Darby - Gotham County
|}}

Located on the western outskirts of Gotham City, the South Darby area is known predominantly for its airport and associated shipping businesses; a hub for commercial outreach that few choose to occupy on a residential level, only the lower middle-classes too poor to afford one of the nicer suburbs but somewhat above the crime-rife districts that dominate Gotham proper. The 'almosts' live here, safe and secure if not entirely free from hustle, bustle and the noise and smog generated by the sprawling airport.

All of these facts - smog aside - also happen to make it a perfect location for police safe-houses, which is precisely why Micah Gibraldi now finds himself relocated from the recent dangers of his ravaged building in the Financial District to a cream two-storey domicile a short ways north of Archie Goodwin International. The businessman's stress-marked face paints an ugly, dissatisfied picture as he sits in the master bedroom, nursing a glass of fine malt whiskey as he stares out through the iron bars cladding the room's windows.

Down below, a trio of cops deal cards over the kitchen table, smoke hanging thick in the air with the aroma of extinguished cigarette butts and cheap beer clogging their nostrils. It's been a long few days, and though crime rages in the city, nothing has hinted toward any further interest in the man upstairs; which at least dissuades the duty officers from taking too much care of the interior. Outside is a different matter, the property's lawn rung by out-facing searchlights and a patrol of a further five men. Two stand by the front door, one cradling an assault carbine, the other also smoking, but keeping one hand upon a holster at his hip.

Despite appearances within, they're not taking any chances. Which to the wary eye makes the obvious security hole all the more glaring; someone's clearly not done their work properly, as the front and sides of the house remain covered at all times - one officer patrolling each flank. The final officer however, an auburn-haired woman as well-armed as the others, seems to be tasked with covering the entire periphery. This leaves the back lawn open for perhaps thirty seconds at a time as the routes fail to properly overlap, leaving a route free to a set of French windows leading into the lounge. It's connected to the kitchen by an always-open door but... it's a hole, all the same. Sloppy work. Very sloppy.

It was no wonder that so many of his kind saw the world in such morbid metaphors and descriptions. Their sole diet consisted of the life force of other living creatures. (Well, you could technically juice a corpse, but oh god what it left in your mouth truly wasn't worth it except for dire situations.) And of those living creatures, the freshest, the sweetest, hands down the most rewarding taste, was that of other humans. Your own flesh and blood, those things that looked so much like you, that you used to be descended from, are now the most appetizing of targets to you...well, to others. Abel had heard of a few vampire philosophies regarding vampires as a seperate species, some 'higher evolution', but well...

"Bollocks."

He muttered aloud, quietly, as he swallowed dryly. He hadn't been feeding on humans this morning. No, he'd been all the way on the other side of the spectrum, opposite most aliens, and had been drinking pig's blood. Part of him would rather try to survive on vegetables and dead meat rather than pig's blood, but he downed it all the same, recalling the taste with a grimace. But, it was a sacrifice he knew he had to make. More than that, he -wanted- to make it, as the closest thing he could do to fighting an addiction he had to live with. And he'd already been in his head too long, having missed two previous windows to leap down and make his move, and so he shook his head, getting back into the game.

Gun powder, tobacco, booze, yes, these were police, alright. And Gotham's finest seemed no different from England's, except these were armed to the teeth. Honestly, he rather liked that, despite being possibly on the receiving end if he messed up. But, no time to dwell on that now. He watched the shapely auburn haired lovely walk away, and there was his chance, not seeing anyone watching the back yard! He leapt from nearby trees, not bothering running through the woods, but rather springing, right toward the middle of the yard, and if he landed safely, he'd blitz toward the French Windows, trying to try them as quickly and quietly as he could. He didn't want to break them, but would apply enough gentle force to pry it open...if it wasn't locked, while all the while, repeating in his head, 'This isn't their home, this isn't their home, this isn't their home...' So, it meant he could technically come inside, right? Right!

The question of species is a pivotal and deeply-affecting one for most of the human race; a genotype so jealously guarded that they've truly come to consider themselves superior to their animal cousins. That very phrase points to the crux of the issue - 'animal', as though they are not, as if by merely believing themselves different they cease to be mere flesh and blood. Flesh gains sanctity. Blood is sacred. For those who see it otherwise, who perhaps see the truth, there's a third term: monster. Man is not animal, and while monster may be man in shape, in spirit it's something else. A creature that comes in many forms.

Of them all, perhaps only a handful require invitation.

"Alright, everybody in!"

As monsters go, this makes Abel quite polite. At least he needs that verbal and emotional signal, the welcome mat that declares 'my life is yours, my blood is your blood'. Perhaps what makes him monster is that invitation can be gained by trickery-- if the moustachioed policeman now shoving his own stack of chips across the kitchen table knew that his seemingly innocent words would reach one more set of ears, perhaps he'd choose their structure more wisely. But it's done and said: everybody in. All are welcome. Come at me, bro.

"You're going down, Kazinsky," chuckles a stocky female sat beside her peer as he smugly glances at her over his fanned hand of cards. Her own chips join the central pile, as the other two cops disguise their own expressions; one allowing his gaze to linger away from the table as he plays utterly uncaring, lifting his beer to his lips and glancing distantly through the open set of doors leading to the lounge.

Moonlight spills into a patch on the floor as the French doors slide open effortlessly, smoothly. Quietly.

Getting through might still be tricky.

He slipped inside quickly, closing the window behind him, locking it, and shifting over to lean against the wall, hopefully out of sight in the darkness. He pondered briefly, able to listen to the police as well as if he'd just been sitting next to them at the table...He moved patiently, able to keep himself in an uncomfortable crouched position that would have wrecked the knees of anyone else, and while a more professional vigilante -might- have been able to detect his movements, these poor sods were just not up to the task, it seemed. Definitely not used to anything other than regular humans. He waited until the apathetic young man finally blinked, and in that moment, did his damndest to dart up the stairs, hopefully past his field of vision by the time they opened again. He was slinking up the steps, and if he wasn't detected, he'd stop a moment at the top of the stairs, listening to the hallway and trying to pick up where exactly his quarry was...

"What was that?"

The voice comes quick and sharp from the same stout woman who last spoke, her tone rankled with disgust. A chair scrapes as she abruptly stands in the moment that Abel chooses to move, the man previously watching now lowering his beer with a startled 'hm?' as he glances to his superior. "Oh god, Kazinsky!" Comes a third voice, this from the tall, lithe young cop seated with his back to the door. He's on his feet too, backing up close to the doorway; still with his back turned. Odd, that, until...

"Jesus Christ, I can put up with you being a /smug bastard/ but dropping bombs like that? Gordon should bust your ass down to the little leagues, stick you with the useless choads in Bludhaven where you belong! Ugh!"

Kazinsky is bellowing a laugh immediately, loud and dirty, the atmosphere giving way to ribald banter as Abel manages to get past after all - unseen and unheard. There's luck; and there's pure great timing, a combination of the two leading him to the dark stairwell. Thus does man so often let the monster in-- unwitting, too focused on his fellows to notice the beast in the gloom. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. What's crucial to this moment, however, is that tonight? It's the second time.

The Lurker's quiet step brings him to the top of the stairs, and he'll find himself surrounded only by a dim, suffocating silence; for perhaps five, maybe six seconds, until it's broken by a frantic coughing from the master bedroom as Gibraldi sups too hard on his sixth glass of whiskey, doubling over and slamming a palm against his chest. It's not the kind of cough that proves fatal, or even more than troubling, but it's a disruption - the kind of thing that the likes of Abel can use to their advantage.

This is precisely what happens, as from the pitch-dark corner above the stairs, dense black becomes a blur of shifting grayscale, any associated noise slight enough to be covered by Gibraldi's indecent choking. With speed approaching the superhuman, a glove-clad hand closes on his shoulder, forming the fulcrum by which his previously-unseen assailant lands upon the landing directly before him. Head to toe in ebon cloth, the figure is at least identifiable as short and feminine; a fact easily attested by the shape of her face above the partly-concealing fold of a black scarf over the lower half. He'll get a quick look, perhaps...

Before the other arm finishes cycling into a brutal palmheel strike to the throat.

Even if it weren't so dark, seeing it coming would be a trial.

Probably just as well it's not lethal - someone like him should feel that it's been pulled, just enough, to entrap the breathing and silence a scream without immediately laying a man out. But the strength behind it tells what could have been; whoever his fellow lurker is, they're a potent force. Certainly no cop.

He patiently listened, a smile reaching his lips as he heard the coughing and smelled the liquor, it was like a trail, leading him right where he wanted to go. Upon taking a single step, however, a form had dropped down, a capeclad, almost Ninja-ish figure, and even in this moment of surprise, Abel had to say he rather approved. But that was before a palm came surging toward him, crashing against his adam's apple, and slightly collapsing his throat. His throat jerked back from the blow, head snapping downward...but downward more than it should, as he aimed his chin to trap her hand, trying to painfully crush the meat from her thumb and forefinger, and make no mistake. He wasn't using his strength to cripple her hand...but he'd let her -think- he might for a moment.

Now, if this worked, then a split second later he'd jerk his head back, releasing her limb, but past him. He wanted her to stumble, to be off balance for his curving right hand that tried to bury itself in her diaphram. His vocal cords already recovering, he'd snarl and speak in a low tone of voice.

"Now, there is no need for hostility, my dear, you could have just put on some tea. Or perhaps coffee, I'm not opposed to coffee!"

He shouted, as much as you could while trying to make no noise for fear of alerting the police downstairs, but he felt he could risk it. After all, as hard as he usually hit, and how he hit her, how could a small human girl come back from that? Truth be told, he started to feel a bit bad, but he pushed that aside.

This is, of course, assuming any of this went according to plan.

The thing about people - actual, honest-to-goodness human beings - is they're actually very predictable. Emotional responses aside, their bodies are all made to a certain uniform standard; pieces are in place that can be found intact and vulnerable in ninety nine point nine-nine-nine cercent of the population. There are rules in nature, rules in animals, and Cassandra Cain is amongst the quiet minority who see mankind as nothing more than precisely that; another living species. Another living species that can be made to die. She's been meticulously sculpted into a walking weapon with exactly this in mind. She's almost perfect.

But the thing about Abel Thatcher, is he's not exactly 'human'. Monsters are different.

Monsters don't play by our rules.

Hazel eyes widen in the pitch, those pleasant globes all too apparent to the vampire, flanked as they are by the darkness on every side - her raven bangs above, the scarf below, and the hallway to left and right. Before her is something blacker even than those, something she'd never have reckoned on. Because as her hand is trapped, she's instantly and painfully aware that what she's facing is unlike anything she has ever seen.

A rare grunt escapes her lips as she stumbles from the landing toward the downward stair, an air of calm settling about her posture in spite of the immediate imbalance. If she's worried about losing her hand, nothing in the nuance of her form shows it; in fact, she /relaxes/, just malleable enough to be guided with copious ease by her counter-assailant without ever relinquishing control. Losing is a choice like any other. To believe oneself beaten is how one loses - she knows that, so deeply that it's instinctive.

That split second passes, she's released, and it's like a switch has been hit. Her body twists in mid-air, a rotation of the hips carrying the centre away from the incoming strike-- it lands, but at an angle that prevents collapse of the diaphragm, the blow scoring a fierce line across the taut internal muscles to one side. It should still hurt, but the girl doesn't cry out. She simply plants her extended hand to the step before her falling face, and in the next split second has turned her impending collision into a tight flip, whipping herself up and over until she lands a few feet back on the landing, facing this strange intruder.

No mere human would see, but as his words soak in, she actually smiles beneath the covering scarf.

Then she rises to her feet, exhaling softly, falling into a solidly rooted combat stance.

By no coincidence, she's directly between Abel and the master bedroom.

His move.

As it turned out, he didn't have much to worry about, that body shot, while strong, was specifically aimed not to kill, or disable beyond a few minutes or so. But it didn't even do that, as the masked girl he didn't know as Cassandra Cain took it like she takes anything else. With silent acceptance while she plans past it. He'd most likely be greatly impressed if he knew all this, but he just saw a girl wearing a scarf for a mask, looking up at him with wickedly expressive eyes. Well, he found them expressive, in any case. But it didn't matter, he had a person to question, and she was in his way. And so, dropping down, he gave a grin as he launched his leg-

No, wait. She'd already popped a leg up, she was going to hop right over that and bean him in the head or try to break his leg. He certainly didn't need to hobble all the way back home before daybreak. And so, he went back to a standing position, and with a shrug, merely darted to his immediate right, planning to spring off the wal-

No, can't do that, she just moved toward the other wall. They were just going to leap in a stalemate. So, he just moved to the center, slowly and calmly, and decided he'd fake her out. Slowly moving his hand behind his back, to make like he was going for a weapon in his bel-

And she was calmly moving her arms, already in the motions of quite mercilessly disarming him.

At this point...he just laughed, shaking his head and chuckling, with his face in one palm..finally, he looked up, gesturing toward Gibraldi's room.

"Alright...may I PLEASE go see Mr. Gibraldi, and ask him why someone would want him dead? I'll buy you a new scarf, 'kiddo', what do you say?"

It seemed a good place to mention, that he almost sounded patronizing whenever he used American slang. Like he was playing along with some joke or something. It seemed the joke was on him at the moment, however...

To any outside observer, it might look like a game. A deadly one, perhaps, but a game nonetheless. This is precisely what it is to Cassandra; or was, in more ignorant days. With each motion by the tall dark stranger she sees in echo a ghost of her father, matching each movement like a perfect shadow, the counters flowing as simply as though she were seven years old once more. Her face shows an innocence to match, her eyes not bearing the typical hardness of a killer - though she's far from enjoying herself either.

Most people would be retreating already, or getting dumb and angry, pulling weapons.

Abel's laughter is the next surprise in store for the raven-haired girl, his body language screaming the facts behind his words and gestures. She knows it's not a trick, and her guard immediately relaxes, arms drifting to her sides and head drawing up as she takes a step back. A man like him should know she's not incautious in doing so - it would take precious steps to reach her, allowing preparation she would barely need. Even reading the intent of others, it's best to play the wary game. People can be surprising. Monsters even moreso.

The Lurker's attempt at slang causes a frown to crease Cassie's brow, and a disbelief crosses what little is visible of her expression that borders on being outright normal for a girl her age. Eyebrows raise, mouth tweaking into a tight little smirk beneath the scarf, and then it's gone as business resumes. Her face is once more flat and unreadable, and she communicates instead through motion; a shake of the head. No.

She pauses for a moment, then, before her mouth opens and closes. She should say more. He seems...

Well, besides 'strange' he's also not communicating any form of threat. Batman wouldn't approve but--

"Why?" She finally manages, voice muffled and oddly halted.

As though she had to think very carefully about the single word.

He visibly sighed when she said 'no', at this point he -was- a little frustrated. He glanced out at the far window, noting the time of night...didn't seem too bad so far, but he would definitely need to make haste if this dragged on too long. He paced to and fro while watching her, not anything rushed or too fast, nothing that said he was about to lose his cool...but something to keep his body working, while his mind ran and he thought. He glanced at her when she spoke her almighty word, and he shrugged a little while speaking.

"Because, I suppose I'm altruistic by nature. And far too damn curious. You see, I'm a detective, and the way a detective solves crimes, is by investigating clues, and questioning witnesses, or people important to the crime or mystery. Since it's Gibraldi who is marked for death, if I can question him, I can figure out why. If I can figure out why, maybe I can figure out who. And if I figure out who, then perhaps I can stop them from bringing their insidious plot to fruition, thus capping another curious case, and basking in the warm glow of doing what I was put on this planet to do. And that's why, dear girl, as much as I'm starting to like you, I need you to step aside, so that I can do my job. Believe you me, I do NOT want this to resort to fisticuffs. So. For the last time. Please, step aside, and let me do my job?"

Detective. There's that word again. Though she watches mutely, controlling her expression from any betraying nuance as the frustrated vampire speaks his piece, Cassandra is taking in every word as best she can - and more, seeing how he enunciates each with his body. Man, animal, or monster-- none communicate by noise alone. A pronouncement of faith carries a reassurance within the form, a declaration of pleasure - of enjoyment - prompts a chemical reaction that echoes to the outer shell. People give away so much, even those who believe they give nothing. In life or unlife, those reactions remain. Instinctive. Reflective. Real.

At the word 'fisticuffs', the girl finally betrays her own thoughts, puckering thoughtfully as she tries to wrap a non-verbal brain around a word she's never heard before; even from a distance. Gears shift and turn quickly in her mind, but turn up nothing, so she tries to reason the word by its placement, and his.

"Oh!" She suddenly exclaims, actually surprising herself in the process. There's not much she's capable of voicing, but a few things she understands with absolute crystal clarity. Her form responds immediately, snapping into a loose and playful stance, guard high with hands half-closed to fists, one foot drifting across the floor until she's adopted a rapid and fluid cat-like stance. Muay Thai.

"Fight," she enunciates, bobbing her head in pleasure at reaching the conclusion.

And then it's gone, as she breathes out and loses the stance, arms folding about her chest. A second nod is sent with gaze flickering downward for an instant - indicating both herself and the landing she's stood upon. The meaning should be fairly clear, given the solidity of her posture. She was here before the nightstalking detective - she's a sentry. A single word makes it a little bit clearer, "Work."

This is /her/ job. It seems they're still at an impasse, at least until there's a sudden *click*.

The door behind Cassandra cracks open, holding upon a chain as a face and a single eye presses against the gap of light filtering out into the landing. Gibraldi. It's hard to make a speech like Abel made and not draw some alert to the proceedings, after all, and one doesn't get to be incredibly wealthy by being entirely ignorant. Unseen but certainly heard by at least one person in the corridor, he's fumbling behind the panelled wood to flip the safety from a small personal sidearm. "H-Hello?" Comes a voice wracked by nerves only mitigated at all by the drifting fumes of fine malt whiskey. Scotch courage. "Sergeant?"

He watched her carefully, and he had to admit, her personality was just infectious. He even played along with her when she mimed her Thai Boxing stance(as he thought of it), he got into one of his one, though it might be alien to her. Then again, it might not, who knew? One fist was extended outward, while another curled close to the body, legs apart, knees bent a little, this wax 'boxing', but long before a lot of the changes and revisions. This was history, right there. And after a moment, he too dropped the stance, raising, and his eyes widened as he heard Gibraldi start to stir...he cursed to himself, and instantly realized he wouldn't be able to question the man, not like he wanted. There wasn't enough time, there wouldn't be enough time to rush past her, open the door, close the door, lock it, calm down the old man, talk to him, take time to hypnotize him, and then safely get out of there without alerting suspicion to himself. There was just no way. And so, Abel dropped to a half-crouched, feinting like he was going to feint left past her and toward the old man in some feeble attempt. Instead, when he started pointing right...he actually blitzed in that direction, tapping into that Vampiric Speed that made him dangerous at moments, and doing his best to simply rush past her. Again, the intention wasn't to harm..but he knew that was difficult to do with her to begin with. He wanted to merely 'shove' her aside, while running faster than a cheetah, aiming straight for the window at the end of the hall. He wanted to leap through it, and into the night where he would make his daring, and damn stylish, escape.

Of course, that really all depended on her, didn't it?

Normally, a jetfighter is not the subtle way to approach a protected safehouse. Since when does the Dark Knight do anything /normal/, though? The bat-shaped stealthcraft hovers high, high above the unassuming two-story, lost in the overpowering Gotham night and the drifting, shadowy clouds. The baffled sounds don't even really reach the ground; but Abel likely hears it. A whine, not attribuable to any known jet engine, almost melodic, where it eludes its own countermeasures. It's impossible to silence such a craft, even with the technology available to Batman; but it comes close.

None of that is likely to ease the Lurker's mind, even if he does get past the ultra-trained, stoic guarding machine assigned to Gibraldi's safety. After all, the ultramodern jetcraft hovering on high is a foreboding sign that even nastier folk are watching over the watchwoman. It doesn't even take them long to arrive, the guardian angels on black wings. Far above the clouds, the canopy of the Batwing opens. Whatever is released is lost in the night, on the wind, almost impossible to track.... for most visual spectrums, at least. Down a zipline similarly black against the night, something that sounds like a squirrel lands on the roof above.

Fast. Cassie knows fast; she is fast. But not like this...

Her immediate reaction to Gibraldi is to remain completely motionless and silent. The patch of light filtering from his bedroom door falls well past her, only enhancing her simple costume's camouflaging function - she is the shadows, she is the night. And the man within has absolutely no idea she's there. So long as he didn't open the door fully, she could stand for as long as it took. Her immediate assumption is that this interesting and rather talkative Englishman will start to introduce himself-- what she's not certain of, is whether he's noted the prescence of a firearm.

But her reasoning is for naught, as he makes that feint and then rushes forward. A tilt of her head expresses something - surprise, or intrigue perhaps - though her thoughtful stare does not leave his face, or at least the place she estimates it to be as he flows forward in immeasurably fast motion. There's no gasp, no grunt, nothing beside a gentle yielding as he reaches out to push her back; and then she's simply gone in that same instant that he is, drawing a long and silent breath as she melds to the darkness.

A moment later, Gibraldi opens the door, panting hard and drunkenly levelling his gun.

Cass watches the barrel wavering from above, feet and hands bracing her against the corner of the ceiling.

Beneath the scarf, she's smiling. A shame Abel can't see that.

With a nod, Abel was crashing through the window, landing next to a guard, and actually grabbing the man, covering him with that cape and protecting him from falling glass shards. Of course, this also gave the eternal lurker enough time to grab the guard's gun from his grasp, expertly and quickly disassembling it even as he leapt up on the nearby high wall, tossing the pieces down at the astonished cop's feet...Abel kept eye contact and spoke smoothly,

"Do me a favor, old chap, come up with a new security plan...oh, and maybe drop the Poker games? Gotta go!"

And with that, Abel was making his way through bushes and trees, cutting away as he glanced up at points, trying to make out the shape of the black jet in the sky..he saw parts of it, but in his haste, and it being constantly covered and obscured by overhead branches and leaves, he couldn't make out the Bat-like shape. So as far as he knew, this was some bizarre government thing he was unaware of, and he tried to avoid the official suit types, what with the "legally and technically dead way too long ago in another country" issue. It was minor, but still.

As Abel cuts through the yard, through the brush, his course is monitored in turn. While he concerns himself with the unknown jetcraft, he's stalked from rooftop to rooftop. To the Dark Knight, being just off the periphery of another's vision is like second nature, moving in tandem with the sounds he's not heard yet, perfected instinct. It helps that the undying detective doesn't take the quietest route himself, on that count. Even so, he doesn't know the senses he's dealing with, not entirely. Luckily, the Batman doesn't need a great deal of time.

His presence is likely betrayed by the grapnel that rapples outwards from a whoosh of compressed gas, hooking to an adjacent rooftop a bit afield of the Lurker's escape course. The rush of air is louder, ominous, as outspread cape silhouettes against the midnight sky, darker than the cloudy night, dark as pitch the figure that accelerates past the Witching Hour Lurker at an alarming rate; but not far past.

The Dark Knight drops, abruptly, precisely, angling a shoulder in for Abel. From the attempted overpower carrying the monumental flying momentum, it would be an attempt to wrench and twist an arm behind the other investigator's back, preferably from a grounded position. He doesn't know who this guy is, he doesn't have the details of the preternatural creature's movements or powers, but he knows he's fleeing from a GCPD safehouse after an altercation with his newest protege. The Batman knows that this quarry is masked from thermal imaging to a remarkable degree, as well... all the more interesting, and troubling. All the worse news for the introduction between Gotham's Knight and the Lurker; after all, no one ever accused him of being inefficient.

"/Who/ are you? /Why/ are you here?" Let's start simple.

With matters outside in hand, Cassandra is left alone in a house filled with idle cops and a terrified man who is anything but. Brow furrowed beneath unkempt bangs, she remains focused intently upon the wobbling, frenetic movements of Gibraldi's extended handgun. Any training he may or may not have is irrelevant now; he's rattled and acting through pure rash desperation, movements unpredictable as a result. It may not be the particular lack of predictability that can be turned against her-- but it's dangerous in its own way. She either needs him to leave, to seek solace below, or...

Or she could bring them /here/.

Timing herself perfectly, the raven-haired assassin eases the pressure from both feet, sending her scooting smoothly down the painted walls. Carefully oiled boots leave no marks to indicate her passing, and allow her to shift with almost complete quiet. By the time even a cautious and wary man would sense her, it's too late; her gloved hand uncoils, palm snapping back to reveal the underside of her wrist. A flash of sleek steel in moonlight heralds a gentle hiss as coiled wire unwinds, bearing at the tip a tiny but powerful magnet.

The gun's grip sits in her hand an instant later. It's not a feeling she enjoys, but the purpose is served; Gibraldi jumps about a foot in the air, stepping away from the door with a whimper that would rise to a shout - were Cain's deadly daughter any slower. His footfall heralds her own release from her perch, however, a dark silhouette against the landing forming the businessman's last conscious vision before Cassandra's free hand lances out, fingers pinching against a nerve deep in the throat. He can't cry out...

Because by the time he feels anything, he's already out cold.

He hits the carpeted floor with a dull thump, enough to resound at least to the kitchen below. Faster than Gibraldi's guardians can mobilize, Cass is out of the room and gone through the same window that carried Abel to his next trial at the hands of the Bat. By the time they arrive, they'll find the gun back in that nervous - and now nerveless - hand, arrayed so tellingly against the bottle of whiskey in the background. Outside, she's already a shadow flitting between the pleasantly spread gardens of South Darby.

By the time she catches sight of her quarry, he's there. Batman. But--

A hand flies to her ear, as she crouches amidst a peony bush.

"Not... bad," she says as clearly as she can, brows knitting with the effort, "/Work/."

He's just doing his job. Like them.

Abel's been doing this a long time, long enough that he should have known better. And true, he could have put more force in his shoulder that meets the Batman's, he could have twisted himself to try and escape the wrenching armlock, but no, he didn't come here to brawl with the people he wanted to meet and trade notes with. Instead, he goes a bit limp, in effect 'surrendering' that limb to the Dark Knight behind him. And curiously, despite the pain it must cause, he turns a bit to glance at the man, out the corner of his eye. He is grinning, and he is rather pale. Contrary to that old wives' tale about British teeth, his are perfectly white, and impeccable.

"Well, we know what I am: sloppy, after getting caught like some rank amateur...I feel we've all gotten off on the wrong foot, here."

He glanced over at Cass and relaxed his arm, nodding. He doesn't seem that worried about Batman potentially being able to rip it out of its socket if he wanted.

"Yes, I'd listen to the girl. Very good head on her shoulders, and so adorable, too!"

It was less that he was flattering Cass, or trying to butter her up...just that it came to his mind, and so he spoke it.

On the job, yes. That's /why/ the Dark Knight didn't start by popping the unusual operative's arm out of joint. He didn't hurt Cassandra, he didn't hurt Gibraldi, that much is clear enough. On the other hand, he wants answers. Like... what job, exactly, for starters. "Doesn't answer either question." Batman observes, rather uninterested in the whole 'witty banter' thing, at the moment. A hand comes free of his utility belt with a small cannister, one might suspect it to be bat-mace. He doesn't spray it for Abel's eyes though, just in his general direction, as he rises off his seemingly nonviolent quarry.

It's odorless, tasteless, and seemingly, utterly effectless, no matter how much or little of the cloud the Witching Hour Lurker comes into contact with. Fancy that. The Batman stands nearby, cape drawn around his shoulders to nearly completely hide his form as he surveys the undying detective with a slight frown.

If Cassandra heard that... well, the world would never know if she'd be simply confused or whether she'd blend in a little better with the red peonies clustered around her for the few moments before she slips from the bush, much slowed from her earlier pace. She's not rushing the final approach, breathing a tiny sigh of relief as Batman steps away - at least called off from exacting harm on the stranger-- she hesitates to even think 'strange man' as she normally might. No man would have reacted to her blow like that.

No mere human moves so quickly, either.

By the time she arrives, a much smaller but resonant shadow to the Bat's own - her over-long scarf trailing behind her in a manner akin indeed to his spreading cape - the conversation has probably proceeded, but regardless she keeps her gaze upon Abel rather than the Bat. That would be telling, if it weren't already concluded where her allegiance lies. Curiously though, she comes to a halt at the third point of an unseen triangle, swaying to neither detective's side, stopping with her hands held with deceptive looseness at her side. Her lips quirk beneath tight, concealing material; not quite a smile, but close, as she looks at Abel.

If she were inclined to speak more, she'd probably say 'hello'. Her eyes say it for her.

Batman might start to worry - almost looks like she's developing a sense of humour.

Alive or dead, he still gave a grunt of relief when his arm was released, rolling his neck and rubbing his shoulder as he casually turned around to be blasted in the face by...an odorless spray that couldn't be detected on any level. If not for his sense of touch sensing faint moisture in the air, and his eyes picking up the already fading, phantom movements of the air 'moving', he wouldn't be able to detect it at all.

"Well, I can't speak much for your taste in cologne, apparently. Still, it's a rather big honor to meet you. The Dashing Detective, The Dynamic Dark Knight, the Brave, Bold and might I say Brilliant Batman himself, I've heard a lot about you over in England..so much, that I just had to come here to try and meet you for myself...I'm none other than...The Witching Hour Lurker! You see, I'm a detective, much like yourself, and I suspect we might have similar goals in mind. Namely, preventing the assassination of a certain rich and famous elderly man currently in police custody. I pray that answers at least some of your questions, Dark Knight?"

Another flashy grin at Batman. And then a wink, aimed at Cassandra. He was certainly enjoying himself.

Let's face it. 'I'm an immortal detective from Britain here to meet and admire you' is just crazy enough to probably be true. Even if the Dark Knight is hardly swayed by flattery, particularly in this situation. It doesn't even seem to land, the apparent appreciation for his own career. "Cross reference and summarize." He's not speaking to the Lurker, or to Cassandra. The batline tends to keep a straight channel to operations of one sort or another, not to mention recording mission-critical information for future reference. Cutting edge military prototype development has its advantages.

Returning his attention to Thatcher more completely - apparently he trusts Cassandra to watch the man, in turn - the Batman narrows his cowled eyeslits in focused consideration once more. "What's your interest in Gibraldi?" Is this guy working for someone else, or just crazy enough to throw himself headlong into the League of Assassins' apparent operations in Gotham City? Then again, Abel may not even realize -that- part yet. It dawns on the Dark Knight with a bit of a sigh. At some point, enough of the preliminary information comes back to refresh the Bat's memory, in part.

"You're dealing with forces older than you are, here."

Winking. That's new. She's never been /winked/ at before. The dimunitive vigilante doesn't react a great deal more than her mentor does, hazel eyes batting just once as she continues to stare at Abel - if she hadn't shown so much rare expression already, it would be downright creepy. He might be able to see the gears ticking around again, though, as she processes everything she's heard alongside what's just been said. It doesn't take terribly long; she's obviously got her head screwed on in spite of any weirdness, but as a man whose stock in trade relies on the tracking and recognition of patterns...

"De--..." She's reached a conclusion, but can't say the word she needs, expression fading to a disappointed frown as she over-reaches her limited faculties. Batman's immediate attention lapses, and she abandons that route for now, allowing it to sit and simmer while she watches the Lurker carefully. In spite of her allegiance to the rightly untrusting Dark Knight, the strange little ninja seems to like him well enough. Her posture is alert without being threatening; what passes for 'neutral' to her, most of the time.

When Batman turns and draws his own course of enquiry, she takes in his last words with interest.

It's her turn to shift the focus of attention, an eyebrow quirking toward the Bat.

"Not... man," she offers, not quite question-- a testing statement.

She's sure of it, but she isn't certain that he is.

With a chuckle, WHL casually adjusted his gloves, fastened his cape and otherwise gave a shrug while he raised a brow.

"I cannot tell you how many times I've been told that, good sir, but it doesn't usually hold up. The lovely ray of sunshine over there is correct, I'm not quite a man, and I'm far older than I look. You know I fought the Nazis, right? And not, you know, reincarnations, or sons of the originals...the first ones. Just...not any famous ones."

Well, that last part wasn't so impressive. But his point stood. And he walked forward, the tallish man stepping forward and offering his hand, offering to shake Batman's as he grinned devilishly.

"I'm used to being up over my head. But even the tallest ziggurats are hard pressed to stand with their foundations eroded. And besides, what could another pair of eyes and another mind hurt, right?"

Both Cassandra and Abel protest his assessment. Batman doesn't seem to mind, he even seems pretty patient with the whole thing. Then again, his response is to echo, in the sense that a professional voice actor can echo, his own line note for note. It's downright eerie, in a sense. "You're dealing with forces older than you are, here." Yes, they certainly shocked that conclusion right out of him. He's alarmed to the core of his big black boots. One can't really fault the Dark Knight his chill, though; anything even remotely implied to be tied to Ra's al Ghul is serious, deep shit.

"But what I'm hearing is you're well aware this can kill you and you just want to help the lying clown shuddering his nights away surrounded by men who could be hauling him in instead." Batman notes, thankfully breaking the hanging silence /himself/. Would that be awkward or what? He does stand there not really acknowledging the undying detective's offered hand, though, for another long moment. "Be here." It's not quite a handshake, the blank grey card pressed into Abel's hand. It's got a sloppily scrawled time and precise coordinates on it, in pen apparently. God knows when he found time to do that, but it's passed from the concealing depths of his cape with ease akin to other men accepting the polite gesture.

"I know who you are." The Batman clarifies, still just eyeing the Lurker, "I don't have to tell you what I expect from you, here." Which amounts to, after a fashion, 'Welcome to Gotham'. The time, incidently, is only about four hours away. Batman seems intent on making the most of his countdown. "Come prepared to infiltrate and conduct a long and tedious search, Lurker." The grapnel that brought him here fires back towards the rooftops. If one listens closely enough, knows Bruce well enough? One might even think the Dark Knight seems downright amused at the last.

Were her unknown mother watching this meeting, or anyone else trained to the same specification as Cassandra herself, the body language between the three is unmistakable: certainly insofar as to note that the black-clad teenager is very readily adopting the role of bodyguard. Which makes her inaction all the more baffling when the Lurker moves forward, extending his hand. She reacts as she has to another surprise of the evening, simply tipping her head gently to the side, watching his extended digits and then his face.

There's no similar gesture when the Dark Knight extends that card.

It's almost as though she already knew that each would trust the other.

For her part, Cassie tarries for a moment after her shadow-caped mentor has departed, still watching Abel as she paces around the broken triangle, circling him until she's roughly in the position Batman stood. It almost resembles a standoff for the moment-- as though she were positioning herself to resume their subsided battle, her hands lifting and grazing past her centre as they shift toward one another. But then she finishes the gesture in a fluid, connected motion, bringing open palm to closed fist and dipping her chin, hazel eyes watching from above that black scarf as she offers the Lurker a shallow, respectful bow. Her hands drop to her sides once it's done, one slipping to her waist as the other drifts idle.

She'll remain long enough to match him, gaze-for-gaze, that tiny smile twisting her mask one last time.

And then there's a gentle *tink* followed by an abrupt hiss as smoke floods the roadside.

By the time it fades, she's gone.

For his part, Abel Thatcher took the card, holding it up, and reading the handwriting before nodding and smirking a bit. He watched Batman launch away gruffly, and when Cassie gave her strict, rigid bow, he recognized it instantly as an Asian custom, and returned it, though with more of an English flair, keeping his eyes on hers all the while. Finally, he was alone, and giving a chuckle, he spoke aloud, before leaping off that building, and toward the start of something glorious.

"So, the game...is afoot!"

Batwoman

2012-02-26T01:23:38Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Batwoman
|Image=[[Image:KateBatwoman.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Kate Kane
|Alias=Kathy Kane, "Candy" Kane
|Species=Human
|Age=20s
|Affiliation=Gotham
|Quote=''"I'm a goddamn soldier."''
|Powers= 
* Infiltration Specialist
* Close Combat Expert
* Exceptional Physical Conditioning
|}}'''The Batwoman''' is actually Kate Kane, a socialite whose dismissal from the Armed Services has not slowed her personal war.

==Background/Timeline==

Kate Kane was born the daughter of a famous and influential colonel in the US military, a member of military intelligence. She grew up happily, playing with her twin sister in their fairly luxurious family home--her father was one of "those" Kanes though he was not in line for the full weight of the family fortune.

When Kate was still quite young, she, her sister, and her mother were kidnapped by terrorists seeking to ransom Kane children and strike at the US military in one blow. A rescue was staged, and Kate's sister and mother were killed. Kate suppressed the memory for many years. Her father remarried, to a wealthy socialite who wanted his family's connections. Kate and her stepmother are not friends, though they do not fight.

When she tried to serve her country to fight against those who had hurt her, she was ejected for being gay. After a period of dissolute aimlessness, she found a new identity in taking the fight into her own hands, on the streets, as the Batwoman. She didn't ask permission for the cowl, but she hasn't faced any objections yet.

The past refuses to stay buried, however, and shortly after Batwoman emerged onto the streets of Gotham, she faced the challenge of 'Alice', a killer who seemed to know her as she knew herself--because she was herself. Almost. Kate Kane's twin sister somhow survived the terrorist attack, unknown to Kate, and possibly unknown to her father. Batwoman battled with Alice in a feud that ended with Alice falling from an airplane, seemingly again to her death.

Kate blames her father for this, and has ceased speaking to him.

==Personality==

Kate Kane is a conflicted, angry, driven young woman. She lost two of the most precious people in the world to her at a young age, but she was able to channel her rage at this injustice into a desire to serve righteous order. She wanted to be a marine, like her father. This was denied to her due to the military's policy of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, which was a powerful blow to her sense of self. She was too bound by her oath to lie in order to preserve her possible military career, but she still felt the draw to defend, to set things right that had been made wrong.

This drive for justice is powerful, and Kate has encountered several ways in which the laws may fail even the lawful. Bad things happen to good people, and often through indifference--this is something that she must change, that she can change, herself, personally. Kate's desire for control and direction pushed her finally into vigilantism and the carefully orchestrated violence of the hero in the shadows. She took her name from the Bat, as there was a -man, so could there be a -woman.

All of this purpose from the shadows has made it difficult for her to stay connected to Kate Kane as a person, and a long string of broken relationships and poorly-mended friendships testifies to that. She tends to react to failure or frustration by taking her anger out on others, and this has lead to her current state of estrangement from her father. The loss of her sister and mother is an aching wound that will not heal without family's help, but she pushes Jake Kane away, blaming him for keeping her sister's survival a secret.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Blue Beetle

2012-02-26T01:17:56Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Blue Beetle
|Image=[[Image:JaimeBlueBeetle.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Jaime Reyes
|Alias=Scooter
|Species=Human
|Age=16
|Affiliation=[[:Category:LFG|LFG]]
|Quote=''"These are my rules. No-one hurts innocent people. Got that? Good!"''
|Powers= 
* Blue Beetle Armor
** Enhanced Senses and Analysis
** Energy Manipulation and Projection
** Superhuman Strength, Agility, and Durability
** Spontaneous Object Generation
** Flight
** Dimensional Shifting
|}}'''Blue Beetle II''' is '''Jaime Reyes''', an idealistic youth who happened upon a miraculously powerful alien artifact and now fights crime and injustice. For the elder Blue Beetle, see [[Ted Kord]].

==Background/Timeline==

Jaime Reyes was just a normal kid. He lived in El Paso, had a large extended family and was best friends with a pair of other teens named Paco and Brenda. That seemed to be about where life was going to leave him, until one day, a blue scarab fell out of the sky and landed in an abandoned lot. Jaime and his friends found it, and Jaime took it home. In the night, it ended up crawling into his body and bonding with the base of his spine, though it took a bit for him to learn that.

Over the next few days, he ran into a gang of limited magic-users in El Paso, the Posse. After their mindreader, Probe, panicked upon running into the Scarab's mind in Jaime's body, the Posse started a fight. Jaime tried to flee, and when cornered, the Scarab manifested, forming the Blue Beetle armor and taking over. He defeated the Posse in combat, and the Scarab would have killed them if Jaime had not controlled it, sensing that one of the Posse was pregnant and fleeing.

Jaime tried to deal with the chaos as best he could, trying to come to terms with the strange, alien voice in his mind and his new powers. A (currently undefined) event involving numerous superheroes and villains took place near enough that Jaime was pulled into it, heading to Gotham City and meeting up with the superheroes to help. In the meantime, his father was shot by a desperate employee at his car repair garage and left needing a cane. Jaime would not become aware of this until he returned.

On returning, Jaime felt the need to inform his family about his new powers. He also felt responsible for his father's getting shot, since he wasn't there for it - especially now that he had the power to prevent it. While his family was afraid at first, eventually his mother, father and little sister accepted the existence of his power, as did his friends, Paco and Brenda. They (and Jaime's grandmother) are the only people who know about the Blue Beetle, though he does have a very large extended family. Now, with the help of his friends, Jaime works as the first real superhero of El Paso.

However, unknown to Jaime, the creators of his scarab, an alien race known as the Reach, are coming towards Earth now that their creation has awakened. His friend Brenda's aunt, Ampara Cardenas, is working with the criminal Intergang as the main crimeboss of El Paso, La Dama. A former hero called Peacemaker is trying to find Jaime, because he contains the information half of the Scarab and knows its dangers. And, of course, there's all the chaos of the greater world and El Paso's own vigilantes, the Posse, whom Paco has gotten involved with.

==Personality==

Jaime Reyes is a good kid. His parents raised him to be respectful to others, kind and generous. He does his best to live up to their expectations. He tries to help those in need, and when he can't he blames himself. His first thought after getting out of the chaos of his first days as a hero was to tell his family, because hiding it from them would just feel wrong.

In fact, that is a lot of what drives Jaime: he trusts his family and friends, and they believe in him. He does not want to let them down. They taught him to use his abilities to help others - and now that he has superpowers, what can he do but try even harder and do even more? That is Jaime's ultimate goal as a hero, though not his ultimate goal in life. In fact, Jaime doesn't really want to be a superhero for all of his life.

Instead, Jaime wants to be a dentist. He doesn't like fighting and he isn't very good at it. The Scarab is, to be sure, but it fights to kill, and Jaime was not raised to kill. Indeed, the idea of killing someone disgusts him, and Jaime would never do it. As a dentist, on the other hand, he would be helping people! Besides, dentists make a lot of money. Jaime's from a rather poor family, and that kind of money would help put his little sister through college.

The Blue Beetle scarab, whose name is currently unknown to either itself or Jaime, is rather more ruthless. It has trouble understanding concepts like 'emotion' or 'mercy'. It operates entirely on threat determinations, analyzing every person it meets for powers and potential danger to the host. It is much more watchful for this than Jaime itself, though he often ignores and overrules it.

This isn't to say that the scarab has no emotions. It may be an AI, but it does have curiousity and a desire to learn more about itself, since it lacks the vast databanks and memories that it was meant to have. It is also, slowly, learning from Jaime. However, this is a very slow process, and at present it still tends to present itself as a ruthless, emotionless intelligence that wants only to protect its hosts existence and eliminate his enemies.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Lobo

2012-02-24T22:25:07Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Lobo
|Image=[[Image:Lobo01.gif|200px]]
|Name=Lobo
|Alias=Bo; The Main Man; Master Frag; Mister Machete; Scourge o' the Cosmos; The Ultimate Bastich
|Species=Czarnian
|Age=Unknown
|Affiliation=N/A
|Quote=''"What's the matter?"''
|Powers= 
* Bloodhound Smell
* Regeneration
* Super Strength
* Willpower
|}}'''Lobo''' is an intergalactic bounty hunter and general spreader (and lover) of chaos.

==Background/Timeline==

*Born on the planet Czarnia, to everyone's misfortune.
*First homicide at five.
*Fragged entire race with high school science project, gave himself an A.
*Tried out many jobs from police work to bartending until he found his true calling of hunting people for cash.
*First boss, Bob Bastich, liking his last name so much he made it his own personal swear word.
*Hunted across the universe for several years till Preserver hired him for his first run-in with Superman.
*Helped the Supergeek break outta the ship, hasn't been seen near Earth for some time.

==Personality==

Lobo is a big, bad biker on steroids. Not as stupid as he looks, he enjoys nothing better than bloody violence, booze, babes, and terrorizing the whole galaxy just by being around. Many compare him to a walking powder keg ready to explode at any moment, for any lousy reason, not only because he can but because he really enjoys it. The only people he respects are people that have the guts to stand up to him. Otherwise everyone else just better get outta the way or they end up as good as fragged, unless they have his word they'd be safe or provide him with plenty of opportunities for cash and violence. Bo is a man that is in love with the idea of vendetta and will go to ridiculous lengths to avenge himself over any perceived slight. Besides that he's in love with concept of slumming. And torture. Many will agree that he is the most ruthless, cruel, stubborn, and down-right despicable being in the known universe. As well as an addict to physical violence, the more graphic the better. In his own words he hates "square-jawed, short-back an' sides, goody-goody feebs", (pretty much every superhero), since forever. Course he hates just about everyone that gets on his nerves anyway.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Red Hood

2012-02-24T19:51:23Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Red Hood
|Image=[[Image:RedHood01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Jason Todd
|Alias=Dead Robin; The Hood
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=20+
|Affiliation=Solo
|Quote=''"I never get tired of watching you work."''
|Powers= 
* Just One Man
* Bat-training
* Deductive Reasoning
|}}'''Red Hood''' is the anti-heroic incarnation of '''Jason Todd''', believed killed at the hands of the [[Joker]].

==Background/Timeline==

Jason Todd entered the Batman family in a somewhat more odd fashion than most; he was caught stealing the tires off of the batmobile. Shortly after he earns the right to fill the recently opened role of Robin that was vacated by Dick Greyson when he departed and took up a new name for himself as a protector of Bludhaven. Serving for little over a year in the red and green tights, Jason proved to be one of the most troubled of Wayne's wards. Filled with anger and aggression, Jason found a outlet for these emotions in his role as a masked vigilante. Batman did his best to help Jason deal with this anger, trying to find a way to help quell the anger inside of his young ward before it got the better of him... Sadly, it was too little, too late.

In the end, Jason proved to be a poor fit for the role of Robin. He was too angry, too brutal, too aggressive in his pursuit of justice. His brash, short-tempered nature ultimately lead to his death at the hands of the joker, leaving Batman alone once more. Bruce often views his inability to save Jason from himself as well in his final moments as one of his greatest failures.

Having hired The Joker as a destraction for one of his schemes, Ra's al Ghul is struck with a odd sense of guilt over the death of The Detective's newest apprentice and seeks to make ammends for his miscalculation in thinking that he could control The Joker. Stealing Jasons remains and replacing them with a starkly realistic decoy, Ra's al Ghul ressurects Jason in a roiling pool of his Lazarus Pit. Stolen from the realm of the dead, Jason is brought back to life only to be consumed by the psychosis that those that use the Lazarus Pits fall victem to. In the chaos that ensues, Jason escapes Ra's grasp, only to find himself far from home once he ragains his senses. In the years that follow, Jason sets out on a journey, treking across the world on a quest that darkly mirrors Bruce's own travels in the time that lead to him becoming The Batman.

Now back in Gotham, Jason Todd has taken on a new identity as the Red Hood. Having decided that crime could only ever be controled rather thean eliminated completely. Using his newly learned skills as well as those that yet reside with him from his previous life, The Red Hood has set about gathering every last hood, thug, pimp and drug dealer into his employ, seeking to make Gotham a safer place through his own, vicious means... as well as claim his revenge against the man he holds responsible for his death.

==Personality==

Jason Todd is a far different person than he used to be. Once a idealistic boy that prowled roof tops and alley ways as a brightly-colored spectre of justice, Jason has become something much more sinister than he once was... and who could blame him, really? Death... has ways of changing people. Be it the death of a stranger, a loved one, a enemy... or even the person themselves. Jason Todds idealistic vigor that was then only slightly shadowed by the viciousness and anger that laid beneath the surface is gone. Now there is a hard, brutal determination that drives this man. Crueler than the cruel, more vicious than the vicious. He has made himself into a bitter vaccine for the sickness that infects Gotham. Devoted now to not just treating the symptoms as they pop up in the alleys and on the streets but rather controling them at their source. It is a old and sad addage; If you can't beat them, join them.

Cock-sure and brash, Jason is a case of a arrogant bastard that is arrogant for good reason. He is as skilled as he plays himself off to be. He is also a careful man in some respects. He has a odd sort of patience about him, a keen mind for long plans and schemes even if he cannot often restrain himself in the moment.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-23 - Lady's Knight

2012-02-24T07:33:32Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Lady's Knight |Summary=The Empress of Almerac goes fishing for bath salts, and ends up hooking something rather more interesting. Through the power of arro..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Lady's Knight
|Summary=The Empress of Almerac goes fishing for bath salts, and ends up hooking something rather more interesting. Through the power of arrogance and a psychic dubbing stick she takes one nano-augmented mercenary into her service on the promise of SPACE RICHES GALORE. Also she gets her bath salts, and one incredibly confused duck. Welcome to Team Maxima.
|Who=[[Maxima]], [[Wyld Knight]]
|Date=2012-02-23
|Where=Delaware
|}}

The problem with being the ruler of a warfaring race of intergalactic superbeings - because, clearly, there must be only ONE problem with such a thing - is that it's rather easy to become bored. Being deprived of violence, supplication or captured luxuries for more than a few minutes leaves one searching for a thrill to stave off the mind-numbing tedium of mediocrity. Which is why Maxima has gone for a walk.

Leaving her royal battle cruiser in orbit alongside the Watchtower, the Empress of Almerac has whisked herself down to the planet's surface ostensibly in search of a fresh supply of bath salts. Her computer's intelligence mainframe - with a little help from her advisor Sazu - indicated a little place just outside the nation-state known as 'Delaware' would be able to provide, quote, "beautifying bathing products for all your luxuriass (sic) needs". Unable to resist a reference to her perfect posterior, Maxima was set.

Right now she's stifling a yawn as she leans against a low wall just outside of Bob's Bath & Beauty, which just happens to be set beside a bridge overlooking the Hobb's River en route to the much-more-likely shopping hub of Metropolis to the southeast. It also happens to be 6:33am, explaining why the store isn't open; but the Warrior Queen got bored of shouting thirty four minutes ago and is now even more bored than she WAS.

This wouldn't be a terrible problem, if bored superbeings weren't prone to razing settlements, or punching the core of the Earth to see what happens when you split the planet's husk into two neatly divided segments. Fortunately she's been distracted, at least momentarily, by trying to work out if any of the objects she can see floating in the river below bear any semblance of relation to Superman.

This is probably why there's a pile of dead fish and a small, confused duck squatted on the road beside her.

Pain, that was how she came into the world and how her last incarnation left his world more or less. The machine fusing with flesh, was not a pretty thing. It was a thing of nightmares and to say it caused pain? It was an understatement but the pain also made her realise she was alive. That was a good thing, when the pain stops without warning, it's a bad sign. The armor kept her alive, or was she the armor, she had directives? But she can't recall them, she been in the water for some time, the armour wasn't visable she only had on the ragged remains of her mercnary gear and there wasn't much to that, but her face? There were red marks almost like tatoos and some small cluster of metal fused into her face like streaked. She's finlly got the strengh to move weakly swims for shore, pulling herself out of the water, gasping and not moving, it's also clear if she moves again those clothes, or should we way rags will give out. She's hacking coughing but otherwise moving. Thankfully for the town she's something to distract the bored out of her skull superpowered Superman stalker.

Normal people would gasp and probably call 911. Maxima's not even sure what '911' is; but she barely bats an eyelid as the curious shape below pulls itself ashore flopping and choking, merely curving an eyebrow and leaning a little further out to catch a proper look - cheek squished up against her palm and elbow leaned heavily on the bridge wall. The concrete shakes and cracks as she lays on the pressure.

"Sazu?" She drawls below another stifled yawn, speaking out loud despite her complete lack of need to do so-- all that psychic nonsense gets so troublesome. Which does nothing to stop her reaching out mentally to the form of Miss Tylor, exerting a small effort to start lifting her clear from the ground. Uncaring for the possible nudity she unveils in the process, the Empress of Almerac telekinetically levitates the British mercenary until she's at approximately eye level, quite possibly wriggling much like those fish did.

Slowly, Maxima cracks a sly little grin. "Yes, mistress?" Buzzes the voice in her ear, ready to help.

"Lock onto my location and run a scan for me, would you? This doesn't seem like anything an Earth-fool would have made, even if it... hm." Pouting her lips in thought, the Warrior Queen straightens up and stands unblinking for a few moments, examining Emily as she hangs in the air. And completely ignoring anything she might do or say for the duration of that time; treating her very much like a 'thing'. Imagine that.

Beside her, the duck quacks and starts to waddle away.

"Oh! Sazu!" A hand snaps out, pointing directly at the retreating bird. "Two scans! Immediately!"

"...well, that one's a 'duck', Your Majesty. I don't think it's got anything to do with Superman."

"I'll be the judge of that, Sazu! And what about the Earth-fool? She IS an Earth-fool, isn't she?"

"Y-Yes, Your Majesty. But-- I'll just need a moment to process this."

Breathing a sigh that puffs her cheeks out less-than-attractively, Maxima leans back against the bridge, adjusting her telekinetic grip to send Emily Tylor spinning on her axis - speeding up the process a bit as it begins to idly delight her, a chuckle breaking past her lips. "Take your time, Sazu..."

Wyld Knight is not normal she's not normal at all, she manages to look up as she looks at the strange woman for a moment. "Who are you what am I?" that's an odd question to ask. A very odd question to ask really isn't it? She's now lifted clear of the ground and the clothes well yes, they don't survive it. She's now in the air and being scanned. "Let me go...I haven't done...anything."

"Lady Maxima, it..."

"Yes, Sazu?"

Eyes much brighter and more alert now, Maxima keeps watching the gently rotating nano-woman as she tunes her protests out and focuses instead on the results of the scan. "It appears as though this creature isn't entirely composed of elements found on planet Earth." That raises a brow, and a little 'hmm' of pleasure as the Warrior Queen mentally gestures, sweeping Emily through the air to hover over the bridge. "The Royal Library is picking up traces of a metal that doesn't appear in any recorded data save for one encrypted file. I can't gain access to it using any of our registered encryption codes, but I might be able to--"

"Don't be a nerd, Sazu! Just tell me what it can /do/."

"I'm... not sure, Your Majesty."

"Hmph." Maxima claps a hand to her hip and sways away from the wall, wandering around the hovering Englishwoman until she feels she's got a fair scope on her anatomy - and has assured herself that she's prettier and unlikely to be threatened if she starts being nice. It wouldn't do to have some puny Earthling attempt to overshadow her like that intolerable Wonderful Woman and her angry fist! Remembering that incident causes the Empress to hesitate momentarily, a scowl enveloping her features before she impatiently and imperiously waves a hand. "You haven't done anything-- /yet/," she belatedly responds to the mercenary...

Before allowing her to drop to the roadside, further startling the poor duck, which waddles a few feet further until it's stilled by a cold glare from Maxima. But enough about birds; more importantly, by the time she hits the dirt, Emily Tylor will find she's been clad from thigh to cleavage in a revealing and copiously flattering gown of sweeping black silk, accented by red ribbons. It's the sort of thing Maxima would wear, if she had rib marks on her face and didn't love the colour green so damned much. Therefore, it's probably very much NOT the kind of thing that Emily would ever choose to wear.

But you know what they say; don't look a gift gown of psychokinetic material in the mouth.

Shut up, they totally say that.

"I am the Lady Maxima, Warrior Queen, head of the royal house, and ruler of all Almerac. What you are is now my loyal subject until such time as I tell you that you're /not/. Now tell me your name, little Earth-fool, and how it is that you came to be floating down one of your planet's sewage disposal channels. If I like what I hear, perhaps I'll allow you to serve as a brideslave at my wedding to your god, Superman."

Wyld Knight looks at maxima now as she starts to get her bearing. She's really not making any threats she's too confused she's also being held in the air. She just hovers there feeling not embrassed, but more cold than anything. She looks confused. "I only remeber it hurt, it hurt so much, She? I ? tried to cut it out but it didn't work." Emily is now on the ground in a gown and quite thankful for that. this isn't quite something she's wear, but it was something to wear. She wasn't as cold anymore. "I'm afraid I ...? I don't have a name I can't recall my name." She pauses.

"The man of steel?"

Even through the haze she can recall a guy in big blue underdoos at least. "I'd be honored and I fell in. I can't recall much more."

The explanation draws what almost seems to be a thoughtful expression from the Empress, who leans forward to more closely examine the metallic growth clinging to the mercenary, before abruptly barking off a short, sharp laugh that... well, it's painfully loud. Her voice has been less than booming up to this point - mostly because she was half awake by the time Emily happened along - but this noise is nearly enough to pop the eardrums. She makes no sign of either realizing nor caring, leaning back with hands once more on hips to fix the gown-clad young woman with a broad smirk.

"Well," she surmises, "It sounds like you've had a WILD NIGHT, my dear. Oh, Sazu? Please run a search on the term 'Man of'--" She doesn't get far when the Advisor's voice cuts in to confirm that yes, indeed, that's one of the many names by which the Earthlings refer to the man who must obviously be their god; because he's so handsome and powerful and so very much the husband of Lady Maxima. Who really should be a goddess already. She looks intensely pleased either way, drawing in a deep, chest-swelling breath with a satisfied 'ahh'.

Triumph feels so good. As does the penultimate admission by Miss Tylor.

"Honoured?" Maxima echoes, smiling in a way that might almost be cute if she weren't so incredibly, painfully smug about it a fraction of a second later. Flattery really will get you anywhere, however. "Of course you are, of course! I'm the LADY MAXIMA." Oh dear, she's getting louder now. The bridge shudders and shakes beneath them, and the cracked segment of wall explodes, showering the river below with rubble.

Maxima don't care. Maxima don't give a !#@&.

What she does, is thrust her arm out, pointing dramatically toward Bob's Bath & Beauty.

"I shall allow you to assist me, but only if you can gain entrance to this bastion of bath salts! My royal flagship must be restocked and the ruler of this establishment has utterly failed to respond to my assuredly most polite and temperate queries. Hold nothing back, my dear, and I shall make you the prettiest brideslave of them all... and the richest! As soon as we've tracked down my betrothed, of course."

Wyld Knight is basically a new born, shame on you Maxima taking advantage of the young lady like that. She's only existed for a few hours and this is really the first moment she's not been in agony in that time. The armor has fully merged with her at this point. She pauses looking at Maxima "Wyld Knight that ... will do." She says and she not wonders a bit more, now the pain's finally stopped at least. Wyld attmpe to keep out of harms way. "Hummm" She pauses looking over the store and looks at the sign. "It won't be open for another half hour. I don't think the staff are there yet. Humans need to sleep after all. Or they won't be able to give you the service you deserve."

"Lady Maxima, I have more information regarding the--"

"Forget it, Sazu. I'll find out for myself!" Barks the Warrior Queen, sashaying forward with one hand still pressed against a curvaceous hip, the other waving loosely toward the store once more before she hooks it about her neck, leaning back on her heels with a sigh as she comes to a halt beside the newly-christened Wyld Knight. A glance slips sidelong, a fiery eyebrow lifts in sly nonchalance, and then the Empress /speaks/.

This is different from merely speaking, because /speaking/ doesn't involve using one's mouth.

No, this voice goes straight into the skull, resonating against the senses. With a little help from the gleaming ray of light suddenly darting from either eye to penetrate poor Emily's askance. If truth be told, Maxima's been dying to try out her more potent psychic abilities on the Earthlings; she only held fire against the Amazon in an attempt to be a right and proper ambassador. Some planets like that. Some planets submit to that. But she's already been too nice to this one. Time to get... nasty.

'Don't be weak and pathetic, my dear. While others sleep, you should be strong. The Lady Maxima appreciates strength. She rewards strength. You failed to cut yourself free, you've failed to clothe yourself and feed yourself like the others... now it's time to do what's right. Let yourself free! Be as strong and powerful as you can be! TAKE what others would have you PAY FOR. Take-- and give to your Empress.'

Dark and forbidding the mental machinations of Maxima may be, but the effect would be ruined somewhat if anybody but Emily herself were capable of overhearing the second voice, two simple words warping in and out of the others; a chaotic backdrop to her irresistible command. And the most important part. 'Bath salts'. 'Bath salts'. 'Bath salts'. The girl's gotta have it.

Wyld Knight is a new born, she's not really with it in some things. She looks at the Warrior Queen for a moment as she speaks to her. Still it's not with words, it's in her mind. She staggers and makes a whimpering noise. Something is wrong about this earthlings mind. Something is very wrong about this one's mind. It feels almost broken, it almost feels like there are two minds. One in control the other hiding, digging in deeper as Maxima prodes in. She lets out a scream and then something happens, there's a warping on her flesh as something seems to be comming out of looking much like the bits on her face.

IT spreads across her body taking shape and form, forming into armour, with a somewhat of a medival flare. "Stop, stop....stop..." She feels the pain more but also something else information rushing back to her, she takes a knife that's been on the ground and it starts to warp change and grow into a full scale bastard sword.

"Bathsalts...it shall be done my lady."

Prehaps had a hero found her? Things would go differnt for her. But it was Maxima and set her on the path of Villiany clearly as she will surpsingly make her way into the store, without bteaking the door. She shap shifts part of her finger armor to mimic a key and opens it. She walks out with an arm full of the salts still confused and not aware of the change that's just happened.

Surprisingly enough, Maxima DOESN'T begin to cackle and crow like some demented space-witch as nano-tech warps and twists at her empowered suggestion. The disturbing wrongness of the poor girl's mind only delights her further as she watches the process unfold, a broad and sinister grin twisting her features as she feels the /power/ she's unleashed; only insanity breeds such a thing in so petty and small a species as this. "No!" She responds to Emily's protests in a voice that echoes also within the mind, commanding and deliciously persuasive, "Don't stop! This is just the beginning!"

It might be more disturbing yet that when mere knife becomes long, cleaving blade, the Empress of Almerac gives a girlish litttle 'squee!' and brings her hands together in front of her, clapping with frantic appreciation both at the sight and the fact her command is so readily obeyed.

She must really, really want that bath.

Her delight has calmed somewhat, returning to smug satisfaction as the Knight returns. A wave of one hand lightens the load upon her newfound minion's arms, those salts suddenly replaced by a sparkling myriad of lights and colours, before fading entirely into the aether. They'll be conveniently landing beside her orbiting tub any moment now, as Maxima busies herself striding around this new toy, looking with admiration at the technology alien even to she.

"Magnificent!" She urges, belting out a chesty laugh that shatters the shop's windows. So much for steering away from vandalism! Does she care? Of course she doesn't care. Leaning in close, she meets Emily's eye with a back-and-forth craning of her neck, like a cat trying to figure out whether the thing in front of her is edible or not. Then she titters, leaning back and raising a hand in the air. "Now, my dear, that's all I need for the moment-- but I promised you riches in return for helping me! And the LADY MAXIMA always keeps her word! YES, INDEED!" Her grin gives way suddenly to a sober nod, "For now, though, you may go about your business. I have an appointment to keep with my betrothed, but I shall need your services again. To that end..."

Her raised hand opens, fingers unfurling as though she were about to grasp something.

"SAZU! Send down one of those communicators we accepted as tribute from the Ma-Rukh of Malavok V." It's probably best left unmentioned that there is no longer a race called the Ma-Rukh, and their home planet of Malavok V is now considered a hazard to several commercial shipping lanes. Mostly because it's been blown up. The important part is that Maxima was able to salvage some sleek-looking surface-to-space comlinks from them before they stopped begging for mercy and started dying. One of these appears with an impressively sci-fi *scha-weem* in her outstretched hand, before being passed to Wyld Knight.

"Should you need me," she notes with a kind and benevolent smile, "You need only signal on this device - ah, that's the small red button, not the long blue one, DON'T press the long blue one under any circumstance - and Sazu will take your call. Should /I/ require /you/, the device will project my voice directly into your ear so long as it remains on your person. Do be a wonderful little creature and keep it there, won't you?"

Suddenly the smile is gone, and the Empress steps back, proudly tossing her scarlet mane and looking to the heavens with an imperious frown, both arms held high with palms turned upward. Nobody's sure why she needs to pose like this, but the answer is probably something to do with space.

"I'M RETURNING TO THE SHIP, SAZU! ...and I'm bringing the 'duck' with me."

Her eyes burn with a deadly flame as they suddenly snap to focus upon the confused bird. "Quack?" It manages, approximately half a moment before both it and Maxima are reduced to a rainbow cascade of shimmering molecules and fired into the atmosphere.

Witching Hour Lurker

2012-02-23T21:23:35Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Witching Hour Lurker
|Image=[[Image:WHL01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Abel Thatcher
|Alias=WHL
|Species=Vampire
|Age=Who knows?
|Affiliation=Unknown
|Quote=''"Tasty."''
|Powers= 
* Dark Regeneration
* Hunter's vision
* Vampface
* Vampiric Might
* Hunter's Senses
* Undead
* Vampiric Hypnotism
* Vampiric Speed
|}}'''The Witching Hour Lurker''', also known as '''Abel Thatcher''', is a very old and very unusual detective.

==Background/Timeline==

There was a time, in which all a young boy wanted to do was to get a good education at a prestigious university, and then become a poet. And oh, he was smart enough. Made it into the University of London purely on his academic performance and various odd jobs he'd worked throughout the UK, the boy had become a self made man, and his out of work butcher father couldn't have been prouder!

And then? The boy disappeared. Nobody knew what happened, save the long plotting, soon to be King of the Dark, Usurper of the Count, Lord of all Undeath...

And a million other ambitions that never really came to light, as his own vampiric sidekick he'd made, ended up staking him through the heart, and quickly taking his leave. These were hard days for the young man who was learning what being a monster was. Figuring out he was a vampire after he drained the first 12 rats dead, he stopped to think a moment, after satisfying his unholy thirst and actually being -able- to think, that there had to be a better way! He'd always been called clever, yes? And surely, this problem was no different than anything else, with a solution just there, waiting to be discovered! And so, to the library he went every night, retreating to the sewers before daybreak, and stealing clothing to at least -look- presentable.

After unofficially continuing his education for a number of years, he felt confident, able to take on this challenge, and became 'Dr. Johann Faust'. A bit obvious for a name, but it served his purposes as a purported man of science and medicine. He was able to survive off blood samples he took whilst making genuine medical advances, and generally saving lives when he could. It was a good life for the Undead, but of course, all good things must come to an end, mustn't they?

In his instance, he realized he needed to do something after his lack of aging started making him suspicious in the eyes of others. And so, deciding it was time for a change of scenery, he fled to Ireland, continuing his act with a different name. He in fact made his way through most of Europe like that, halfway through Russia by the time news of some truly grim and ghastly occurances reached him...

Apparently, somebody was stalking the streets of Whitechapel at night, brutally slaying prostitutes, and in general, terrorizing fair London. Not trusting police to handle something as alien to them as this, and figuring enough time had passed that he would be unrecognized in his home country, he made his way back home, donning a black costume, complete with cloak and tophat, and became...The Black Peeper! Of course, the name carried different connotations back then, and the name brings a chuckle to him if mentioned today. Still, despite the silly name, he managed to do some good, breaking up some ruffian gang violence, as well as stopping some highly dangerous cult slayings from ever occuring. Still, the infamous Jack the Ripper eluded him, and would become something of an obsession for the young Vampire even to this day.

The turn of the century brought a name change from him, going from The Black Peeper, to the Witching Hour Lurker. Streamlining his costume, and now carrying a few musket pistols, he continued his work as an 'off the books' detective, finding this to be something he could truly help with, something that just felt right to him. And of course, when World War Two came around, he discovered that he was not alone: There were others who dressed in costumes, and did their parts to keep order in this world! He found it fascinating, and while he never went overseas to battle the Nazi forces in Germany, it was only because he was quite busy protecting his home turf from all sorts of trouble. Hitler's interest in the occult meant lots of his devoted followers trying to awaken horrible creatures with names that cannot be spoken, right there in London. Of course, The Witching Hour Lurker stopped them...sometimes, at all costs.

Fast forward to present day, and the Witching Hour Lurker must again flee from his homeland, but now treating this as a learning experience, the vampire has taken on the identity of 'Abel Thatcher', a young food critic who does most of his reviews online, and refuses to do any business until nightfall. While he does this, he also furthers his business as his detective alter ego, wanting to do good...and also wanting a chance to meet up with existing heroes, who have become something of a fascination for him, as of late.

I think that's good, don't you?

==Personality==

Abel has a rather positive attitude for being Undead. He might not be as smart as some of the more nonpowered characters in the DC Universe, but he is every bit the detective, which has only increased with time. He's the sort to not jump to conclusions, no matter how bad things look, and even if things have gotten miserable, he tries to see the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Well, maybe not literally. Medical condition, nasty allergy, you understand.

In terms of morality, Abel is rather relaxed, not a murderer like the Wild Dogs or rare killing heroes out there, but he also doesn't regard every life as precious like Batman or other heroes. Living long enough to see many die has given him an almost spiritual view of death, regarding it as a natural process, nor does he try to impose morality on others. In short, he'd save Jason Todd from being killed, because both would be heroes at the time. But if the roles were reversed and Jason wanted to kill Joker, Abel is not his brother's keeper, and would not weep much for a murdering clown's death. Alternatively, although he would be slightly saddened if Joker instead killed Jason, he wouldn't feel much more sadness than that. A life has ended, as will lives always end. His role is not to save the world, but rather to police it, and neutralize those mentally ill and unsound individuals who would do their fellow man wrong.

He has many more personality quirks, but as these are due to his Vampirism, they will be found under Weaknesses.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Wyld Knight

2012-02-23T18:51:04Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Wyld Knight |Image=200px |Name=Emily Taylor |Alias=Wyld |Species=Metahuman |Age=22 |Affiliation=Unaligned |Quote=''"Ooo."'' |Pow..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Wyld Knight
|Image=[[Image:WyldKnight.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Emily Taylor
|Alias=Wyld
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=22
|Affiliation=Unaligned
|Quote=''"Ooo."''
|Powers= 
* Advanced Healing
* Electrical Powers
* Armor Abilities
* Super Human Strength
* Super Human Agility
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

Emily was the black sheep of a rich British Family, who had a long history of military service. They tried to make a proper lady out of their daughter but save for the traditional fencing and sword play the members of the family practice she'd have nothing to do with anything else her parents wanted her to do, until she later enlisted in the army. Which was more a way to get away from them than wanting to do the family proud. Still when she did enlist. Her family hoped it would sort her out. She had only finished her training and been on her first assignment for a short time when the Thanagarian invasion happened and this is one of the few things Emily was ever proud of.

She was amongst the soldiers who fought back against the winged aliens. When the true nature of their plans was revealed to the world at large. It made her proud that she'd been part of resisting the genocidal aliens. Still this didn't last, one thing lead to another and after several incidents with her superiors she washed out of the armed forces. It's not something she enjoyed talking about much. She'd failed in the end.

She drifted about for a while until she fell in with a fairly well to do PMC. The jobs were all right the pay was good. Still she was unhappy on some deep level and just hated herself more and more. Finally one job from Lex-corp came and that's where things all went bad.

Only a few of the officers knew what they were guarding and even then only the basics needed for Safety otherwise they knew little about the apparent bio-hazard they were guarding. They had expected trouble from criminal elements not a band of three super heroes who stormed the train after the illegal technology on board.

The unit put up a fight but in the end they were overwhelmed and during the take down she was accidentally launched into the already damaged containment container. She came into contact with the armour and it started to fuse with her after sensing a living being. The last anyone saw her was stumbling off the train as it passed over a river trying to futility use her combat knife to cut some of the infestation free.

The woman who pulled herself out of the river was not for all intents the woman who fell into the river. She was a creature born of the fusion of machine and human. Taking the name of Wyld Knight for herself she only had memory fragments of her past life to help her. She remembered how to fight and survive well enough at least and the idea of selling one's sword as it were appealed to her. She now operates as an independent mercenary working for whoever pays her. So long as they meet her personal code of honour standards. So now the newborn is left with a question, what now?

==Personality==

Wyld Knight is a very young person really when you realize she's only existed for a very short time. While she has a few things in common with her former self she is a different person. She's quite bold at times and considers herself to be daring. She's not the sort to back down from fighting a stronger foe. The idea is actually something that excites her and she looks forwards to, a chance to actually test out her abilities and skills.

She's fairly combative in her personality she likes challenges things that may very well be beyond her skills. She's also fond of contests and challenges of any sort be is strength, skill or wits. She also has a love of Arthurian lore, while not too well knowing of it she has a keen interest and intends to learn more. She's also make it a goal to seek out and find any actual relics of said era should she ever discover it's not just a myth.

She however is not without her standards, she takes no pleasure in picking on the weak when there's nothing to be gained from it. She's not the sort to go throwing about her powers at the average person for laughs. Should it be someone in the way of her goal she leans to using a low amount of force to disable them. The unskilled are not fitting foes and not ones to waste the effort or dishonour herself, at least in her own eyes.

When not actively up to villainy or various jobs she's quite curious about the world she's in, the people the places and such. It leads her to wander and seek out new things. It's a big world and she only knows a little bit about it. She's quite eager to find out and experience more of what is out there. But this also leads to her being naive about many thing which leads he to be exploited by those who are quite crafty or good at manipulating people. Be they a hero or a villain they can capitalize on it.

In regards to her code of honour she has a sense of fair play, she'll let a foe recover their weapon. She will also not finish off a already defeated foe and sees little point to wonton killing. After all why kill a worthy foe, even when defeated they have proven them selves at least with the courage to fight. She also does not like those who would seriously harm a child or kill them. It's one thing to make your foe think they are in danger or make use of them as a hostage. It's another to actually harm the young one, this can seriously be something to anger her if it's done in front of her.

As for Emily she's still worth nothing as there's something of her left, she's rather grim, in her out look. She really doesn't like herself really. She's only proud of two things in her life, those two things are resisting the alien invasion and choosing to give Wyld Knight a chance. She's retreated to a corner of her mind and really won't come out willingly. She feels it's Wyld's life now and she's just something that doesn't belong any longer.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-21 - Where Nobody Knows Your Name

2012-02-22T05:34:32Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=Where Nobody Knows Your Name
|Summary=Spurred by the apparent involvement of her father in the recent assassination attempt, Cassandra embarks on her first vigilante mission; a solo raid on a back-alley bar. She escapes with the information she needs, but receives assistance from a surprising quarter...
|Who=[[Cassandra Cain]], [[Red Hood|Jason Todd]]
|Date=2012-21-02
|Where=Crime Alley - Gotham City
|}}

Gotham's backstreets are filled with dingy dives, where the lowest of criminal Batbait flock in search of easy money-- or hard money, depending on how picky a disposition they maintain. Or how over-confident they are. For such a mecca of crime, it's a difficult place to stay relevant and keep earning; without running afoul of a cowled vigilante of some stripe or another, and yet through sheer numbers the odds are weighted enough that desperate men and women continue to flock. Continue to be imprisoned or die, too, but for every ten or twenty failures there are one or two relative success stories.

It helps when contracts are flying around like they have been, several anonymous fixers working under bizarre pseudonyms turning up in drinking holes like the one a shadow-shrouded figure is watching from a rooftop right now. Red light spills out into the dirty alleyway, a slew of leather and chain-clad thugs variously stomping, slinking, or drunkenly writhing their way through the smoke pouring from a dank stairwell. Pounding bass assaults the eardrums of anyone within twenty yards of the alley, and this serves it purpose well...

Few but those who enter have the slightest clue what goes on inside.

And who would be stupid enough to wander into such a place, save those who seek the promise of seedy, but astonishingly well-paid employment - and the allure of being outfitted with high-specification technology that's reputed to rival what the Bat himself can lay his taloned clutches on. In another city, in a saner world, men would realize such an offer is too good to be true. But here, they do not. Here, it just spells disaster upon disaster for the innocent and defenceless. For Cassandra Cain, that's the important part.

People are dying.

Her father is involved.

She's lived with that all her life, but now she has a doorstep, and this is happening upon it. She doesn't know where the brutal assassin who trained her is, or what his plans are, but she'll get to the bottom of it if Batman doesn't manage to first. It's /her/ responsibility. It's the least she must do, to atone for who and what she is. Steeling herself from within the elevated shade of a crumbling gargoyle, Cassie draws breath, and then drops to the ground below, missing a pile of rotting garbage by inches to land in a tense crouch. Her garb is not his; not the Bat's, composed of dark short-sleeved catsuit and plain armoured accessories, but she almost wears his shadow as she rises and walks out into the sickening carmine.

Hazel eyes seem almost black as they focus upon the stairwell. Her mouth is hidden beneath the concealing fold of an ebon scarf, its ends trailing behind her as she passes through the thuggish morass - a ghost in plain sight - but the knitting of her brows is some hint at least to how purposeful she is. It's the first time she's been out alone, the first time she's tried to do what he does every single night. Every single day.

As if further motivation were needed:
If she fails here, she fails Batman.

When trying to carve out a new piece of territory from land that is already tightly held, it's natural to be wary of newcomers that arrive on scene. When these newcomers bring with them a heavier breed of hardware with them and they don't seem to mind passing it around, it's understandable to get a little paranoid. Now, The Red Hood could go around knocking off every single hood, thug, and goon that was walking around with a weapon that he didn't like but that would take too long and increased the odds of him finding just the right guy that would have the bullets strong enough to punch through his body armor. So instead of dealing with all of the shit that's being left in his yard, Jason Todd has decided to go after the dog that's leaving it everywhere.

This is what finds him here, swaddled up in some makeshift disguise. He wears a hooded sweatshirt of the local college team and a ball cap to match. He's unassuming enough, more than once he's been approached by somone that thought he had something to sell... It's fortunate that he does. Nobody says he can't make a little extra cash while he's handling the place.

He recognizes more than a few faces, one or two belong to men that are supposed to be on his payroll. Beyond that, it's nothing special. That is until someone slips in that is well past their curfew and far below the age limit.

Blue eyes narrow in the shadow of the cap's brim, they study the black clad figure. Anywhere else it might be conspicuous, here she just fits in, leaving him feeling under dressed. The way she moves through the crowd, her features hidden by a scarf is telling enough... She's here for something. For anyone else here, he might just let them find the bad time they're looking for. Scum deserves scum... But someone as young as her? There's a soft-spot.

Tipping the brim of his cap lower, Jason wades into the crowd, intent on following the girl. His hands slip into his pockets as he muscles through.

It's been the best part of a decade since Cassandra Cain 'belonged' anywhere, though the Red Hood's eyes do justice to the reputation he is fast accruing on the street; yes, she has a place here. Despite her dimunitive stature, she walks with a natural confidence that renders her utterly removed from the raggedy street urchin of ten days prior, lean muscles contracting and tensing precisely as needed to propel her swift and unbothered through the hot, sweaty crowd surrounding the doors, and through into the bar proper.

If the girl is aware she's being followed, she shows no sign. Her first reaction comes with a simple twist of the body and a raised eyebrow as a dark chuckle rings out in the gloom, and a hand backed by coarse hair slaps down upon her shoulder. Eyes hard and piercing between the twin black border of scarf and messy bangs track along a heavily tatooed arm, finding the face that addresses her a beat later.

"This ain't the place for little kids. Might wanna get out before we--"

Prepared from the moment she saw him, Cassandra slips from his grasp with a motion as smooth as silk. Effortless, she steps forward and around his arm, her left hand smacking against his wrist - what seems a gentle touch - to render his extended limb absolutely motionless. Twisting around, she follows the motion of her hips with that of her opposing arm, the right thrusting forth a straight punch that clips the brute's jaw, sending him staggering back with a violent crack of knuckle against fragmenting bone.

There's no wasted movement whatsoever; at the moment she strikes, she's lifting her heels to allow the opposite force to thrust her into a short slide across the floor. Covering three feet, she ends up conveniently in the very spot she'd scouted to make her pronouncement; a circular open space on the garbage-strewn floor, with a direct avenue to a dark booth set upon the west wall. Where at that very moment, a man is clipping open a suitcase to display wads of freshly printed cash to a gaggle of hungry-looking mercs.

The outburst that follows her entrance draws their attention immediately, six sets of fierce eyes finding her - along with most of those arrayed about the rest of the smoky room. Cassie calmly lowers her fist, and draws a deep, relaxing breath. The music is still pounding, and she's forced to raise her voice when scarcely over a week ago she hadn't spoken a word in her life. It comes out slightly odd, but she at least gets the volume; the single, strongly-enunciated syllable booming from behind her concealing scarf.

"Work," she says.

And the whole room starts laughing, the sound of mockery only broken by the *ker-snikt* of a dozen switchblades and the more resonant, even more threatening sound of primed handguns. Contracts may be coming fast and lucrative, but there's a lot of competition around here; and not the type that lets itself be upstaged by a teenage girl. At the front of the room, the man she struck just a few moments before drops to his knees, making a bizarre choking noise as he realises he can neither move nor feel his face.

There's a fair to middling chance this could get messy.

Oh nice, very, very nice, what had she done there, snapped his neck, tweaked a nerve? Whatever it was, the man wasn't going to be getting up too soon.

Jason was glad he had decided against doing much the same thing. Grabbiong strange girls by the shoulder rarely pans out for the best in these kinds of places.

The knives come out and bullets are chambered. Jason turned his attention away from the queen of the circle and regarded the gurgling man. Could she do that while three other people tried to drive a knife into her ribs, what about while dodging bullets? A faint smile maneuvered itself along his lips, hooking up higher in one corner than it did the other. She 'looked' like she could hold her own... but what would be the fun of letting her do all the work?

Should he make a move now, try and kill the contractor in the fray, make it look like a accident or should he wait? A glint of chromed steel gleamed out of the corner of his eye. A pistol. Someone past his right shoulder had lifted the gun out at the end of their arm and found Cassandra in his sights. Could she dodge bullets...? Now wasn't a time to find out.

The man's finger squeezed around the trigger. In the same time that it took for the hammer to rock back, Jason's arm had come rocketing up from his side. The hooded-figure fouled the man's aim, the barrel was too high by the time the round sounded off, lead flying off into a speaker mounted on a pillar, silencing it with the shot.

The man's features colored unpleasantly, his lips curled, ready to spit a curse. He should have used the time more wisely. Jason's other hand found the man's gun-wrist and twisted it, his palm turned towards the ceiling and his elbow bent at a odd angle. His other arm locked into position beneath the gunman's arm. He pulled the wrist down and pushed the arm up. The gunman's anatomy went wrong, the arm bending incorrectly with a snap of bone. There was a scream, shrill and painful as the gun clattered to the floor, freed from spasming fingers.

Jason had greedily stole a bit of Cassandra's limelight. A few more sadistic laughs, jealous glares and harmful intents swept over him. The hooded, capped man simply shrugged, empty hands held out at his sides as his shoulders bobbed. "Work?" he echoed the girl, his voice colored with more idle mirth than conviction.

To people like these, like Jason and Cassandra, gunshots aren't warnings.

They're opportunities.

The raven-haired girl had already found her starting line, and as the speaker explodes behind her - sending a shriek of eardrum-popping static careening off the filthy walls - she's moving to eliminate her nearest threats. A stepping pirouette sends an elbow snapping forth to dislocate a shoulder, pitching one would-be kingpin against the bar, glasses and ashtrays scattering along with his fallen blade. She doesn't even look behind her when she immediately follows up with a vicious mule kick, hurling one big man against three smaller ones; a cheap submachine gun and another couple of knives skidding into the murky darkness of the floor.

Simultaneously, a hand claps to the splintered edge of the bar, giving her the fulcrum she needs to leap atop it, landing on the previously grounded leg as she swings the other out in a second kick-- this one wide and high, clocking a brash Hispanic man clean in the temple as he charges to try and take her out. His own blade is caught in her upraised hand, her brow furrowing in concentration as she glances off toward that booth. Jason's distraction has served its purpose; now she has to complete the mission.

Rechambering her striking limb, she enters a quick spin that sends her careening across the bartop and down onto a stall at its edge, landing upon both hands to spring down beside the booth's occupants - now on their feet and sneering as they reach for their own weapons. A poorly-aimed gunshot goes wide, and Cassandra drives forward, /slamming/ herself off the tabletop to enter an evasive roll, getting her instantly away from a trio of melee attacks. As she rises, it's clear that she's achieved a lot more than that...

That cash-laden briefcase is clutched under one arm.

She's a second from being surrounded again, but somehow through the gloom a pair of hardened hazel eyes seek out Jason's gaze. Beneath the black scarf, her lips quirk briefly into a smile that doesn't quite reach her stare - but he might just catch the faint dimpling of her left cheek as she replies, "Work." Something hits the floor beside her feet with a faint *tink-tink*. Several somethings. "Run."

Red lights begin to flash out of sequence, a soft electronic trill heralding something familiar...

Gas bombs. Batman's.

Might be a good time to notice the rather striking utility belt she's modelling this evening.

Probably a /better/ time to listen to the stoic ninja girl.

Jason was not exactly left alone. The man had not come into the club by himself. While their compatriot agonized over his damaged limb one of the quartet drew out a automatic weapon that had probably seen use in some third-world war before finding it's new owner. Ignorant of the functions of the bits ontop of the gun, the man held the weapon at hip level, cradeling the body with his free hand before opening fire. Bystanders caught their share of wild spray when Jason bounded up and over the errant fire, his body snapped around in midair, a booted heel driving squarely into the man's face and bringing him down, blood streaming from his nose. The third came with a knife and seemed to catch the hooded man off guard. The long, narrow blade of his knife drove in towards Jasons middle, it's tip punched through the cotton top and then... stopped. Halted by a suit of body armor. Number three had a stungun thrust into his throat before he could question it. A choked cry left him before he collapsed to the ground. Number four of the gathering... decided that he didn't really like these guys that well and made himself scarce.

He whips around to find the ninja-hobo looking back at him. The air's too hazy, the lighting too poor for him to catch her cheeky-smile but somehow he recognizes the spheres.

He remembered standing beneath the lights that hung from the craggy cieling of the batcave, clad in what he thought of at the time as pajamas, and looking up at Bruce as he went over the functions of those spheres. The fuses, the contents, the average time it took for the smoke to disperse in a poorly ventilated room. It's a taste of nostalgia that brings a spark of recognition. The museum. She was dirtier, her clothes ill-fitting... and bleeding.

He'd taken another one, hadn't he? The belt was a dead give away. Who was she, Robina? Bat Girl II?

No time to speculate, any second now gas would stream out of those spheres. Jason plowed through a pair of men that wanted to try their hand at him. He'd brought armor and weapons but not a gas mask. He'd be hard pressed to jaw at her if he had to try and hack the bat-gas out of his lungs.

It's rare, for someone to recognize Cassandra faster than she does them; but she scarcely got a long look at Red Hood during the failed museum heist, her attention already split between his pistol-slinging flunkies and the enigmatic Catwoman. Having a bullet lodged in her ribs didn't really help her attentiveness, though she takes in everything one way or another... and when Jason moves, she can see the nuances of his movements clear enough, because she's pressing behind. A series of devastatingly quick palmstrikes form her pathway, grown men and women flung every which way as the girl speeds toward the exit.

Behind her, the smoke is spreading fast, billowing at least as quickly as she can move as it disperses. Those left in her wake without bloodied noses and broken jaws are destined to succumb quickly - the raven-haired girl faring better thanks to her earlier preparations. That scarf isn't JUST covering her mouth. If Todd needed any more confirmation that she's somehow attached to Batman, that's as good a sign as anything.

Seventeen years old, walking into a den of mass-murdering scum, and she planned for THAT?

She draws level with him around the time he should make the steps, face reddening as she holds her breath in spite of her face covering; it's a filter of sorts, but far from perfect, and there's added haste in her step as she spins to ward off the crowd, whipping off a screaming roundhouse to send the seething mass tumbling like smoke-wreathed dominoes. Once they're outside, the smoke still tracking them, she shows no signs of stopping for a breather. They can't STAY here, and she's still got that briefcase tucked under one arm.

Stealing from a thief is still stealing. They need to keep retreating. But...

She glances at Jason with the first sign of wariness, drawing a breath before she angles her head questioningly, a dark eyebrow quirking up into the messy fringe of her hair. There's no time wasted as she mutely asks if she can trust him, free hand going to her waist to slide another familiar device from her belt, aiming it up toward the rooftop from whence she came. The grapnel-gun is held ready, until she knows--

Has she escaped one enemy to find another?

It had been a little bit since Jason had even worked on 'friendly' terms with anyone. Longer since he had done so along side with anyone that had been to Wayne manor and the dark, dank caves beneath it... Had Bruce poached Catwoman's sidekick. Maybe she was never Catwoman's in the first place... She didn't seem the type to collect human strays.

He's scarcely even breathing hard by the time they make it into the open air. His hood had fallen back during their flight from the hive of scum and villainy. Left only his bakll cap.. which he doffed carelessly. Why should he wory, all she would likely have seen of him would be some picture of a dumb kid if even that. His hair's short, parted at the center, black but showing coppery roots and a shock of white hair. He strikes the cap against his thigh, trying to clear it of the smokey smell before fixing it back on the top of his head, paying very little attention to her inqusitive gaze. Friend or foe? He wasn't in his dress-up clothes, he'd save the theatrics for later. "That wasn't bad. Your stunt back there." he appraised, fixing her with a look of his own. She hadn't had time for the formal training... this meant someone had handled her before Bruce. "Careful though, you keep sneaking out and causing trouble, Alfred might send you to bed without supper." A name drop, that's all he'll deal right now. Turning his back on her, the man takes up stride, a hand waved over his shoulder in parting before they both dive into his pockets, "Later."

Intelligent as those questioning hazel eyes are, there's no gleam of recognition at the errant vigilante's face; it's new to Cassandra, even if his movements were saved within her rather inhuman brain. What there is, however, is sudden and absolute cognizance that she can relax. Her posture doesn't seem to shift particuarly, but tiny internal muscles unbunch, and slowly she bows her head, that hidden smile once more turning up her lips. His approval seems to go down well, at least.

Her gaze never once leaves him, though, watching with keen alertness as he starts to wander away. He can't see, but her mouth opens and closes as though she means full well to say goodbye - but the words don't come. She exhales as a surge of frustration briefly assaults her senses, and then turns away, pulling the trigger of her raised grapnel-gun. With that familiar *snap-hiss* it unwinds and catches upon the base of the same gargoyle she's used once already, this night; and if Jason cared to look around again, he'd find her gone within a second. He probably doesn't need to. He knows. She knows that he knows.

As she lands invisible amongst the shadows, she does glance one last time after the departed young man...

People keep surprising her, just as she thinks she's figured things out.

When did life become this complicated?

Supergirl

2012-02-21T18:11:40Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Supergirl |Image=200px |Name=Kara In-Ze |Alias=Kara |Species=Metahuman |Age=21 |Affiliation=Justice League |..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Supergirl
|Image=[[Image:Supergirl01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Kara In-Ze
|Alias=Kara
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=21
|Affiliation=[[Justice League|Justice League]]
|Quote=''"We don't do it for the glory. We don't do it for the recognition..."''
|Powers= 
* Costume
* Invulnerability
* Flight
* Super-Speed
* Super-Strength
* Super-Senses
* Super-Stamina
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

- Kara In-Ze was born and raised on Argo, where she thought she might follow in her mother's footsteps and become a doctor someday.

- When she was sixteen, the planet froze to death around her, thanks to the event that shattered Krypton, and she was put into stasis to wait things out.

- Eventually Superman found her in the only intact stasis pod, and brought her to Earth.

- Kara lived in Smallville for three years, with periodic visits to Metropolis (and occasionally Gotham) and exploits as Supergirl; she donned the costume out of admiration for Clark's activities and a deep-seated need to use her newfound strengths for good. "I watched one world die around me, and I was powerless -- I won't stand by again when I have the power to help people in need!"

- Kara met Barbara Gordon, and the two of them fought some crime together and forged a friendship that has lasted many years.

- As Supergirl, she fought a variety of villains, most notably Darkseid (who beat the bejeezus out of her, twice) and a brainwashed Clark (same result). Despite all this she was determined to see her chosen path through.

- After Clark put her on life support, she was cared for by Professor Emil Hamilton, who saved her life -- and took samples of her DNA for cloning.

- Eventually Clark deemed her adjusted enough to Earth life, skilled enough with her powers, and responsible enough to be trusted with Justice League membership. She was immediately one of the more powerful members of the League in terms of sheer brute force, but had a great deal to learn.

- But Kara learned, both from the school of hard knocks and a great deal of intensive training from Green Lantern and Green Arrow, who were both her mentors and friends, once she earned their respect. League training and missions became her life, and she grew steadily more distant from any sort of civilian identity, while becoming more and more dedicated to her work.

- During her first year in the League, Supergirl started having terrible nightmares in which she killed people; this was eventually revealed, with help from Green Arrow and the Question, to be a psychic connection to Galatea, a Cadmus clone whom the government had trained to be a living weapon. Tea was better trained with a fully mature body, and utterly determined to kill the original to prove her worth as an individual.

- When the founding members of the League turned themselves in to US custody after the Watchtower fired on Earth, Kara held down the fort in space. Ultimately she confronted her copy and defeated her, as usual, with brains as much as brawn.

- Time passed, Kara grew, and became increasingly active worldwide, achieving a wide following. She changed her uniform, which had been homemade and extremely simple, to be more like her cousin's, whom she was extremely proud of. By her 21st birthday, Jon Stewart admited there was little more he could teach her; she had power, control, tactics, and excellent judgement.

- Kara needed all of these traits to survive a trip to the 30th century, where she single-handedly held off the entire Legion of Super-Heroes (minus Brainiac 5, plus Jon Stewart) long enough for her allies to deactivate the brainwashing controlling them. Having started to feel more and more like an Outsider on Earth, Kara was surprised by how much she felt at home in the future.

- Brainiac 5's extreme cuteness didn't hurt matters; it was love, or at least crush, at first sight. She decided to stay in the 30th century, where she felt she could make more of a difference than in the hero-deluged 21st.

- However, not long thereafter, the future was drastically and apocalyptically altered overnight by some sort of time manipulation. Kara, being from the past, was the natural choice to send back to try to set things right.

- Kara is deeply worried about these events, but also aware that it could well be years before the time villain reveals himself; she's doing her best to find herself, and her place, back on Earth, while patiently searching for signs of the trouble.

==Personality==

Kara is fundamentally an outsider on Earth in a way that Clark is not, and having to deal with that informs a great deal of her personality. It is incredibly frustrating to live in a (relatively) low-technology time; and unlike Clark, Kara remembers, directly, the catastrophic events that killed her entire planet and everyone she knew.

In general she uses those memories to drive her to fight tirelessly to defend those who cannot defend themselves. She buries her trauma under a playful spirit, a bright, enthusiastic and occasionally cocky personality. She is hip and independent, and endlessly eager to explore the Earth she now calls home.

Kara would die before allowing any harm to come to her adopted world, and has nearly done so, many times, stepping up alone against powers orders of magnitude out of her league because there's no one else who can. "Suicidally brave" is not an unreasonable description of her dedication to protecting those she cares about -- which is everyone. Her deep-seated sense of responsibility defines her as little else does; she is, at the beginning and end of the day, goodhearted.

She has a reputation for being headstrong, and there's something to this, though Kara has learned how to take orders gracefully over the years and has become a great deal more mature. Her straightforward self-confidence sometimes rubs people the wrong way. She no longer looks before she leaps quite as drastically, having been seasoned by experience. She is even occasionally suspicious of others' motives, slower to trust than some heroes are, in part because she's been betrayed several times by those close to her.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-20-02 - Establishing Hierarchy

2012-02-21T06:14:41Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=Attention, Earth-Fools!
|Summary=Maxima arrives at the Watchtower to make known her queenly intent. Assuming she can sweep in and have her every demand met, she fails to reckon on the pride and power of a certain Amazonian princess.
|Who=[[Wonder Woman|Wonderful Woman]], [[Maxima]]
|Date=2012-02-20
|Where=Hangar - Watchtower
|}}

A new life; a new home. Diana of Themyscira was still uncertain of her place in the world at whole. No, not Diana of Themyscira, at least, not on the island.

Diana the Exile.

What she had done had been for her sisters, but what she had done had flaunted the ancient laws, and now she was here. The League had been happy to take her in, but the world below was nothing like the world she had come from. Nothing like what she was used to, trapped, so to speak, in the metal belly of this wondrous floating city, dreamed up by the best and brightest of Man's World.

These thoughts, and more, ran through the mind of the Amazon as she stands upon the deck of the landing bay, the still, recycled air almost abhorrent to her senses. But her blue eyes were fixed upon the slowly spinning globe the station orbits, distant as her eyes were, Diana breathing in a deep breath through her nose before she releases that breath, along with many of her tensions with a sigh.

A new life. She must make the best of it.

Oh, it must hurt to be an exile.

Not that anybody would ever exile /the Lady Maxima/. No, she's here because she wants to be. She'll be going home anyday now with her betrothed at her side, and a thousand worlds awaiting to be conquered by their combined might. This is just a small excursion from her loyal subjects; they're assuredly waiting with baited breath for her return, that they may be crushed once more beneath her gold-plated bootheels.

Said heels are, at this moment, planted firmly on the deck of her personal battleship, in much the way that her mighty hands are planted 'pon her womanly hips. Maxima's dizzyingly soulful eyes are almost transfixed on Diana's own as she approaches the Watchtower, lips curled into a triumphantly expectant smirk. Her own thoughts are on... well, children with abdominal muscles you could grate cheese on and chins that could deflect meteorites. Because that's what she'll have, soon. Why ever would she be thinking about anything else?

The Almeracian Royal Flagship is like something out of a pulp sci-fi novel - in fact, it practically embodies the genre, eleven hundred feet of majestic chrome curves bristling with turrets and cannons of several dozen progressively-alarming varieties. They're all highly-polished and probably don't see much use; purely there for aesthetic appeal, and the fringe possibility that planets seeing Maxima's fleet approaching might just put down all their weapons and surrender. It's much easier to crush them into submission when they've... already submitted, and contrary to the belief of many a Proud Warrior Race, it can still be incredibly good fun.

Thankfully for the denizens of Earth and its satellite guardian, as the battleship comes looming into view it does not open fire - it shows no signs at all of starting anything, until suddenly the in-station speaker system crackles to life with a burst of static, emitting several bizarre frequencies before it can be brought under control by whoever's crewing the control room today. And then...

The voice just bursts into the minds of everybody within.

"Attention, Earth-fools! I am the Lady Maxima, Empress of Almerac, and I demand entrance to your backwater planet. Please feel free to be incredibly honoured as I invade your shores with the most peaceful and GLORIOUS of intentions; for I am here to claim your god, Superman, as my betrothed! ...oh, and Sazu says she might like to go shopping for a few days. I SHOULD LIKE THAT TOO."

The final resounding boom of her voice delivered, Maxima turns away and allows herself a laugh. If her /voice/ was loud, good heavens, it's like if she found something sufficiently humorous she could cause continental drift. It's bad enough for anyone inside her craft; which as it happens means just her and a rather bored-looking Royal Advisor, currently grooming her nails over the comms system. But it's worse for those still inside the Watchtower... because it seems Maxima didn't bother breaking the psychic link.

Do keep in mind that Diana of Themyscira is essentially new to things like plumbing, and automatic door openers.

Being dwarfed by the deck of the station that she was on was something entirely less than comfortable; much more so was the sensation of being on something quite large, and looking out across the empty void of the galaxy, and seeing something that seemed to be much larger barreling down at you. Contrary to popular belief, Diana did feel fear, and now was certainly one of those times.

The Amazon had just done an excellent job of mastering her fear. Just about right away, she could tell that this problem was out of her hands. Suspecting some odd technology to be at fault for the booming voice of the woman, Diana's hand drops to the holster at her waist, the one holding the communicator for the Justice League. She barely had time to flick it on before that booming proclamation shatters through her senses, the sheer power being transmitted through the psychic link enough to drop her to one knee.

Gritting her teeth, she is forced to wait until the last syllables stop bouncing around her head, her thumb moving to flick the communicator on. Her voice was grim, as she holds the device to her lips and speaks into it: "This is Wonder Woman. We have trouble in orbit."

Understatement of the year, no?

"I'm intercepting a signal, milady."

Really? Wasn't she doing her nails just now? Maxima doesn't seem to regard it as a problem, stifling her glorious laughter to glance over toward the Royal Advisor, hands back upon her hips and an eyebrow curving toward the curled mass of her hair. "A signal, Sazu? Are they paying me tribute? How delightful!"

"Not... exactly. I'll play the recording."

A casual flick of a button causes Diana's voice to filter through into the command deck, Maxima stifling a yawn halfway through the incredibly long message; after all, it's at least four seconds of something that doesn't directly concern her or her (not-at-all-misguided-you-shut-up) plans for a better tomorrow. "And which small, insignificant Earth specimen is that one? Have you identified them?"

"I believe that's the one they call Wonder Woman, milady," The Royal Advisor matter-of-factly states, in a crisp and formal tone that suggests only she is ever willing and able to serve. Slipping her precision-laser emery board into her palm, she reaches over the command console to deftly tap a couple of buttons, and a holographic image of the iconic Amazon flashes up a few feet to Maxima's left. "Our scouts discovered a small amount of footage depicting her at Superman's side. She seemed to be fairly potent in her own right."

The Empress glances the flickering display over imperiously, paying close attention to the chest and legs, before tossing her scarlet mane and folding both arms across her bountiful chest with a 'hmph'. "Very well, Sazu, I shall speak to this 'Wonderful Woman' and force her to provide instruction as to the whereabouts of my mate. While I am gone, scan the planet below regarding contemporary style and fashion. If we are to go shopping for brideslaves I will not have them clad so laughably!"

"You mean 'bridesmaids', milady?"

"THAT'S WHAT I SAID, SAZU."

"Of course, milady. May I suggest, perhaps while you are aboard the Earth satellite you could show them your benevolence by instructing her in some of our Almeracian beauty directives? It would be a small tribute that surely one of your kindness and--"

"SHUT UP, SAZU."

Maxima is already fading from view, her eyes rolling as she disperses into a collection of glittery molecules. The Royal Advisor breathes a long-suffering sigh and turns back to her nails, spinning her emery board around before going at it with the slow, careful aplomb of one who realizes they could be doing this for a long time; and that rushing will just make the time pass even more slowly. Meanwhile, her mistress flitters out into space, a cloud of scintillating colour rushing to the hangar bay before coalescing just outside of the force-field into the majestic form of the Empress, arms spread wide and head flung back.

"Behold, Wonderful Woman! The Lady Maxima! Warrior Queen! Head of the Royal House and leader of all Almerac!"

Yes, they can hear each other in spite of the vacuum. Don't ask. It's probably a psychic thing.

"...you may bow whenever you feel ready."

Diana could almost imagine a ringing in her brain that was not quite altogether there, as the Princess rises to her feet once again, drawing out a breath. Bringing the communicator to her lips again, Wonder Woman's had drawn a breath to speak further, when her brow furrows with concern, her original words fading into some recess of her mind. "Make that..." she says, "Trouble on the Watchtower." Flicking the toy of Man's World design off, she lets the communicator fall to the metal deck of the landing bay.

After the brief headache that the psychic assault - was there really any better word for it? - faded, Diana had a moment to think rationally. This was a people - more like a person - not of Earth, of some distant world. The babbling about the Gods had little meaning in her mind. She was quite certain that while Zeus might... no, it was for the best not to mention him.

Lifting her chin tall, she steps forward, closer to the force field that the alien hovered behind, her jaw steely, and her stride confident. "Lady Maxima!" Diana says, lifting her voice out to carry across the hangar - hopefully it would be able to be heard by the Almeracian. "I am Princess Diana of Themyscira, and I bow to no one!" she says. "If you wish to come in peace..." she adds, before she lowers the steel in her voice a few notches, "Must you shout so loudly?" she adds, quirking her lips in a smile that she did not altogether feel. Best to be diplomatic, after all.

Psychic assault or greeting, coming in peace or effectively invading; they're all the same thing really! Maxima doesn't like to play around with words, simply calling everything as she sees it. Don't make a mistake, here - there's nothing at all twisted about her world view, if only because she doesn't have one. She has a universe view. A universe that doesn't extend very far beyond her bust.

Okay, it's more like a Maxima view.

"How odd," The Empress comments, tapping a finger to her chin as Diana delivers her own formal announcement, complete with proper titling, "My Royal Advisor suggested your name was Wonderful Woman, and that you were a close colleague and confidante of my husband's! THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING." Grinning savagely from ear-to-ear, she claps both hands to her hips and leans closer to the barrier, something like a demented tigress as she eyes the Amazon like a shark stares at its next meal. No, we're not mixing metaphors. We're Maximaing them.

"If you're Princess Diana of Themyscira, then I'm afraid you must bow; for I am an ordained Queen, sovereign-Empress of the glorious galactic nation of Almerac, and superior to all but the man I marry. HOWEVER." Good grief, she actually appears to be getting a little bit louder, though it could just be that she's about two feet away now. Her chest heaves as she inhales a deep breath, drawing herself up and waving a hand in the air, what she imagines is a very dainty and proper gesture befitting a benevolent matriarch. "If you would prefer to pay tribute by furnishing me with access to your precious backwater, and directions on how to converse with your supreme ruler and god - my betrothed, Superman - then I, LADY MAXIMA, shall accept this!"

"...incidentally, my dear," she leans back, suddenly chirpy and all smiles, "I'm not shouting; you Earth-fools just speak too quietly for Almeracian ears. We could change that if you'd submit to our rule, though I'm afraid Sazu has informed me you're not worth the time and effort of actually conquering. Sorry about that!"

Diana does come to a stop, standing at what she had thought was a reasonably respectable distance from the other, the (much) younger Themysciran princess lifts her chin again. Her overall demeanor was not quite hostile, or even defiant; although one certainly could interpret it as such. What Diana was hoping to project was confidence. The concept of 'husband' was one nearly as alien to her as the woman standing before her, but it was a concept that Diana had quickly picked up on. She still was not certain what she thought about it, in the end, really.

But one digresses.

Wonder Woman starts with surprise when she mentions that. "Your... husband? Superman is your...?" Quickly that surprise fades into a look of cautious thought. The second insistence to bow, she simply ignored at first. But internally, there was a scoreboard of sorts, and Maxima was losing points terribly quickly. "As I have mentioned before, I bow to no one. Not my queen, and not to you, Lady Maxima. Do not ask again," she says after a moment of composure, steel sliding into her voice. Hippolyta had never asked her daughter to bow, regardless.

"But as for Superman? I suspect he is already on his way. Your... greeting did not leave much doubt. And neither will I grant you access to the lands of Gaia; such a decision must be made in a council." A pause, and Wonder Woman lets her smile fade the rest of the way away. "Superman... erm. Your husband cherishes the people of this world." Why didn't Superman talk about being married before? "I am certain that he would appreciate them being treated kindly, and if not he, then I would insist," she says.

Regrettably, the Empress of Almerac is only as psychic as she can legitimately be bothered to be. She doesn't go around reading minds because if the mind isn't hers, it must be filled with boring thoughts like 'the Lady Maxima is looking ravishing today' and 'my, if only I looked as young and pretty as the Lady Maxima, who most assuredly cannot be a day over seventeen even though she is as powerful and graceful as any woman in the universe'... and, well, she already knows all of that. If she wants a reminder she can ask Sazu, who has been sworn to honesty on pain of hideous torture and death so surely wouldn't lie to her.

"Mmmhm," comes the immediate response as realization finally dawns upon Diana. If it were possible to make those smugly affirmative syllables any louder, scientists would want to know about it. Like everything about Maxima, they're very difficult to miss, as she reconfirms by sticking out her chest and posing as if to say, 'of COURSE I'm his wife' because clearly nothing could be more obvious. They're perfect for one another.

She's so pleased with herself that she seems to entirely miss the utter refusal to pay tribute, off in a world of her own where tiny half-Kryptonians run around on the smoking ruins of once-verdant planetoids, giggling as they trade five hundred kiloton punches with their loving father and mother. She only comes around when Wonder Woman mentions her betrothed again, ridiculously preened eyelids batting as she glances down and through the forcefield. "On.. on his way?" She echoes, mouth turning up until she looks like a giddy schoolgirl. A high-pitched squeak escapes a moment later, her hands bunching to fists beneath her chin. She even does a little dance. It would be pretty ridiculous if she WEREN'T a tall, space-age sex bomb. As it is... 'nuff said.

"Well, of course he would wish his slaves to be treated kindly! If you do not punish them frequently to show them you care, they do terribly poor work. My betrothed will be the fairest and most gracious of all tyrants! Which is why, Princess Diana of the Earth-fools-" she already forgot the rest, like she's forgotten anything beside 'Superman is coming', including the fact there's a barrier in front of her, apparently. She suddenly strides forward, unbelievably over-confident and smug from golden high-heeled bootheels to the little smile on her heavily painted lips as she barges through and onto the hangar deck of the Watchtower.

Behind her, the force field fizzes and sputters. That... probably isn't quite right.

Spreading her arms to her sides, Maxima does a twirl and comes around with hands back on cocked hips, brilliant white teeth flashing as she spares Diana a movie star grin. "Which is /why/, he will be more than happy for HIS BEAUTIFUL LADY-WIFE to await him upon his orbital battle-station. You may escort me to the bridal suite; I will await him there and make my preparations once my flagship is docked and Sazu has carried my luggage aboard. I trust you can provide ample slaves to assist her!"

It was to Diana's understanding that the 'force field', or whatever it was called, was vitally necessary to keeping space out, which likewise, was bad. So that flickering causes Wonder Woman's face to somehow grow even more stern, eyes narrowing sharper. Perhaps it was best that Maxima was not fond of casual mind-reading at this point. But it did not take a mind-reader to tell that Diana was not pleased with the way she was squeeing out there.

"You have... odd mannerisms. Are you the same species as he?" Diana asks, audibly puzzled, even if not visibly so. Sadly enough, though, it seems that Maxima had to continue carrying on, each word out of her mouth ticking more and more notches out of that internal scoreboard that Diana was carrying. At least, until Diana carried the mental image of the scoreboard just crumbling to rubble.

"For a man that does so much good on Gaia..." Diana says, taking a step back. There was little grace to her form. Wife of Superman be damned. Curling her hand into a fist, Diana pulls it near her side. "He has POOR choice in companions!" It was impulsive, and it generally was a terrible thing to strike out at people who were potentially wives of friends. "Wait in your ship - there is no respite for you /here/, Lady Maxima!" Diana says.

Impulses were generally terrible things to indulge.

It was the impulsive nature of the punch that Diana throws at Maxima's face then that might steal a bit of force from the blow. Although Diana was not sparing force as she might upon a human foe - it was sloppy technique more than a lack of strength. The blow itself was almost a backhand, with Diana whipping her fist before herself, and hopefully across Maxima's cheek.

Maxima's arrogance is not born entirely of ignorance; or rather... it is, she's just got genuine reason to believe that it's absolutely not. Despite Sazu's records insisting that Wonder Woman is competent, every other report regarding Earth has marked the inhabitants as both WEAK and LAZY - explaining why they haven't conquered any star systems, even including their own. Maxima Logic thus dictates that everybody on Earth who isn't Superman must pay homage /to/ Superman and be vastly inferior to both him and all of Almerac.

Which is why she's not even keeping half an eye on Diana, idly looking around following her declaration.

"Of course we're not the same species," she purrs with a faux-indulgent titter that shakes the deck beneath her feet, turning around in the very instant that the Amazon decides enough is enough. Naturally talking over her in the process; but she already said Earthlings speak too quietly, so she has plentiful excuse for this! Regardless: *WHAM*. The fist plows into her perfect cheekbone, raising a shockwave that would probably cause serious damage to anything constructed to lesser specification than the Justice League's orbital HQ. A few shouts raise up from the crew as it is, and a Javelin jerks upon its bearings. Wonder Woman hits /hard/.

Making it all the more disturbing that the Empress Maxima just sort of makes this... face.

Like she just smelled something slightly appalling but is trying not to think about it.

"If we were the same species," she continues slightly distantly, clearing her throat and reaching up to brush something from her cheek, "Our many children would not grow so strong and beautiful in my ROYAL W-- wait..." It's probably the fact her hand just brushed an unfamiliar one resting against her face, coupled with the fact her words were coming out rather oddly due to her face being smooshed against a mighty fist, but realisation suddenly dawns. Wide eyes stare at Diana for a long, tense moment. And then... and then...

The Lady Maxima throws back her head and unleashes a single, barking syllable of laughter. "HA!!!"

In the back of the hangar, a crewman falls over as though he's been shot, eyes spinning.

"That actually hurt!" Proclaims the Ruler of Almerac, her expression tearing into a frightfully broad grin, eyes bulging out as she takes a step back from Diana of Themyscira. There's a red welt appearing on her cheek, which she's going to be REALLY UNHAPPY about it in about two minutes, but for now she's still tittering as she backs up, coming to a stop halfway between the Amazon and the still-fizzling forcefield. "I do believe Sazu was right about you, WONDERFUL WOMAN. And my betrothed must choose the finest companions even in this backwater! As a gesture of respect to your royal person I will gladly await aboard my flagship; though let it be known that I will not wait long. I desire a bath and we have run out of Almeracian salts. SAZU!"

She glances over her shoulder, still posing magnificently of course. Then, she's once more a whirl of vibrant colours, an odd little hum of residual energies left in her wake as she whisks away into the vaccuum and back toward the waiting bulk of her massive battle cruiser. This might be a lucky escape for Diana...

But it remains to be seen whether it's the start of something terrible for mankind!

2012-02-19 - Bat-Breakfast

2012-02-20T06:58:19Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Bat-Breakfast |Summary=Is this what every morning is like in Wayne Manor? Sadly, yes. It probably is. Would you like more angst and brooding with your oran..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Bat-Breakfast
|Summary=Is this what every morning is like in Wayne Manor? Sadly, yes. It probably is. Would you like more angst and brooding with your orange juice, sir?
|Who=[[Batman|Bruce Wayne]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Robin|Tim Drake]]
|Date=2012-19-02
|Where=Stately Wayne Manor
|}}

Cassandra Cain is eating breakfast.

There's nothing uninteresting about this, at least to her; last time she had access to a fully stocked larder was... well, approximately never, and the lavish kitchen of Wayne Manor is enviably well supplied. She's been living here for a few days now, and taken only what she's been offered at mealtimes, picking almost regretfully at her plate and not taking her eyes from her host - ensuring she's not going too fast or consuming too much, trying to be the best little guest she can be. Bruce doesn't owe her anything. He already gave her his coat, and is in the process of giving her a brand new life. Food, too? It was too much.

But Alfred Pennyworth has a way of breaking a stubborn teenager's barriers. He also knows when someone needs a bloody good meal. Cassie wandered down this morning as quietly as she always does, ghosting through the house in borrowed t-shirt and boy-shorts, shyly plucking an apple from the fruit bowl and taking it out to the back porch to quietly munch and meditate. After a few minutes, she found a dizzy cocktail of scents washing through the French windows to assault her nostrils. She sniffed once, twice, and a third time before slipping inside.

"Good morning, Miss Cassandra," politely intoned the Wayne family butler, hiding a knowing smile beneath his moustache as he deftly flipped a pan of fried eggs and bacon. For her part, Cass doesn't talk much; but she didn't have to. Within twelve point three seven minutes she'd been manouevred into a place at the kitchen table, plates and bowls stacked with a cornucopia of breakfastly deliciousness arrayed before her.

Right this moment - about 10:31, the Batman himself apparently either sleeping late or... still working late; CRIME NEVER SLEEPS - the former drifter is munching with blissful contentment on a pore-clogging sandwich composed of fried bread, beans, bacon and lashings of ketchup. It's not healthy, but she can probably stand to put some meat on those bones. And she's not enjoyed herself so much ever, a fact she'd be attempting to hide were she conscious of Alfred watching her from the hall. Purportedly 'dusting', he's decked out in an apron and wielding a pink feather duster, but doing nothing of the sort. The soft-hearted old goat.

It's the kind of adorable scene that just begs to be interrupted by some horrible catastrophe.

Tim gets in /late/ the previous night from his trip to Metropolis. He had a long hard day, followed by a decent trip home. And /plenty/ of time to think, and kick himself about how the bust failed spectacularly into his face and possibly a (not so) innocent mercinary's face. Who is now possibly a walking biohazard, Or nano-hazard. He made sure to send what he had with Raven, who would no doubt report back to the Titans and probably the JL.

So at this time in the morning, a zombie looking Timothy Drake finally shuffles from his room and into his seat at the table. Where he proceeds to stare squinty eyed at his plate and tries to contemplate the concept that nothing is on it, and should probably put food on it.

He also completely misses that Cassandra is /right there/ shyly eating an apple. He only barely mumbles a good monring to Alfred, because Alfred is always there. /Always/.

Apple nothing! By the time Tim considers reaching for his first home-cooked morsel, Cassandra is sinking her teeth deeply into her second breakfast sandwich. So intent on filling her grumbling belly after years of borderline malnutrition, she doesn't notice him until it's too late; she's in mid-bite, egg and sauce dribbling down her chin to spatter against the other four sandwiches she's lined up to follow this one. Never before has a seventeen-year-old master assassin been so horribly embarassed as she is when she looks across...

And sees she has not only company, but strange company. The blood rushes to her cheeks immediately, hazel eyes batting beneath the messy dark tangle of her fringe, and ever so slowly she lowers the sandwich - watching Tim as though he were some ferocious wild animal sat across from her in the toilet. Once the half-eaten morsel is set down, she reaches with equal caution for a napkin and clamps it to her mouth in mute horror, slipping silently from her chair and starting to walk away as she frantically wipes the eggy goodness away.

She's halfway across the kitchen floor before her brain starts working. Peeking sidelong at the boy, she tries to picture him in red and green, mentally slides a mask over his face, and immediately freezes, lips pouted in the agony of realization. If he's-- then she should... but she's only done that for /him/, or when he's been there to at least give her some form of confidence in being halfway human. The question she needs to ask is:

What would Batman do?

Cassie's fairly certain he wouldn't stand there staring and saying nothing.

So why is SHE doing that?

Tim finally wakes up enough to realize there is someone else across the table who is not A) Bruce or B) Dick. He stops mid pour of his coffee to notice that Cassandra is already retreating. Um...

"Hey uh.." he starts before she already is nearly gone, Tim is left with a thought of, 'She's too young, even for Bru- oh wait she stopped again'.

"Hey!" he says after she starts examining him.

"Hi...You're...new here right?" Tim says. He looks towards Alfred, before looking back at Cassandra.

"I'm Tim, and you are?" He says, flashing her a easy smile. He was the most /charismatic/ Robin after all. Dick is Dick, Jason is a douche, and Damien (who isn't even CANON) is king douche.

It probably doesn't help Tim's initial conclusion that she's wearing one of Bruce's old t-shirts, a worn promotional gift from some Wayne Enterprises event or another. It's hugely baggy and falls well past the waist; she's neither tall nor thickset even for a teenage girl, though it's not hard to pick out the definition on her forearms and very bare legs. Or the more than occasional poorly-healed scar.

Of course, as Tim looks at her she's looking even more intently at him - in spite of her retiring nature and immediate instinct to retreat like crazy, those hazel eyes hold an intelligence that drinks in every little nuance of her environment when she's not otherwise busy stuffing herself. That's connected to what makes her relax some when, or in fact just BEFORE, he smiles, her shoulders losing a little tension. She still doesn't speak, though his question is met with an opening of her mouth. And a closing. Then another opening.

A frown creases her brow as she tries again, and this time she manages a, "Ca--..."

Followed by a much more certain, "......" as she appears to give up the ghost on that one.

With the perfect timing of butlers everywhere, Alfred is suddenly behind her, gently clapping both hands to her shoulders with a perfect, non-threatening delicacy that neatly bypasses her /other/ instincts. Cassie glances upward as the Englishman's reassuring tone makes the introductions so she doesn't have to.

"Master Tim, this is Miss Cassandra. She's come to join us following a rather difficult time on the street. Master Bruce encountered her on his... travels, and decided this was the best place for her." There's something about the way he says that, curling a fine point on the words without over-emphasising anything. He doesn't even need to raise an eyebrow to give Tim an indication that this girl is not what she seems. Cass hears it too, and drops her gaze to the floor, gently scuffing her bare toes against the fine tiles.

She gets over it a moment later, and glances at Tim, bringing her hands up before her - open palm to closed fist.

It's her version of 'hello'. Certainly beats a punch to the face.

Ca? What kinda name is Ka.

Then Alfred steps in, explaining the situation with just enough detail and subtlety that makes everything crystal clear. Tim, finishes the coffee and takes a very big drink, deciding not to comment right away. Of course, the greeting tips Tim off a great deal to the possible nature of the girl. This goes back to his excursion to Europe for training. With a rub of his forehead he gives her a reasuring smile and points at the left over breakfast sandwiches left on the abandoned plate.

"You gonna finish those?"

Whatever one's opinion of oneself, sleeping in the gutter breeds a certain mindset that's hard to shake. There are rules to survival; certain things you absolutely do or absolutely DON'T do. Among the very foremost is this: when you get food, you damn well fight to keep it. The next solid meal could be hours, days or even weeks away... there's no certainty, no paycheck, no friends to lean on when times are hard. Times are always hard - and the mind toughens in kind. Nobody lives the same way when they've got nothing.

Cassandra moves so quickly that Alfred takes an astonished step back, hands raised in the air as she slips out from under them and ends up back in her chair faster than any normal human being can blink. One hand grips the edge of her stacked plate, and the other is on the tabletop, conveniently over the hilt of a knife. It's not a particularly threatening knife-- it's barely even got a proper edge, but her posture, her demeanour? Most people would shrink back in terror just at the hardness of her gaze. So much for being a harmless waif.

The moment is gone almost as soon as it begins, her fingers pushing against the rim of the plate as she sinks back in her chair with a soft, calming sigh. The other hand lifts from its very domestic weapon and grabs for the treat she was halfway through devouring, the rest of the plate's contents offered across to Tim. Her eyes have already softened considerably when she gives him a shy, encouraging nod and the tiniest little smile.

That's a big deal for her, too.

Alfred is completely unperturbed by the whole thing, already over by the window looking out, smiling his own mysterious smile. He didn't need to intervene and he knew it-- really, for all the Masters and the Misses he bandies about, is there any doubt as to who actually keeps control around here?

Obviously the one who keeps order around here is The Penguin.

He is the real secret boss of all. Not Darkseid, not Lex. The Penguin.

Tim keeps from reacting by simply still being half asleep, but when he does, Cassandra is already offering up some of her food. Tim shrugs, grabs a sandwich and puts it on his own plate after grabbing a banana. Wait, when did he grab that?

Maybe to defend herself against her butter knife.

"I'm Tim by the way, nice to meet you." He is also reminded that he should probably head home to check in with mom and dad.

"Mmn." It's Bruce's contribution to the situation, or maybe his 'good midday'. Waking up before noon seldom agrees with the billionaire-turned-vigilante. For some reason. He's dressed in a long, navy blue robe, worn mostly tied over black pajama pants. He moves to the counter and pours coffee that Alfred brewed seemingly randomly about twenty minutes beforehand. Wayne is about as engaging as Miss Cassandra, this morning.

"Master Bruce." Alfred greets simply, partly giving away the younger man's near silent arrival. "You're looking positively chipper this morning." Alfred gets /such/ a look. He doesn't even inquire about what his 'kids' are up to, directly. Maybe he doesn't care; maybe he's keenly enough aware even half-asleep.

A banana. It's the closest Cassandra has ever come to actually laughing, her lips quirking a little higher and mouth opening enough to at least express what the gesture might be like, if she did. It doesn't help that he then introduces himself all over again - technically, that's the third time. Any other girl would giggle. This one sits back, raising a sardonic eyebrow over her sandwich as she lifts it and takes a bite.

She's a bit more careful not to dribble sauce and egg down her face this time. Manners.

Just as well she can't talk, because she doesn't yet know about not doing it with your mouth full.

What might turn into a long, long silence - testing the limits of what anybody might find comfortable - is then at least delayed by the apparition of the Dark Knight, in a form his enemies would likely crow to find him in. If they had the first idea that this is what he's like in the mornings... but it's just one more thing he and the raven-haired urchin have in common. Cassie looks pleased enough to see him, if still rather shy about everything under the sun, lifting a hand to wave before she finishes off the last of her sandwich.

And then she suddenly excuses herself with another Chinese-style bow, nipping off down the hall as though it were Christmas morning and someone just yelled 'presents!' Not that she knows what /those/ are either. It's the thought that counts. She comes wandering back in a couple of minutes later, a rolled piece of paper held behind her and a thoughtful gaze settling on Bruce, wherever he might be when she returns.

Tim continues to eat the sandwich, noticing the atmosphere was a lot lighter, that's good. He's pretty dangerous with that banana.

Tim gives no F-s when he eats the sandwich, it is going to be a messy experience for him, until he realizes Bruce finally came down. Swallowing, and then taking another bite, he waves to the master of the house. "Hpfi Brufe" he says with a full mouth, which earns him a stare from Alfred. That 'no eating with your mouth full' look that only the English Butler can perform. Swallowing, he takes another sip of coffee.

"Uh...so we might have a thing we need to talk about..."

Picking an orange out from a second fruit basket near Tim's deadly bananas, Bruce walks to the table and drops himself heavily into an empty chair, wiping sleep from his eyes and sipping at the hot coffee. Ice blue eyes alert despite the late night(s) look to Tim, then follow Cassandra out of the room, a slight smile lingering on his face for both. "What happened?" It's more concerned than forboding, though there's always an intensity to such questions.

Wayne studies Tim carefully, taking what clues he can from his protege's own body language and expressions. "Something in Metropolis?" He doesn't fully expect Cassandra to pop back up so quickly, his attention split partially to her, and the paper. "You two will have to take turns." It's way too early for information in stereo.

Cassandra seems quite content to wait, for her part, her eyes shifting from Bruce to Tim; then back again before she bobs her head in a small, accepting nod. The document is slipped from behind her as she returns to her chair, holding it still-rolled in her lap to reach for a glass of grapefruit juice with her other hand. Beneath her tangled bangs, hazel eyes rove to the Boy Wonder, quietly questioning and interested without inserting herself... at least as much as a mute girl ever could.

Tim makes a note that Cassandra speaks very little. That's kinda weird, and nothing immedately pings as 'THIS IS YOU' for her. He nods at Bruce's question, and starts going into detail.

"Got a tip from the Titans about Lexcorp transporting something highly illegal. Met up with Raven, and also ran into some new guy...uh...Kinetic was his name. They were transporting it by train."

"Well, when we were taking down Lex's hired guns, one of them shot the seal on the case...whatever was in there..."

Tim looks rather haunted by this. He's still new, or rather, not as tested as the other Bat-clan. "It was some sort of...nano-tech. It jumped on her before she fell out of the train and into the water. Raven went after her to try and find her..." Tim trails off.

"I dug through what I could in the train, and from the mercs. They confirmed it was nano-tech, but not much more then that. It was also highly dangerous and that Lexcorp was paying them /lots/."

"Not enough to get soldiers who know how to check their fire under stress around hazardous cargo." Bruce notes drily, though really... it's entirely possible no one even knew it was a hazard, when Lex's people are involved. "Who was taken? One of the mercenaries, or.. ?" Important detail, as far as the Detective can see. "There'll be immediate fallout, moves to destroy any evidence of the devices, to neutralize the employees that may know too much." Luthor doesn't make a habit out of trusting many people, after all.

Bruce considers it for a few lingering moments as he diligently and cleanly peels his orange, "Get Barbara, check all the LexCorp data miners for relevant activity. Get eyes on every scientist Luthor employs with the right specialties." This will either take more sets of eyes, or something besides eyes. It's a good chance Wayne knows this. "Find out who hired the mercenaries, and who cut their check." Yes, it's a laundry list.

Present company included, there are maybe half a dozen people in Gotham who would recognize Cassandra with any sense of certainty; and not all of those know her name. Anybody with that knowledge outside of the city limits is probably best avoided, without substantial backup or detailed foresight as to their precise location and status. The Dark Knight can give his apprentice some better idea of that later, no doubt.

At least they're sharing bewilderment in this conversation. The girl in the baggy t-shirt sips slowly on her bitter juice as Tim-- Robin, unfolds his tale, doing her best to be clear on the details. She can understand English up to the point of seeming competence- but she's had no education outside of martial arts and murder, so keeping up with the terms so freely bandied about here is like attempting to read and comprehend the laws of thermo-dynamics. When you can't even read. His body language tells her what she needs to know, though.

Danger. Lots of danger.

Bruce is all business, of course, but so is Miss Cain. What she's actually thinking about, though, is how good the Boy Wonder might be in a fight; a musing which qualifies as gainful employment when you're a living weapon sat at a kitchen table supping on breakfast. The last part may be a little irrelevant. Her gaze flickers away from Tim briefly, taking in the plain-clothes Batman as he delivers his orders. Inbetween all the generically unfamiliar terms, a name stands out and is filed away for future reference. She's not had the full lowdown yet herself; there's a lot to cover, and most of it so far has been related to gadgets and palmstrikes.

Batman knows his target audience.

"One of the Mercs, she seemed to be leading the group." Tim says. He stiffles a yawn as Bruce talks, and nods a few times.

"I already got the name of the PMC, and the Titans are looking into who did the financial work." Tim quips.

"I got footage of the cameras on the train, nothing important though..." Tim says. "I don't think Lex would be so stupid as to try and put it on us...but he'll probably try and quash it." Tim muses. "I already got the miners on Lex's stuff...but I'll get with Barbara on the scientists. I think that maybe the League should work on trying to find her? We don't know if she's...contageous."

There's a sudden exhalation from Cassandra, who barely avoids choking on a mouthful of juice.

Her dark brows lift as she stares across the table, suddenly on edge again.

Bruce nods, eating a wedge of orange as he listens to Tim. "Good." Gotham's Knight acknowledges, frowning slightly despite the apparent satisfaction. Which doesn't last long, for its part, either. "Working on trying to find an unknown woman who was lost even to an immediate search is part of the point. We need information on the devices, more information on the woman's identity. From there, we have a starting point that isn't a waste of time. ... assuming she doesn't turn up -first-." One more reason to hurry, right?

"If it is some sort of nanite contagion, we need to know as much as we can about the project -before- it spreads. Whether we can intercept the carrier or not." Simple math. If a bit disturbing. Wayne looks to Cassandra as she near-chokes, "What is it?" Both his own dark brows rise in query.

TIM INTERUPT!
Tim looks startled and stares at Cassandra. "You alright?"

It's not quite horror that enraptures the raven-haired girl, but it's something awfully close. Her gaze remains at least partly on Tim as she twists in her chair to also take in his mentor; and for a moment she says nothing, trying to muster the resolve and the ability to actually say what she's thinking. Completely tense, utterly still as she tries to push the words out with every pore of her being, she's again forced to abandon ship... instead shaking her head and setting down her glass - far enough along the table that she can lean out across it and /slap/ her piece of paper down between them.

http://tinyurl.com/markofcain

It's only loosely rolled despite being somewhat crumpled, and comes open easily to reveal the apparent concern. The Boy Wonder may not instantly recognize it, but she's fairly sure that Batman should; though the revelation causes her to quiver momentarily as she sits back down, folding one arm across her midsection as the other waves at the piece of paper. She can't put voice to it; but Tim used the word 'League'.

It's a cruel coincidence and a complete misunderstanding, but there's the problem with not communicating.

Renegade interrupt, indeed.

Tim looks over Bruce's shoulder.

"What is that?" he says, not even being the slightest bit stealthy about it. Sitting back down, he takes a long drink of the Coffee, which is starting to work through him. He's a lot more alert now, and gives Cassandra another glance...she IS acting weird. Maybe she lives underground. Nah...

Tim looks purplexed.

Bruce's eyes narrow on the sigil. It takes him back.

~~
"You're a fool, you can't take on assassins, go after the deadliest men in the world, if you won't even finish the job."
"Murder doesn't finish anything. Blood begets blood. If you want to build something better, you have to -be- better."
"Blood is how the world works. Men have been killing each other over everything from lust to god since they first discovered the killing potential of bone and rock."
"/Exactly/ my point." The disapproving mentor, one of the world's foremost assassins, just shook his head. He went back to teaching Bruce about the power of the ambush, the truisms of marksmanship, the arts needed to conceal the body language of a man ready... even eager... to kill. The arts to read someone doing just that.
~~

"David Cain." Bruce intones, as if it made it all as clear as day. For him, maybe it does. It's a start, at least. "One of the League of Assassins' foremost killers. One of the world's most uncompromising sociopaths. You got this at the attack the other night?" Wayne inquires, half rhetorically, of Cassandra. "If Cain's involved, we'll need to tread carefully." Possible someone just wants to imply it, given the fear inspired in those in the know. Bruce doesn't even mention that possibility, though; better the both of them, all three of them, assume one of the world's deadliest assassins is in Gotham. Better all of them watch their backs.

"No..." Tim states, "The League of Assassin's wasn't involved. I meant that the Justice League should try and find the Infected woman." The confused Robin says. Maybe it's because it's still before noon. Tim knew of the League of Assassins...but he hasn't met David Cain.

"The question is...why does she know the mark of someone in the League of Assassins?" Tim asks, looking towards Cassandra with a insightful, but not accusing stare.

It doesn't take Cassie back so far, of course, but...
That mark means everything to her. It represents all she is, and all that she's running from.

The idea that perhaps she hasn't gotten away? It's like having the monster from under your bed suddenly step out from behind your curtains one night, appearing when and where least expected. She's not shaking any more, but only because she's internally repeating a wordless mantra, focusing herself on maintaining composure-- at least what she can salvage after so impulsively presenting her piece of gathered evidence. She had half a mind to keep it to herself; until that misunderstanding reminded her, she's not the only one at stake.

Bruce's conclusion draws a nod, the gesture slow and hesitant, Cassandra's lips parting then curling into a twisted pout as she chews down upon her bottom lip. Hazel eyes darken to a near black as she turns inward, glances downward, lifting the hand not hugging her midriff to glance over her calloused palms, tilting it about to examine her knuckles as she makes a fist, the muscles in her forearm bunching with the motion. When she looks up, it's with a long, cool sigh, her gaze finding Tim as he reveals her mistake. That's embarassing, or it should be-- either she doesn't fully understand him, or the weight of what she's about to do...

Is too much to focus on anything else.

Her hand drifts outward, and she looks to Bruce as she taps the sigil at its very centre. Two times, hard and deliberate, the table actually scooting a little beneath her touch. It's not intentional, by any means-- but it shows Robin what Batman already knows, and he should already suspect. More than meets the eye. More than /either/ of them know, until now. Lifting her hand once more, she makes a second fist and jerks it back toward her, stopping a foot short of her chin before raising her thumb. She doesn't need to say it. 'Him' - 'Me'.

Her mouth is a grim line, eyes wide and drifting with a thousand painful emotions she won't show.

There's a very good reason she was happy to wait. She'd have waited another ten years, if she could.

"Because they trained her." Bruce's calm, frank admission is one of a realization long processed. He already knew it, has known it for awhile now, but should Tim really be surprised? Still, the deceptive lack of raw emotion does little to disguise the fervor of Cassandra's explanation, does carry a few surprises for the Dark Knight. "Because... he trained her." Wayne concludes, a little bit alarmed as the piece clicks into place. More for the girl, than for the implications. Blue eyes narrow, intent on Cassandra's face.

It's as if he sees her for the first time; not with renewed distrust, but renewed curiousity. Every line, every nuance of structure and skin, committed to comparison against a distant memory, in a formidable mind. Wayne grunts lightly, considering to himself, rather than aloud to either of the others. "Odd for him to have sent in amateurs, if it is Cain." Bruce settles on deductive reasoning of a different sort, as if it were what he was thinking about already. "Maybe seeking to draw out and identify resistance and resources. Maybe just distracting from his real goals here. Maybe just someone dropping his name to frighten this Gibraldi. We need to have more words with that man, and his men." Wayne is apparently satisfied that the assassins themselves know one step shy of jack all, at the moment.

Tim nods after a moment, he looks sad. A lot more makes sense...a lot more Tim processes with his brain.

Then sudden realization...

Then a weiry look. Followed by a less weiry look. Then Tim looks very thoughtful again...

"The last guy from the Society I met could talk...talked alot." Tim thought outloud. He took a look at her trying to understand her better.

He makes a series of odd looks at her, attempting to look friendly, but have an aggressive sitting posture, before changing it up, always polorizing what his face and his posture looked like.

Cassandra doesn't break eye contact with the Dark Knight, but she does blink twice in rapid succession - an odd break in her otherwise air of deadly if barely-held calm. It's not the first time she's been uncertain if Bruce Wayne may know more than he's letting on, so she absorbs his careful examination without haste or panic, lowering her pointing hand to settle that arm across her body with the other. Beneath the table, her knees draw up, easing close to her lap as the inner child demands some foetal comfort. That was the best she could do; if he doesn't understand now, maybe he will soon...

Her gaze finds the Mark of Cain again, staring long and distant as painfully-exact memories flash through her mind. Each and every scar on her body could well bear the same shape as that stylized wolf's head. How many times was she cut, shot, or otherwise subjected to his brutality? Bruce knows, she thinks, and then she looks up once more with a sudden frown. No. He /knows/. The League employ many among their number, but only a few approach the level occupied by two of the people sat breaking their fast in Wayne Manor.

His technique. His immediate comprehension of hers. She'd already /been/ found.
By perhaps the only person in that mess who might not subject her to... herself.

Cassie isn't sure whether she wants to hug him or run away rather than try and deal with the emotional onslaught that brings. It was one thing knowing of his connections to the League, but nothing could be more personal than this; David Cain's a hateful man, but the way he teaches... there's nothing held back. Did Bruce Wayne go through the same thing? Were they so close? Anybody more entitled might feel jealous at that. She's somewhere between mortified and grateful. Thankfully, a third option presents itself.

Hazel eyes shift to Tim, the girl unwinding her arms from her waist, hands resting on her palms as she leans forward gently. Squinting, she focuses on Tim's shifting expressions, head tipping to one side halfway through. She waits and she waits, quite patient and unerringly observant, until he tries a smile. In that moment, she doesn't even seem to actually /move/; she just goes from nudging against the table's edge to standing on the base of her chair and extended right over the surface to poke the Boy Wonder with perfect precision right between the eyebrows. She's firm without being forceful - it's gentle, but the kind of gentle that tells a person, 'I could have hit you as hard as I wanted to'. That would be worrying.

Maybe it still is, but behind her stretched-out arm Cassie is quietly smiling.

If she could speak, she'd say, 'Stop. That's the person you are.' He may be a boy genius, but Tim's not so hard to read.

It's a safe bet that Bruce didn't undergo the same harsh treatment at Cain's hands. For one thing, he was much older. For nother, not the scion that the assassin wanted to forge into the perfect weapon, the perfect legacy. To David Cain, the driven prodigy with a fortune and an attachment to secrecy was never his opus. Never meant to be, at least. Not like his daughter; not like the other children subjected to a similar regimen. Bruce's trials came largely at the hands of other taskmasters... Cain could rarely touch him. Not really; not like Cassandra.

Still, it's true that few excel to the levels of training and near-mystical skill that Cassandra and Bruce possess... one the epitome of a killer's knowledge and ignorance, the other the 'fallen' heir of Ra's al Ghul himself. "She doesn't speak... often." Bruce explains to Tim, "Not with words. I suspect they were... discouraged, during her upbringing. She's been on the streets for some time now." He's learned a lot about her, even as she shares little. Wayne says a lot about her, even as he shares little. Tim can do the math. Years on the street for a girl Cassandra's age means her prolific, near-unmatched training happened earlier. Probably much earlier. "I want you to teach her to read." Yes, he's noticed that, too. Cass will just have to move past shame quickly, it seems. One more item for Robin's laundry list. It never really clears itself, for that matter.

Tim nods even as he is being poked in the forehead.

Tim is somehow pointing a banana at her again.

How does he KEEP doing that?

However, he gets the message and keeps the smile on his face. "Teach her to read? I'll have to grab some books from school." Tim comments. Luckily Tim is very shameless, or else this might be bad. Robin looks back to Bruce for a moment, "So anything important happen here while I was in Metropolis?"

Traumatic as her life has been, Cassandra's not ashamed of everything. Her recent history is something she's content to hear told; it is what it is, bearing no particular pain or even attachment. Like an animal, she has had to survive, though her own jungle may have been urban in nature. The rest of what Bruce explains; that's true too. She makes no sign of either affirming or denying it, but the former is easily construed from the complete lack of change in her expression. Instead, she glances down at the banana, smiles wide enough to just briefly show a flash of teeth - and then sits back down. She likes him.

Which does nothing to stop the blood rushing to her face a moment later, her jaw going slack and eyes gaining a hint of panic only now as she slides her gaze to Bruce. Learn... to read? It goes against everything she's been indoctrinated with, and it's not as though she hasn't tried. After meeting Bruce Wayne for the first time, in his public persona, she managed to scrounge up a newspaper and carried it around for days looking at his picture and then trying to make out the words. It's just a mess to her. Scrambled nonsense.

Then there was the poster she used to find Mitsy. She knew there must be an address on it. But encrypting that address - even walking around holding it up against street signs in the area gave her no clue whatsoever. She shakes her head now, remembering the pain she's experienced every time this has come up. No matter what she thinks of Tim... she can't. She finds the Boy Wonder's eyes across the table and keeps shaking her head. Her eyes are beseeching him, 'please don't make me do that'.

"Clearly." Is Bruce's initial, helpful answer to Tim's question. Something's always happening in Gotham. Batman's almost always in the center of it. Just from the inhabitants of the Manor, it's clear that things have been in motion. The paper Cassandra puts so much weight behind is slid towards Tim, "For one thing Ra's may have one of his foremost assassins operating in the city, for purposes as yet undetermined." Which seems to fascinate Wayne more than scare or worry him... not that he's dismissive in the least of the very real threat.

Cassandra's earnest reluctance and focus on getting Tim to agree with her draws Bruce's attention more on the periphery, like he's aware of it without ever fully looking /at/ her. "I suspect the written word would have eminently interfered with your training and single-mindedness." He notes, pensively, studying and breaking apart the remnants of his orange more than either of his comrades, for the moment. "I don't need single mindedness, I don't need another weapon; I need... I want you to learn to think for yourself. To find out all the thoughts and stories that are out there. You're filled with knowledge, skill of a very specific and focused sort. Time to learn what it all means, to shake off the confusion and decide what you are, what you will be.. with more information than what you have now." Her self-doubt and denial is not something Wayne is buying.

"You know what your life means to David Cain. You fear what that life might still mean, with or without him. You're not the first with these doubts; look deeper, decide what this -does- mean for Cassandra. Open your eyes, embrace the fear, ride it to your core."

Tim finishes the banana, and the realization of how serious this situation is...

"Well, we ARE overdue for another run into Ra's." Tim says a bit sarcasticly. "I guess this means we need to find out why and stop him before anything goes horribly wrong." Tim surmises... He doesn't ignore Cassandra's plea.

"Think of it as a new challenge. Anyway, least you don't have to worry about school right now. Ms. Crabshank," Which is totally not her name, "Is enjoying torturing the new students with Shakespeare..." Tim says.

"Not even the good stuff either, just makin' us read it, not even really explaining the nuances."

"And besides, it's not like I am going to bother with the Future perfect progressive forms of verbs. Only school teachers are that evil."

They're harsh words, the ones the Dark Knight offers, made all the harder by his idle focus on the remains of his breakfast. Key words leap out, aligning themselves in Cassie's mind - at least by their non-verbal counterparts, images overlaying sensations - to form a picture she finds it difficult to argue against. Behind it all, there's the Mark, reflected in reality before her. It's this that drives it home; the man she wants to run from would not want her doing this. The only person who's ever truly shown care and concern for her wellbeing, to understanding the whys and wherefores of Cassandra Cain? He wants it.

He doesn't owe her a thing in this world, but he's given her a home and a place. He's given her back her name. The fact that his request is as good as an order, that doesn't bother her. She's heard worse, and - though it might be judged twisted by most - she appreciates it. It's honest. Honesty she likes. Honesty doesn't pretend that everything's okay when it isn't, like the charity workers she's run into over the years.

Nothing is ever 'okay'. Bruce Wayne understands that.

Sighing long and hard, she looks across the table to Tim. "Fear," she says suddenly, the word coming almost unbidden, enough that she blinks in surprise, "Yes." She's terrified. No point hiding it. But she's much more afraid of losing everything she's found in the past few days, she's afraid of being what her father wanted.

It's this, or running away from herself forever. Shaking her head, she slips from her chair, glancing between the two men as she starts to walk away. She doesn't stop until she's framed inside the doorway, putting out a hand as though to steady herself, turning around to face them. For all she's been through, she should be bigger - there should be something imposing about her. But in her baggy borrowed t-shirt, with her slender legs and bare feet, she couldn't look any smaller. Just a girl, in spite of it all.

Her chest rises as she inhales, holding the breath as she steels herself...

And then she releases it with a firm, decisive nod, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

"Yes," she says again, this time with aquiescence. Tim gets the last, surprisingly warm glance, and then she's gone. Her feet can be heard pit-pattering up the stairs a moment later, followed soon after by the quiet 'click' of her bedroom door closing. She won't be out for a while; she's got a lot to think about...

There's certainly something twisted to insisting that a teenage girl overcome her fear... more than that, that she -use- it to delve into the very facets of herself that frighten her. That she use it to push past the boundaries drilled into her over years of harsh treatment, and dehumanization. It's harsh, but yes... it's also honest. Dick would call it utterly manipulative, particularly for all that Wayne leaves /unspoken/. In the end, it's only marginally about his desires, his intentions, but it's an easy way to break through Cassandra's shell, right now. Easy because she's been conditioned to take it to heart. Bruce sighs, and deeply.

Wayne doesn't look up until every section is its own unit, laid out in a little spiral on the plate in front of him. Sometimes, the efficient path leaves him feeling a little bit scummy. It's part of what keeps him anchored, in the end. "Look what you did." He settles for criticizing Tim. Granted, the tone is anything but serious, a half-smile quirking Bruce's lips as he pops a section into his mouth, and slides the plate and its remaining contents to Drake.

As soon as Cassandra is gone, Tim looks at Bruce.

"Me?!" Tim says, looking aghast at Bruce. "I'm not the one operating the orphange." Tim retorts.

"Everyone needs something." Someone. Bruce notes more somberly, rising slowly. It counts for Tim, it counts for Cassandra. What they both seek from him is somewhat different. It's just as true for him, even if he's not going to detail all the hows and whys easily. "And there are people out there who need us. I've got to go to work." No doubt what /that/ means. Particularly with the deepened tones in which it's spoken.

"So do you." The Detective reminds his protege, glancing back from the door himself.

Tim yawns and finishes the rest of the sandwich. He looks up at the clock. "Crapcrapcrap! Better get back home!" he says, jumping up and grabbing his bag. However, the words do resound to the young man's heart, he pauses, looking towards Bruce. He nods, once, before bolting for the door. His dad was going to kill him.

Wonder Woman

2012-02-19T01:55:42Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Wonder Woman
|Image=[[Image:DianaWonderWoman.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Diana of Themyscira
|Alias=WW
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=Appears to be 22
|Affiliation=[[Justice League]]
|Quote=''"Peace is a virtue. A state of mind, a disposition for benevolence, confidence and justice. It is not simply the absence of war."''
|Powers= 
* Flight
* Blessed By The Gods
|}}'''Princess Diana of Themyscira''', known to Man's World as '''Wonder Woman''', is one of the world's foremost heroes and a founder of the [[Justice League]]

==Background/Timeline==

*The isle of Themyscira; the gift to the Amazon people, faithful to the Greek pantheon. The gift had come after a bloody rebellion after long period of being enslaved, of their men killed, leaving but the women behind on the island. The Greek gods gifted their devotion with the island sanctuary, and leading those people was Queen Hippolyta.

*Part of the gift the gods had granted the women of the isle was immortality - they needed no men to replenish their numbers, and the gods likewise hid Thymyscira from the world, so that the women could live in peace.

*But Hippolyta was lonely. She sought a daughter, a family - someone to raise - and the gods, specifically, Hades granted her wish, as well.

*She sculpted a clay infant from the earth, and the god of the underworld breathed life into it. The being that was formed would be named Diana, the new Princess of Thymyscira.

*Diana grew like a normal person would, but it became clear rather quickly that she was stronger than most her sisters; faster, quicker-witted, and more dextrous.

*As a child, she was raised in the Amazon tradition, learning the weapons of the Amazon, and other skills - horseback riding, hunting, and learning of the gods themselves.

*Diana was most fond of the goddess Athena, like a great many Amazons, and often tended to her shrine.

*Diana was restless; the gods had helped create her for greater things than the idyllic Thymyscira could offer. Diana yearned to see the world outside, something Hippolyta felt that she could never allow.

*And so Hippolyta attempted to keep control of the restless Diana by imposing all sorts of rules upon her. And for a time, it did work. But once Diana reached her teenage years...

*She became known as a bit of a troublemaker around the island. Often sticking her nose into things she really should not have, and /especially/ doing things her mother disliked. There was an issue with some horrible creature that had made its way into a cave on the other end of the island? Diana often accompanied the Amazons that went to take care of it.

*Hippolyta did not have malice in mind, but what drove her to be so controlling was fear of losing her daughter.

*So when they had heard of Man's World coming under attack by some strange otherworldly force, Diana saw her chance - this was as good an excuse as any to go to Man's World - they had to help them fight off this invasion, or risk becoming isolated when the aliens won!

*Hippolyta would have none of that, however. She bore great bitterness against the world of Men, for starters, and doubly did not wish to see her daughter die attempting to fend off some alien invasion. She forbid Diana to go.

*So Diana waited until the dead of night, and snuck into the temple of the goddess that she so admired, Athena. Stealing the magic armor of the goddess, she flew to answer the call that the rest of the Amazons had ignored, joining the fight against the alien Imperium.

*Come to find out, that distress call that had alerted them to the alien invasion in the first place had originated from the Martian, J'onn J'onzz. His summons had gathered a collection of heroes to form a resistance against the alien invaders.

*When the threat had passed, those heroes who had originally answered the call would help form a League of heroes, and would come to be known as the founders of the Justice League, Diana counted amongst them.

*Taking the name Wonder Woman, she served with the League for a while, righting wrongs, even as she learned about Man's World.

*But soon enough, Diana began to feel guilty for what she did. Returning to Themyscira, she found everyone had turned to stone, at the hands of a man, Felix Faust, who sought to release Hades from his prison unto the world proper.

*Reluctantly, she accepted for the help of the League in defeating Faust and Hades both, but upon restoring her sisters, she found herself exiled: she had brought men to the island, and broken the sacred laws of Themyscira.

Now exiled, Diana returned to the one home she had left, the Justice League...

==Personality==

At this point, the public knows very little about just who Wonder Woman is. Some might see her as a paragon of justice, much along the lines of Superman, some might see her as a role model, and some may even see her as vaguely threatening, and a foreigner.

But just who is the woman behind the pretty smile, and red white and blue getup?

First and foremost, Diana is the daughter of the Themysciran isles, and a proud Amazon. The stereotype of the average Amazon is a martial sort of woman who is confident, kind, and courageous almost to a fault, and Diana fits that stereotype rather nicely.

Diana is confident in herself and her abilities, and usually has an honest, open sort of manner; a trait that may seem brusque at times. Diana also tends to trust her friends rather than mistrust them, preferring to see the good in people than the bad.

Diana seeks solutions that uplift herself and those around her, although she has very little patience for many types of villains: those that seek to destroy the world and the people of Earth will be resisted utterly, although your average pursejacker might get away with little more than a collection of bruises, and being left in a dumpster for the police to find.

Diana tends to be naive in the ways of Man's World still, but in spite of what her slightly xenophobic sisters back in Themyscira widely believe, she has hope for the other inhabitants of those they share the Earth with. Their ways are different and alien to a fault, but it is together that they will find a way to a better tomorrow, and she can see those in Man's World take steps towards that tomorrow.

With a little bit of help from herself and the Amazons, they just might make it, too.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 1]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-17 - The Mark

2012-02-18T09:41:36Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Logsummary|
Title=The Mark
|Summary=Attempting to find her feet as a vigilante-in-potentia, Cassandra is out on the streets of Gotham. She's chosen a place she believes will be quiet - the perfect location to practice quick and stealthy movement through the rooftops, and so it is, until a nearby distress call attracts the attention of a familiar blue-haired superheroine. Things only get messier from there.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Ember]]
|Date=2012-16-02
|Where=Financial District, Gotham City
|}}

Very few important things occur in Gotham's financial distract at this hour. The office lights are predominantly dead, only the repetitive blink-blink of security systems hinting at the high-pressure hustle and bustle that will consume the towering blocks throughout the day. Even the streets are relatively silent, a few cars passing through; pedestrians all but non-existent, except for people like Cassandra Cain...

Or rather, people like she /was/. No longer a vagrant, she's transitioned from the sodden sidewalks to the rain-slick rooftops. Gone are her unflattering, dirty garments - and even that oversized coat. In their place she wears a sort of hotch-potch ninja garb, a short-sleeved catsuit augmented with straps, shinguards, lightweight pauldrons and... a utility belt, pouches carefully filled with an unseen variety of devices.

Her feet, clad in oiled leather, make a soft pitter-patter scarcely heavier than the sheeting raindrops as she makes her agile way across the tops of this area's lofty skyscrapers. Her breathing is held deep and level, causing the scarf wrapping the lower half of her face to inflate and deflate in rhythm. Her dark eyes are intent on the roof's end as she travels, veering around and hopping over venting hatches and aerials.

When she reaches the other side, a hand flies to her waist and comes up bearing a pistol. The trigger is pulled, emitting a snapping hiss as a metal-capped cord unwinds in coiling loops, bearing with blinding speed for the next mighty 'scraper. She leaps before the connection is made, left arm thrust behind her to balance the still-raised right, legs wide and immobile for an instant-- and then she's soaring like an eagle.

She hits the edge of the next building, already starting to climb, suppressing a grimace as the impact sends a tremor through her body; trying to ignore the pain in her chest, upon her ribcage where a bullet wound lies covered and bandaged. This isn't what she should be worrying about. Within the very building she's climbing, a trio of men stalk around a room lit only by dim lamps. Two bear guns, the other remains conspicuously between them as he chatters inanely, nervous, twisting one hand around the opposing wrist. In the other he holds an emergency transmitter, currently sending out an alarm that - under normal circumstance - would be putting out an all-points bulletin on the police network. Sadly for Mr. Gibraldi, it isn't. Because it's been rewired.

A scrambled, nonsensical signal fires off into the atmosphere as Cassandra climbs, unawares.

She's also unaware that, from a window on the next building along, the barrel of a high-calibre sniper rifle emerges to take a slow bearing on Mr. Gibraldi. It's entirely invisible from street-level. Anyone higher might get a glimpse... of course, those with sufficient technology could also pick up that signal, and trace it. It leads right back to this very building, and even to the man himself.

He's on the roster of protected individuals, because Mr. Gibraldi is worth millions. Billions, even.

What a shame he's about to die.

Ember has been slowly adapting to this strange new world she's in. She was alive, well and not so alone anymore. Still thoughts went back to her own world, there were fewer and fewer left the longer time went on, to protect it. No that there was much left they could do. Still every person the few heroes left could save was still a small victory against those who terrorized the world. The lost magus only thinks on that once and a while these days, she's kept busy helping with smaller things. Letting more powerful sorts be freed up for bigger things, it's not a problem to her however. A certain Martian had sent her to patrol Gotham, prehaps Bats was busy, or there was just too much in one night for even Bats to handle either way she's now in the city, airborn and having already left a group of would be muggers in the hands of some rather jerkish cop named Bullock she's headed on her way. When she gets a call over the comm about the signal.

< I'm on it. >

The Magus is airbone and now is heading for the source of the signal, the sniper would likely see the airborn super hero. She doesn't spot the sniper just yet, she does spot the ninja however. Given how this world is? Someone sulking about the source of a singal like that, looking like that? Totally an assassin right? So Cass might pick up something dropping towards her from above. Still she is checking around that ninja might not be alone. Either as she swoops in on the ninja.

"Hey you!" Prehaps she might get the sniper's attention however as she's not doing much to hide her self.

"I don't need your /opinion/, Tony!" Mr. Gibraldi finally slips over the edge he's been inching toward for hours now, having received an anonymous tip regarding his imminent assassination. An e-mail arrived, encrypted via protocols used only by his offshore trading company, bearing a simple warning; and an image. A fearsome wolf's head enclosed within a circle. It doesn't mean much to him, but that only makes it scarier.

"I need a goddamn hero, okay! That's what I need. And what do I have? Meatheaded idiots like you two." The large, dark-suited target of his rage takes a half-step back, shaking his head and looking back toward the nearest window, scanning it with rattled caution. A hand fumbles for the safety on his handgun, checking for the twentieth or thirtieth time that it remains off. He might need to open fire in a hurry.

Meanwhile, the businessman receives his desire, albeit not in the form he might expect. Ember's dive carries her just out of Cassandra's visual range, at least for a moment - Cassie's eyes slip alternately left and right as she climbs, taking in her peripherals. She doesn't expect to encounter anyone, having chosen this spot for precisely that reason. But it's Gotham. You don't sleep on the city streets for several years without learning how unpredictable and dangerous it can be. Which is why she doesn't jump when the cry rings out, doesn't start climbing faster even. No. She swings out to her left, tilting as she makes a deft hop.

Beneath the mask, she releases a relieved breath, fingertips sliding out of a pouch at her waist.

And then the mysterious ninja reaches up to pull her mask down, feet set on the wall and motionless as she reaches for one of her so-rare smiles, directing it up through the drizzle toward the other girl. She's hoping she's at least somewhat recognizable; but she knows not everyone's so quick-sighted as she, so she leaves her hands as visible as she can - considering she needs to maintain a grasp on the rope. She's harmless, a friend.

Although, like Ember assumes, she's totally an assassin. One of the world's deadliest.

Ember just knows that something's up right now, and she's uncertain of the details but there clearly is a ninja here and likelyc ould be the assassin. Her radar is not totally off at least. She does however, she pauses for a moment. Wait was that the girl she was with when she ran into the Jester's nightmarish twin? It clearly is what is Pusher Girl doing here. She's got to wonder that. That can't be the problem is it if it is that strange girl. Why would she help her then go try to kill someone else. At least that's how she sees it. She now looks at the ninja ya it is her and she makes a gesture of what's up now? She then starts looking if her friend isn't causing problems then where's the source of the alarm...

Cassandra's jovial expression doesn't last long, fading to one of puzzlement and then concern as she observes the young homo-magi's reactions. They draw the same conclusion, in utterly different ways; something is indeed wrong. Ember's questioning gesture is returned with a single-shouldered shrug as the former drifter looks around, peering around the frame she's lodged against, into the plate glass of the skyscraper. It's not clearly visible from more than a few feet away, but she makes out Gibraldi and his bodyguards--

Right before a shot rings out. In the still of the night, a round fired from a gun that powerful can't be missed. A yell echoes from inside the building, where the bullet has missed its mark, instead finding a bank of servers against the far wall. Mr. Gibraldi is huddled beneath a desk, sweating and cursing as his guards take position on the other side. It's in that moment that fires break out, spreading quick and fierce.

Fire alarms are due a beat later. The sprinkler system goes off. It all happens in moments.

Wide hazel eyes find Ember's through the downpour - and even if Cassandra were the talkative type, there's be no time for anything more than a barked command - because they need to move. Her mouth draws to a line, her hand motions toward the window behind her, and then she's off in a flash, scaling up the building. Twelve feet are covered rapidly before she /leaps/, both legs propelling her powerfully, her grapnel-rope unwinding until it snaps and drags her back in toward the skyscraper. Glass shatters instantly.

Cass lands in a roll, separated from the quarry and his men by an open door, leaving the rope trailing behind her as she darts her gaze around rapidly. Another shout echoes from within, the second man, black and very muscular, finding her and quickly drawing a bead with his semi-automatic. That happens in another moment.

In the next building along, invisible to all concerned, the sniper is reloading.

Now wasn't the time for talking No it wasn't at all the time for talking as the rain comes down, her own green eyes lock with Cass' for a moment before she now starts to seek out the sound of a gun fireing. AS Cass heads on she knows one shot came from the outside. She's got to find the gunman, prehaps she wll she now seeks out looking she heard the shot and is trying to track it back to it's point of origin.

Ember's efforts will be swiftly rewarded as the gunman returns to the window, ready to draw aim again. He's not that quick in doing so - and given his near-miss upon Gibraldi, this might indicate a general lack of competence on the assassin's behalf. It may take her a moment or three to locate him though, clad in black and situated in a building about a hundred yards from the outer edge of the target skyscraper. As she draws near, she'll probably notice not so much the man himself, as an apparent ally one floor up. NOT clad in black.

And not carrying a sniper rifle either. The thick, heavy muzzle of a knockoff pray n' spray is thrust from the one lit window in the building, a savage grin showing on the balaclava-clad face behind it. A half-second later, the thumping rat-a-tat of submachine-gun fire lights up the night. Bullets light the air around Ember.

Cassandra has her own, rather similar problem as the handgun trained upon her expels three bullets in fast succession. The blaze of her eyes is the last thing her own assailant sees, before with a swish of ebon scarf she's simply gone; streaming away from the field of fire and blurring through the room as she strafes from wall-to-wall, ending up before the open door. One more bullet finds the air before she launches herself upward, legs spread against the frame below, back planted against the plasterboard.

"Sonuva..." The black man's hands are shaking as he stalks forward, either too focused or too rattled to notice the slowly spreading fire in the corner of the room. The sprinklers aren't able to stop it; the flame is of electrical origin, water simply sizzling and popping where it strikes, providing the oxygen required to further fan the blaze. It's likely to consume the room within a few minutes.

Ember has spotted the figure in the window as he's attempting to line up another shot. Ember is not intending to give the man a chance to fire, she focuses her powers, and seems to shimmer with shadows as she lets lose her own powers upon herself. She then makes for building, while moving in a zig zag pattern to prevent her being so easily shot. She is not sure how many of them are in there, but she keeps moving in. The back up however is armed with some sort of weapon and she's comming under fire, she dodges some odf the shots, another it defelcted by her armor but she's also hit and grazed at least on that burst. She tries to ignore the pain and fire a bolt of flames at the guy, not intending to kill him but certainly enough force from the dark flames to ruin his day.

"Come out where I can see you! Put your hands up and we'll end this. Nobody has to die."

Mr. Gibraldi's man keeps advancing as he speaks, finger shuddering on the trigger, his gun the slightest squeeze from firing. From her perch atop the doorframe, Cassandra draws a slow, shallow inbreath, holding it once it's in. The resulting silence lets her hear each footfall perfectly even over the spitting spread of flame inside, even over the businessman's sobs from beneath his desk. Across the room, the other bodyguard is leaning out of the window near the sniper's side-- near Ember's side...

"Shit," he suddenly hisses, the dispassion in his tone resulting through utter astonishment as he watches the metahuman's burst of return fire (pun intended) explode against the next building along. The hail of gunfire stops immediately, a high shriek taking over, his dark clothing ignited and skin rapidly scalding beneath. Hitting the floor, he drops his gun, which lets off an erratic burst, serving as additional warning for his murderous comrades on the level below.

The sniper himself has withdrawn, ducking back into the shadows, where the other two men await with their own weapons drawn - one, the 'muscle' by his size, unsheathing a heavy combat knife and swinging open the rear door. The building is otherwise abandoned, an office for rent full of corridors lit dimly only by the occasional economy lightbulb; part of the backup system restored by the assassins to aid in their night's work. "Let's get the hell out of here. Gibraldia's gonna die in that blaze - there's no way, we saw to that. What's he gonna do? Jump out the frackin' window?"

His companion, armed with a shorn-off shotgun - a thug's weapon if ever there was - nods grimly and steps to the door. Serving as a pointman, armed with the perfect brutal weapon to see them through any resistance in the narrow corridors. But who would possibly offer any? What does anybody plan for in Gotham?

The naked face of Gotham's night holds more stories than most cities could even make up. The crooked, marked man. The armed, quietly terrified men around him. The markers of other corruption that burn in the spreading heat. The Batman watches it light up the night. From across the street, above the sniper; above his cover. Ember won't even glimpse him, if the Dark Knight has his way. He slips like a spectre to the reverse side of the structure and drops, at some point affixing a batline to the apex of his drop. He lands silent against the outer window of an abandoned office, and swifly manipulates the lock open, slipping in just as soundlessly. The loudest part of the Detective's arrival is the window -clck-ing back shut behind him, before Batman is out and into the halls between officespace, rapidly moving to intersect the predictable retreat of the pressed thugs.

They move into the shadows; they seek solace in the dark. They actually almost walk right past the Dark Knight, in their haste and attention on the wrong details. The still, black-clad ninja against the wall doesn't even draw notice, until the pointman's shotgun goes off; into the ceiling. The heavy stock and barrel is parallel against - and sort of /into/ the killer's face, his hand twisted nastily, possibly broken, in the grip where it drags down the trigger uselessly, spending the weapon entirely until the unlikely event it's reloaded. The cape flutters, the Batman ascends, gone in a flourish of motion as he presses himself ceilingward, lost in the dark before any of the assassins even get a good /look/. Yes, they have numbers. Not nearly enough numbers. A batarang blinking with a single, blue LED whips through the air with the quietest whoosh at the back of the large, knife-wielding man's head.

"What the /FUCK/?" one thug helpfully inquires. The point man just screams, and clutches at his hand and face. He's probably having trouble seeing due to pain and shock. Most people aren't used to this shit.

Ember isn't out to kill, that's the hardest thing to worry about with her powers. She tends to use less than perhaps she should due to it, but none the less she's got one handled, however the sniper is hiding into the shadows. Fine she's going to try to get in and the dark works for her it works very well she'll try to make her way in and just fade into the shadows as she'll stalk the two thugs.

Whelp there goes that plan as it seems someone else has showen up, Batman may indeed be the night, but she does make use of her own abilities to ambush the one asking what's going on. Who'd get an armored fist to the fast.

"Game over."

"I /told/ you to come out!"

The bodyguard's tone is becoming less stable as he approaches the doorway, shaken by the events of the evening and by the strange, disappearing ninja he's trying to reach. Cassie remains motionless and inaudible, not shifting one tiny inch until the barrel of his pistol begins to peek through the portal below. In that instant, her dark eyes narrow to slits, and then she moves, a decade and a half of relentless conditioning propelling her away from the wall; seeing her twist like an acrobat, then thrust her legs out simultaneously, taking the massive man in the chin with both bootheels.

-crack-

Across the street, the more experienced vigilante's batarang collides with oxlike cranium. A startled, enraged grunt becomes a roar as the handy-dandy gadget releases an electric current directly into the knifeman's skull. With his brain partway scrambled, his first reaction is to run facefirst into the wall, stumbling and staggering to right himself in the correct direction before he charges again - this time at the Batman.

It's the first time he's had his lumpen, scarred visage facing the Dark Knight; who should have ample time to notice, during the approach, that the hired muscle wears a set of infrared goggles over his beady eyes. He's snarling as he leaps, making a wild but potentially eviscerating slash up into the darkness. Whoever these amateurs are, they've clearly been armed by someone with resources to spare. That also explains the sniper rifle, aimed down the corridor toward the resulting melee. The scope's useless at such range, of course...

But these men are reckless, hardly afraid to shoot from the hip. He pulls the trigger.

-crack-

Cassandra hits the floor in a crouch as her poor victim is thrown backward, gun flying from his hands as all two hundred pounds of his honed physique impacts the carpet. Gibraldi lets out an unstifled yell of, "Oh god!" The desk he's hiding beneath suddenly topples as he kicks back against it, both arms wrapping around his balding head, body lost to the quivering terror of a man who knows he's seconds from dying.

But the raven-haired girl is already moving past him, a black blur as she swoops through the dimly-lit office, upon the businessman's second line of defense in the instant before he can level his own shaking gun-arm. The sad vibration of his semi-automatic becomes a sharp clatter as she raises a leg, toe catching the barrel just as the trigger is pulled. A shot rings out, leaving an ugly hole in the ceiling; and then there's a second sharp impact as she swiftly swaps legs, planting that foot to sweep high with the other.

He's down with a bloody nose immediately, struggling not to vomit as Cass kicks his weapon away.

"No," she says; in somebody else's voice.

-crack-

That one's all Ember's, as her gauntlet finds the face of Batman's second assailant, coming hot on the tail of his desperate high-calibre round. He releases a stream of saliva as his head snaps to one side, the rifle tumbling from his grip as he goes down to his knees, barely catching himself on one arm to avoid collapsing completely. But it seems he can take a punch, at least, and he's in motion immediately.

"Didn't they tell you," he grates out past clenched teeth, whipping himself around, a heavy boot snapping out to try and take the homo-magus in the shin. "It's no game, kid! This is /life and death/." Grinning savagely, he goes scrabbling for his gun - it may be expended, but it makes a damn fine club. "This is the League of Assassins, you dumb bitch!!" Well, at least that part was easy.

The sniper's return fire was one reason why Batman hauled himself up into the shadows of the ceiling. It's still a good reason to fend off that angry, disoriented slashing with his cape. The blade's impact still stings, may bruise, but it doesn't cut the fabric of the Dark Knight's own portable shadow. It also allows the assailaint to press the attack, to rush in nice and close, as the Batman crouches back against the doorjam, supporting himself above with one hand... the round fires off, and so does the Bat. In the seconds between shots, less if he has the right rifle; Batman makes it count. He springs off the wall nearly parallel with the ceiling, snapping the large man's hair in his previously defending gauntlet. At his velocity, the towering thug's head is sent lurching painfully back, before a wad of his hair comes ripping out rather audibly.

The things he says. "Would have been easier on you if you'd just stayed down." Most men don't keep coming after a taser to the neck. This guy's special, but not in the right ways for the situation he's in. The Dark Knight can already see Ember's got his last friend in the world taken care of, and besides that... size isn't everything. In his moment of doubt and pain the Batman strikes, lunging in almost singular motion to drive a forearm and elbow into the again-charging man's midsection, all his weight and momentum betraying him as his ribcage visibly shifts and reseats, utterly jarred. The staggered mountain of a malcontent mauls the drywall as he rebounds off it with a resounding crash, and falls groaning in the hallway.

There's only a brief nod to Ember, now. He restrains the three men quicky, then the Dark Knight moves past her to the sniper's perch, batgrapple already in his hand, sounding out the hiss off a compressed line an instant later. They're not done here, as far as he knows.

Ember says, "You know I'm kinda of hungry." She gets a rather not nice grin on the guy's face now, however they seem to be handled at this point. Bats can get the gunman as she stares down the last one, dark energy shimmers bout her hand. He comes in at her with it like a club she'll attempt to weave out of the way then black tendrils will come out of her hand trying to latch onto the man and start to drain him. It won't kill him but he'll get weaker and weaker should she be able to get ahold of him. To the point he'd not be able to stand.

"An Assassin should be well informed about their target, you are not."

"Me too, precious," replies Ember's sneering assailant as she ducks aside from his clumsy blow. Shifting grip on the rifle butt, he steps in closer, lasciviously rolling a fat tongue over his lips. "How about you n' me get-- hngh!" His ill-judged threat dies at conception, black tendrils coursing over his body as he attempts to stumble forward in weak-willed desperation. Equipped these men may be, but they're not trained for this.

They're barely trained at all. He's on his knees in seconds, clawing at the ground as though he means to drag himself toward Ember, as though he might do any good if he can reach her. His grip on the rifle is already failing, quivering fingers trailing it across the floor beside him, and then with one last snarl he stills. Batman is free to restrain him and his partners; though he might note as he does that the larger has some seriously bulging veins on him. Not healthy, that. Probably not /natural/.

Meanwhile, the Bat's odd little protege doesn't hang around, leaving the cowed men to their own devices; unarmed, she's sure they can be no threat. If they've got sense, they should realize by now she's not here to murder. If she'd had any such design she could have taken out all three of them. It seems to have sunk in.

Our would-be victim is a slightly different matter. He's deep in confusion, irrational and scared.

Naturally, Cassandra's the last person he wants to interact with right now; but he's malleable in his fear. Breathing a sigh behind her ebon scarf, she reaches down to haul him by shoulder and wrist, directing a pair of quick, cautious glares to his downed men before she pulls Gibraldi through the room. The smell in the office is acrid now; the flames coating a third of the floor and still sizzling away under the patter of the sprinklers. It's not the kind of blaze that's going to be extinguished, and that's why they have to move.

Once she reaches the next room, the raven-haired girl directs her 'captive' to one side. Moving fast though keeping her motions exact, not rushing the process - keeping her head - she steps to the rope already trailing from the roof. The street below is too far to take the man with her; she's got a lot in that utility belt, just not the two hundred plus feet she'd require to safely lower him. But the alarms are going off.

That means fire service, it means /police/. And the building has a helipad.

By the time Batman and Ember should arrive, she's removed the belts around her waist and thighs, adjusting them appropriately to fashion a makeshift harness. Being of the Dark Knight's own design, they're naturally strong enough to bear the average adult male. The trick is going to be getting Mr. Gibraldi into it...

"D-Don't kill me," he stammers, throwing up his hands as she reaches to pull him toward her. Frowning, Cassandra steps back, puts up her own arms and repeats what she told his bodyguards, "No." Although it's kinder this time, only as much as she can make it with her painfully limited vocal chords. An adamant shake of her head makes it clearer, coupled with a gesture toward the harness. He doesn't look very reassured.

The bulging, suped up shithead does give the Batman pause. He takes a few moments to stoop by the thug and take a blood sample from the man's neck, with a little black self-contained unit that looks made for just that purpose. A theory that would be confirmed by its insertion into a compartment in the Dark Knight's belt that's half of a very miniaturized biology lab.

The Dark Knight arrives at the burning building through Mr. Gibraldi's office window, crashing inward and landing in a roll amid a shower of glass and splintering wood. It's not the quietest entry of the night, but it's certainly efficient. From Ember's vantage point the view is less abrupt, Batman all but sailing on spread cape across the distance between buildings, accelerating rapidly on a powerful retracting grapple line towards that window. Microgrenades are already in his hands as he comes up, cape raised to shield his face from the worst of the smoke. They're tossed with alarming precision into central hotspots of the encroaching blaze, flame-retardant foam erupting voluminously in all directions.

To all appearances, it practically eats the fried servers like some kind of grotesque sci-fi b-horror monster. There's always the chance there's data to preserve, for one thing. "Who hired them to kill you? Be more useful to me than /barbecue/." Never mind that he'd never let the fire consume the building, much less any of them, if he can stop it. At least slow it down for the fire department. The Dark Knight isn't immediately violently hostile. He's actually pretty calm, at a glance. Come at him brah.

Ember looks at him as she drains him she looks down at him as she stops short of harming him long term. "As I was saying. Your in over your head and I'm not much to write home about really." The wound on her leg however visbaly is mending itself, as she puts to use the drained energy. She letsout a breath and makes sure they are out of business. He looks at him for a moment as he keeps a look at the guy. She keeps draining and she says, "I'd not get up if I were you, be smart stay down. Do you want to really see what else I can do? Even if you stop me, Batman's here and do you really think you could /escape/ him in that condtion." She wonders about those Viens and that worries her something ain't right here.

It's not a subtle entrance, and one doesn't need cunning ninja senses to detect it.

Doesn't matter; what matters is that Cassandra Cain is no longer the last one standing.

The helpless CEO isn't cooperating - and Cassie knows there's no time for this. It's a moment in which many would be cursing, at least inwardly, but she allows the pressure only to further focus her. Moving like brutal silk she darts forward, easily twisting Gibraldi around and slipping him in a half-nelson. The other arm reaches for the harness and slips it around his neck, a little grappling trickery getting both his upper limbs esconced firmly before she turns him back around and shoves him through the already-shattered window.

His scream is blood-curdling, but it doesn't last long.

-click-

At a touch of the small device upon her belt, the bat-grapnel's release mechanism is triggered. The businessman is suddenly hauled breathlessly up the sheer, sleek outside of his company's vast skyscraper. He'll hit the top in a moment, though he'll be left hanging and caught in that harness until help arrives. Fortunately, his non-vocal saviour just happened to slap a beacon flare onto the back of his jacket before sending him up - it's going to be uncomfortably warm for a couple of minutes, but it should tell the arriving police helicopter precisely where he is. She just hopes the assassins were already dealt with...

And that's what she finds out a second later, darting against the doorframe and then plunging into the office beyond as Batman's capsules begin to do their work. Her guard is raised, and she's ready to leap into an evasive dive when she stops /dead/. A blink of her eyes expresses her mute astonishment as her gaze settles on the Dark Knight himself, hovering over her 'collateral damage'.

Yeah; she can probably assume the threat has been handled.

"Nngh," says Mr. Damage, trying to avert his eyes from the Bat without success, "Goddamn Batman, huh? And two minutes ago I figured I was a dead man. I can't tell you jack-shit, tall, dark and ugly. Boss got an e-mail this afternoon; /anonymous tip/, y'get me? Implied he should pick himself a suitable headstone. No name, no information, just an image attachment. Some weird animal head in a circle or somethin'. All I know, I s-" suddenly he's coughing, talking too fast and inhaling a lungful of residual smoke, "S-Swear, m-man."

"Better hope the police get a sketch, one more specific on the animal, and the /exact/ shape." If he gets the time to tell the story. By the Dark Knight's sudden motions, he means to throw him to his death. In a flurry of leveraged force, the Bat bounces the bodyguard off the wall and flips him out the window, earning a scream before bound legs support him dangling there waiting for the arriving police, as well.

Batman blasts aside the foam into more lingering flames with a small cannister of compressed air. Clearing some off the equipment, he stoops to pry open a server, "Source of the fire? All probably fried." Alas. He doesn't share Cassandra's shock at seeing him here, obviously. "Building this size'll have at least server room or two. I'm going to find where the network traffic comes in." A palmtop computer much like the one given to Ms. Cain is flipped open, the Dark Knight following the power drain, eyes on the walls, floors, ceilings. He works quickly, before the authorities finish closing off the scene and moving in.

Ember sees the guys are handled at this point. She makes sure they are secured but well? She looks at the guy for a moment "What the heck was that?" She's not sure she wants to know but she really wonders at some point once making it secure she needs to go find Pusher, and wonders just what she's doing here. She knows Bats is here to do his thing but Cass is a odd questionf for her. Either way she's going to go find her and see what she can do. She makes sure the hitmen are still secure and then she's on her way.

When the Dark Knight turns his eye to his ward, he'll see a girl much more concerned than she should be at the action he just took; she looks as close to mortified as somebody with dulled emotions could, her mouth faintly open, brow furrowed and eyes rather unnaturally widened. She's frozen for several moments before he turns toward his work, when she draws a quick breath and straightens up, reaching with one hand to push back her messy black bangs. There's little more for her to do, now; so she busies herself with the other man, hauling him from his consciousless pose on the floor to prop him against the interior wall.

Before Ember arrives, Cassandra is up and moving about the room, checking over the fallen desk. A quick rifling turns up a stack of papers - which she's about to bypass, unable to make any sense of what's on them, when a single page is dislodged from what was the output tray on Gibraldi's printer. It flutters to the floor, revealing a stylized wolf's head set against a solid black moon. Her eyes glaze, and she bites on her lip.

Which is when the homo-magus suddenly appears. Cass takes a sudden step back, uttering an uncharacteristic gasp, hands lifting with martial intent before her senses run a double-take. Seeing Ember, she settles, lowering her arms and sparing a fleeting smile for the girl as she steps forward and retrieves the page. She doesn't look further at it, pressing it against her chest as though to keep it hidden. Then she bows her head, slowly, conveying thanks as she keeps her hazel eyes firmly fixed on Ember's green.

Then she does the most surprising thing, for someone who's not heard her speak.

"Cassandra," she offers with halting care. So much for 'Pusher Girl'.

He'll be pliant, glad to help the police. Glad to turn on his corrupt boss. Glad to give all the leverage they need. Perhaps, if he's helpful an frank enough? The Batman will even help him out, down the line. Here, now? The revelations necessary to crack who's equipping assassins with military-grade hardware to hit the white collars in his town need to be unearthed. Fast.

The Dark Knight is gone for several long minutes, locating the servers, breaking into the room without leaving evidence he's done it, and dumping the system's logs and data to a series of small black thumbdrives. There's only so fast these things go. The perimeter around the building is set up, men are already moving into place to retrieve the fellow up near the roof, trying very hard not to wriggle by the time the Batman moves back into the room, scanning from Cassandra to Ember. "We should move. There'll be more answers soon." Gordon's men will do their pass on the evidence while Batman looks for more... then does his own.

Ember looks at Cass grins a little bit and oddly while her gear shows the breach from where she got tagged with the bullet? There's not damage there save some red flesh the sort you see on wound that's almost healed. She grins says, "Good to meet you Cassander and better than the nick name I had for you." She looks a little amused before she takes a glance about. "Hopefully that's everything..."

How does Bats show up like that so far as she knows he's got no 'unatural powers' the level of his skill clearly more than makes up for it. "Understood we shouldn't get in the cops way, also do you know a Officer named Bullock? I dropped some hoods off to him eariler and he seemed to be in an foul mood about my delivery." She notes before she moves to follow.

Giving one's name... it's a risk at any point, but it seemed appropriate here. They've each made a save for one another-- and the other girl seems lost, like she was, and still partly is. Forced to run from something, she thinks, or trying to run /to/ something. It's hard to be entirely sure. There's a well-meaning air to the metahuman that she hopes now won't translate into freely sharing a name given in confidence. Perhaps she can afford one last extension of trust; twice in one week probably won't kill her.

Brushing her thoughts aside, Cassandra offers one last nod to Ember before she slips in beside the Batman, making toward the broken window. A hand slips to her waist, unhooking a grapnel-gun much like the one she's left up on the roof. She purloined a matched pair from the Batcave; because you never know when you'll need to make a second getaway. She's taking aim when Ember addresses her second question, and holds fire for a moment, glancing up toward the Dark Knight. They have to disappear - and go their separate ways, naturally - but she'll wait for his cue before she disappears into the rain-slick night.

The Batman considers Ember for a moment. He still hasn't managed to track down her evil counterpart, and she seems prone to seeking out trouble of other sorts regardless. It's hard to read the stoic chiseled face behind and beneath the cowl, and the Batman offers only a deadpanned, "Ask Detective Bullock about the incident with the school bus." It's probably not a good idea.

There's a nod to Cassandra, and then the Dark Knight is out the window, in freefall; air rushes past his cape, spread in shadowy bat-themed parachute, the dangling men getting an impromptu encore as the Detective descends. His own grapnel doesn't even appear until halfway to the street, used to arc his landing over the police cordon, tumbling back to his feet as the batmobile rolls up purring, the sleek black armored hybrid of a supercar and APC already making way for the Batman via sliding canopy as he tucks away his grapple gun.

2012-02-15 - Ghosts

2012-02-17T07:31:59Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Ghosts |Summary=Identity shouldn't be a revelation; trust, and friendship, should not be rare commodities in a life. But to a precious few, to the ghosts t..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Ghosts
|Summary=Identity shouldn't be a revelation; trust, and friendship, should not be rare commodities in a life. But to a precious few, to the ghosts that walk among us, these things can neither be taken for granted nor offered freely. To share these things is to construct a bond of fire-forged steel. And so it begins...
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]]
|Date=2012-15-02
|Where=The Batcave
|}}

The heart of the Batcave, arguably, is the array and supercomputer heart of the network. What some call the batcomputer. Near that, however, is a triple-reinforced portal to the hardened command center. It's not a panic room in the traditional sense; if Batman locks himself in here, chances are anyone outside should work on panicking. The three levels have a basic interface with the house's advanced security and a simple set of displays, an escape hatch into the space beneath the main chamber, and of course... three levels of every tool, workstation, gadget, gizmo, and prototype armor component known (and some unknown) to man. Sometimes, the models go missing. Sometimes, Wayne R&D sells them to Batman through another channel. See, for instance, the cabinets full enough throwing weapons and microgrenades to take out three ninja armies. Contingency plan #374, if one must know. They cycle open as the Dark Knight walks down the hardened corridor ahead of Cassandra. His cape and cowl are left behind, the perfect example of the Law of Conservation of Ninjutsu now revealed as not idea, but mere man. Maybe.

"I won't be able to mass produce the cloaking ninja power armor for a decade at best, even if our 'I'm Batman'..." Terry does a great Bruce voice. It seems Bruce already does a great Terry voice. It's just dry enough to be neutral on whether it's mocking or simply illustrating. "friend did muck up the timeline and doom us all to Terminators far too advanced for our day..." He says it with 100%, deadpan seriousness; but Bruce is smirking. It gives it away. "but I get by. Take this." It's a small, palm-sized device. Computer, commlink, media center. "Each device has a nanite RFID code that communicator can read. Codes change regularly, and I'll update your comm personally. We'll start by assessing what you.. think .. you're already proficient in." The Batman smiles slightly at that, turning to toss the commlink to Cassandra.

"One more thing." Before the girl gets to go christmas shopping. Batman's deadly serious, this time, eyes intent on Cassandra as he stoops down to the not-urchin's level once more, "Tonight you were reckless. You've been trained to be reckless, you've been trained to forego a lot of things I believe are indispensible, I suspect. The first is compassion. It's what seperates us from them, it's why we protect. We both understand the horrible violence that snuffing out a life does onto others, often in ways we can never expect. You've seen it in Gotham's streets." The Dark Knight's seen enough to be sure of that. "We have to be uncompromising in making the world... better; but you understand that."

He's rambling. Going on about the crusade. Dick says he does it all the time, all intense and stern - just like he's being now. That he can't shut up about his damn convictions, and how everyone has to yadda yadda. Bruce furrows his brow, "Other people's intentions for you only decide your course if you want them to." He offers simply, instead. A different topic entirely, at a glance. "You don't get to throw your life away if you're going to work with me, though. My training's /too valuable/." It's gruff. Overly warm, too. The point should be clear enough. "The first person you have to get behind 150% here is your own damn self."

The words 'formal education' are bizarre and foreign to Cassandra Cain, much like the array of technological treats she's confronted with in this sanctum-cum-treasure-trove. Anybody else would be staring around wide-eyed, attempting to at least understand the vastness of what they face - and likely failing as a result. She's seen and heard enough already to know that this display, this sprawling collection of wondrous mechanical and electronic artefacts, is an extension of the man who calls himself Batman. It's him she watches, deeply thoughtful since the moment of the reveal, and still lodged partway into her uncertainty.

It was hard not to simply leave; or try to. She'd been lied to. Led into an existence on false terms. From a child's perspective - and emotionally, that's precisely what she is - it was both hurtful and confusing. That it doesn't begin to measure up to the first brutal revelation in her life has been a saving grace, and a guiding light. The oversized garment she's still wearing, clinging to it more than it's clearing to her - like Bruce may have preferred to cling to his cape and cowl - was the gesture that began all this, and ultimately provided the clearing point. The cold, killer's logic she's applied to this whole mess shows her clearly...

The coat is an anomaly. He didn't have to do that. It was an unnecessary kindness.

Which, in fact, makes it a genuine one. An island of truth in the sea of confusion.

She's still watching Bruce's face when he tosses her that unfamiliar device. Without so much as blinking, she lifts a hand to catch it deftly, the natural skill of his throw answered by her own steady arm. It slides naturally and easily into her palm, and only then does she turn her gaze downward. Her brow creases at his explanation, detailing therein things she's never had to understand-- she has an amount of technical aptitude through watching others work, but the term 'nanite RFD code' in particular eludes her. 'Communicator' is a bit clearer, and it's what she focuses on. Ingest now, digest later. True understanding takes time.

It's slipped to her side as she meets his eye, taking in at her periphery the rest of the chamber. She does it without breaking contact or focus. Everything her vision encompasses is taken in and processed; not just the obvious, not the narrow-eyed attention that a normal person might pay. At the word 'reckless' she nods, mouth pulling into a grim line. He's right. She took a big risk, especially in front of somebody like Catwoman. There's no guilt in her expression, but neither is their stubborn pride or headstrong insistence that she was correct in her summation of the situation. After all, if she flawless she wouldn't have taken that bullet.

To illustrate that thought, a hand drifts toward her chest, pressing lightly over her ribcage.

She understands.

Compassion is covered by the same gesture, though her eyes also tell a tale there. She's got the look of one who's seen beyond the veil, that haunted but stony-eyed flicker of one who's watched death come and take a toll; who's been face-to-face and eye-to-eye with the Reaper. Her breathing deepens subtly, too. It still bothers her, that moment, as does the instant in which she saw Red Hood's victim fall...

His final point cuts deepest, however, and she comes within a microsecond of taking a step back. Believing in herself? She believes in what she can do. She knows how dangerous she is. But that's not what he means; there's too much kindness in his voice, in his eyes and even in the body language he hides so well. She's seen people on the street laughing and loving, seen the trust they have in each other - the respect and... the belief. That sort of belief. The reason that people continue to strive, beyond survival.

The thing that makes them people.

Swallowing tight, she suppresses a shiver and nods, drawing a deep, chest-heaving breath. As it releases, she lets the thought settle in her mind, and glances slowly away - to either side, both getting a closer look at and acknowleding the rooms around them. When her gaze comes back to Batman, it's with her head tilted to the side in mute question; though the silence doesn't last long. She has to pause for a moment to frame the words, a tiny croak coming out before she can manage to do for the second time what she's not done in far too long. Because for all the trial that believing in herself is going to be, she wonders...

"And you?" She wonders if /he's/ behind himself. She wonders if it gets any easier.

Sometimes, Batman sees eight moves ahead and every player in the game. More times than he lets on? The Dark Knight only sees one thing: what needs to be done, and where that path diverges ahead of him. It's practically his ingrained instinct, at this point. Of course, many disagree on his definitions, and sometimes the methods. Like tracking an urchin with a gift. Some scream ulterior motives, that this was all part of his plan. In this case there's an element of the ludicrous to it.

Who could have expected the master assassin to be in Gotham on a mission of peace and charity? Certainly not Bruce Wayne; though she did need a coat. Batman... Batman needed to be sure. To keep the girl alive, one way or another, for one thing. It's the whole point of what he says now. "The day I can't rely on myself to give more, is the day I never wear this suit again." He notes with dead certainty and frankness, looking Cassandra evenly in the eye. He doesn't work to conceal, now. That doesn't bring him -much- closer to Bruce Wayne, though. It adds facial expressions, nuances, more than restores them. Bruce Wayne is a laid back playboy philosopher. The Batman is very much not. Not really. For one thing he, too, understands death more intimately than most, despite his abject refusal to deal it.

"You're frustrated enough to take it to the street. You have enough sense to do it well more than half the time, too." High praise, considering the source. "Have courage and hope enough to believe you can actually /win/?" Bruce looks downright wolfish, here. Sure, the war is neverending. Doesn't stop a man from trying to stop it, now does it?

Living on the street, a person understands not who Batman is; but what he means. As a symbol, that suit and the man within hold a potency that Cassandra's unable to communicate through the simple means at her disposal. She'd have to play a strange and elaborate game of charades to describe the terror he inspires. She's seen grown men reduced to sobs by the promise of a visit by the cowled vigilante, heard his name whispered in mixed awe and venemous hatred - the kind that /only/ fear can ignite. She's seen the intoxication of infamy in those she was trained by, and most of all in her father and his closest compatriot.

That Bruce Wayne would gladly give up the cowl if he believed he fell short is testament to his nature. Few men could. Fewer still could carry that weight in the first place, of course, but having tasted it... having been that person. Without preamble she suddenly reaches out, making no apology as she gently runs her fingers across his chest, or rather; over the chest of the suit, over the embossed symbol of his dark office.

She has enough sense to...? Suddenly she draws her hand back as though stung. His wild stare is returned with raised brows and an askance glance of utmost caution, not one of weakness in truth - but one hunter staring at another who has suddenly elevated themselves above that rank. He's brought her in here, spoken of training her, and she's not questioned for what. Rehabilitation? The safety of others? No. Something else.

"Don't even know..." She speaks faster this time, but then loses herself with a frown, as though the effort were tiring her more than any bullet wound could. More than not eating for days, sleeping for hastily grabbed hours between the chaos of the street. There are many kinds of resilience; most take what they have for granted, but what she has is well-earned. What she doesn't, she has never had the opportunity to learn. Abandoning the sentence, she draws herself up, certain now that she owes something. Because they can't continue like this, not if what he's insinuating is true.

So she speaks a word she's not heard for nine long years. It's an important word.

"Cassandra."

Each syllable comes halting, but with a hard determination that carries through to her eyes and to her stance. She can't lead for herself, she can't /be/ herself, if she's not herself. It's important that they both know who they are, and time she admitted it to herself. She's not a thing.

Things have neither courage nor hope. Things don't have names.

He can probably take this as a 'yes'.

Batman inspires fear into the hearts of those who have reason to be afraid. At least, that's what the Dark Knight likes to tell himself. Usually, it's fairly true. "Cassandra." He echoes it, "Bruce." It's simple, frank. He gestures to himself, mimicing the motions her introduction held, the determined set to eye and jaw. He agrees fully. "If I'm not mistaken, they told you you could use fear to mete out judgement, to find mastery over your fellow men. That by mastering your fear and understanding it in others, there would be no prey that could elude you, no trap you could not foresee, no death you could not escape. The only price of this supposed immortality was obedience to a merciless overlord that believed not in salvation but damning the whole of humanity to the pit."

The voice is dark, deep. Ominous. The Bat's own spine likely chills as he intones, "Ra's al Ghul."

"No saviour, but a madman. We both learned it. It takes people -better- than the ones /he/ wants to stop him, Cassandra. Alienated by unwelcome foresight, indeed." The reference is likely lost on the honed blade, but Bruce's sentiment is clear enough where the League is concerned. Where the entire /Society/ is concerned.

"They're not immune to fear."

It's actually liberating, to hear her summation was correct. One thing to live as a calculating weapon, making judgements you are programmed to make, but quite another to have your prepossessing wit and careful analyses verified by another. If nothing else, to actually communicate beyond the simplest of gestures; and beyond fist and foot, is perhaps the greatest gift she has been given this past week and a half. Even including the oversized and very expensive coat.

A smile is almost on her lips, a faint quirk at one edge expressing genuine pleasure for one of the first and only times she can remember feeling it. A purpose, a name, and the right to choose. What more could a budding human being ask for? That the blissful moment is short-lived brings her back to a reality she's yet to fully leave, and it does so in fair dramatic fashion. She can see Bruce's misgivings before he voices that unique moniker, feel what he feels before he'd expect her to echo anything. It builds to a quick crescendo.

Breath leaves her nose in a hard, fierce snort. Her brow furrows deep.

"Fear," she echoes after a moment, with absolute certainty in her tone, "Weapon." She's studying Batman with a closeness mirroring earlier analysis of his form now - it's almost as though they've first met all over again, though there's a further gleam of understanding in her eyes. One that becomes apparent as to its source when she suddenly sinks her posture, dropping halfway into a horse-stance, solid and unyielding in her root. Her hands hover close around her torso, palms out to form about the rip of a rounded pyramid.

It's a drill from teachings they've both had; one of the first, most basic and most fundamental.

The goal - to penetrate the guard around the torso, to get between the guarding palms from a fixed stance.

But she's not so much inviting him to 'play' as confirming what she's suspected for some time.

She completes the trifecta, the formula that frames her question. Fear... weapon... "Bruce."

She doesn't do anything halfway. Or 3/4 of the way. That Rule is likely to be rather easy for Cassandra Cain. Bruce sees that right away. The ease and urgency of motion, the discipline already drilled into her skull. Getting her to find and address the parts of that conditioning that lessen her.. that may be the real challenge. There's a vague sort of smile on his face as he considers her stance easily, too easily, thoughtful. Isn't that challenge the same for all of us? Bruce rises, too gracefully. The larger man doesn't approach, not at first, he considers his quarry. His stance is almost relaxed, but not. Weight back slightly. Body ready to move everywhere at once. It's easy to imagine the analytical ready posture cloaked by a cape, even more unreadable and unnerving.

"They drill so hard, so uniformly, to condition thought and obedience." Batman observes quietly, all but unmoving, shifting and breathing and studying Cassandra's own stance a moment. "The kind of people Ra's seeks excel under stress, and in creating the ideas and actions that can shape the future.. for good or ill. To bend them to his own sick vision is perverse, all but unforgiveable." Yes, that would include Ms. Cain. Perhaps Bruce himself, at one time. "Did you know al Ghul is centuries old?"

It's stunning news, in most circles. The implications of the Lazarus Pits, of the state of Ra's al Ghul's demented will and ego... and the level of skill and experience the Demon's Head wields. Cassandra should know. "/Too/ much time." Bruce is in motion in the moment of surprise, layering surprise atop it. He takes his position, though not so much in the normal, drill-instructed place, so much as /right in Cassandra's grill/, stepping up to the girl's guard with a nigh-instant aplomb that borders on a strike itself, the Detective all but appearing on her flank.

Bruce's ice blue eyes look down to the waiflike master. His dark brows arch. His right fist lurches in, with pinpoint, perfect precision for the 'target'. There's alarming force applied in that half-inch of sheer acceleration, incredible force in the powering limb. For that scant space. It deccelerates just as quickly into - if not utterly through - Cassandra's guard, as Bruce shifts his own weight into that space. That kind of speed, that kind of precision and conservation of movement, there are scarce few humans on the planet who can begin to compare to it.

One of them is the one who taught Bruce Wayne how to do it. The solo killer perhaps more frightening than the League's entire roster. The master of assassins known as Lady Shiva. It's only fair that the Detective pass it on to her unknowing heir. "We will encircle our enemies by knowing them better than they know themselves, by turning their fear back on the terrorists that spread it. We will be invincible by being imperceptible in our means and motivations from moment to moment." It's not really a new mantra. As old as war itself; but war? War never changes.

As her unknown mother's former pupil approaches, Cassandra's expression is frank in its illegibility. She cannot be read facially; because she IS the stance, she is the drill. Even reunited with her name, the simple facts of her training do not change - when thus focused she's a weapon, as she was in the museum, and when having her wound cleaned and tended. With the fires of her martial will lit, she's a living flame. A thing that burns until utterly, forcibly snuffed. It's dangerous; it's self-consuming.

And she's lived with it for the full sum of her life, never knowing anything more until now.

So intent is she, that the revelation of her intended master's lifespan barely forces a blink from those hardened hazel eyes. Her brows flutter briefly against the messy overhang of her dark fringe, but that's it. At least to those of ordinary sight - Bruce, Batman, will see that she needs to retighten her stance, the tiny motions of stablising muscles twitching within her otherwise flawless frame. No, she didn't know. There's a lot of things she doesn't seem to know; it's a sign of how young she must have been, when she ran.

'Yes', her lips phrase without sound. It is too much time. Too much pain. Too many lives.

And then he /moves/. Her response is precisely as quick, her upper body twisting in a smooth movement from the centre; qua opening and closing alternately to shift the guard, to keep her torso covered. Her palms caress the imagined pyramid, tilting subtly to the incoming fist, reading it flawlessly it seems-- until the last, when she draws a sharp breath. Yes; she merely thinks it that time, as he penetrates, as his forthright blow scrapes through the small pace between her hands. She almost stops him, a struggle ensuing over the space of a quarter-second, but the pressure is perfect; she could only resist by breaking stance. There's no time.

The strike may not land, but she can imagine the pain. More: she can see it, and feel it through the seeing. She shows it with a faint narrowing of her eyes, confidence shining within. Pain is something a person submits to; and she would not have let herself be ruled, by it or by anyone. Gently she relaxes, slipping her fingertips to Bruce's wrist and guiding it away with an undemanding shove. A beat later her right fist meets the open left, calloused knuckle meeting calloused palm with level grace. She inclines her head. It's not submissive - it's respectful, no bend of back or knee to profess anything more than that. He's been named, and she has given hers in turn; by origin they're the same. In this circle at least, they are peers.

She straightens before responding to his words, tasting them first, rolling them about in her brain. He can see the gears grinding as she carefully assimilates, neither rushing nor presuming at any point. Her own words are too precious to be thrown away citing understanding she does not have. And then, finally...

"Yes," this time she does say it, a smile quirking her lips, two raised fingertips pointing between she and the Batman, "Ghosts." It echoes on so many levels; what they are, what they intend to be. And it comes, too, from the past. Her father's first lesson was thus: 'trust is a ghost'. Here and now, she has found trust.

And trust - like death, and like fear - flies on black wings.

It's a strike that simultaneously is more and less deadly than the majority of its contemporaries. Almost a paradox, really. Something that works because of its eccentricities. "Ghosts." The Dark Knight agrees, offering out a clasping hand to Cassandra's, that of comrades. There's no pretense of it being a game, no illusions between warriors. It's deadly serious, they have to be better than unstoppable to survive. "But first, soup." He starts back up out of the vault, where Cassandra will spend some time in the next hours and days assembling and familiarizing herself with a utility belt and suit's worth of accessories. For now, Alfred made gazpacho.

Batman/Rogues

2012-02-17T03:12:46Z

Brock: Created page with "{| |- | 60px | style=color:#fff|'''The Joker''' Back to Arkham peacefully. Baiting me to come for yo..."

{|
|-
| [[File:Kiss_the_cook.gif|center|60px]]
| style=color:#fff|[[Joker|'''The Joker''']] Back to Arkham peacefully. Baiting me to come for you. What are you planning, clown?
|-
| [[File:Missing.jpg|center|60px]]
| style=color:#fff|[[Red Hood|'''The Red Hood''']] I know what building an infrastructure looks like; but you're building it from discarded, corrupt blocks. To what inevitably doomed purpose?
|-
| [[File:Missing.jpg|center|60px]]
| style=color:#fff|[[Catwoman|'''Catwoman''']] Maybe if you hadn't been there to rob the place, it would've ended differently. Wake up and see what's going on around you, Selina.
|-}

Liberty Belle

2012-02-17T02:34:42Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Liberty Belle II |Image=200px |Name=Jesse Chambers |Alias=Belle |Species=Metahuman |Age=23 |Affiliation=[[Justice Society of ..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Liberty Belle II
|Image=[[Image:JesseChambers.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Jesse Chambers
|Alias=Belle
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=23
|Affiliation=[[Justice Society of America|JSA]]
|Quote=''"I like to make sure things are done right."''
|Powers= 
* Super Strength
* Flight
* Super Speed
* Non-friction aura
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

* Jesse Belle Chambers is born to Elizabeth "Libby" Lawrence Chambers (the original superheroine Liberty Belle) and Johnny Chambers (superhero Johnny Quicke) in Queens, NYC.

* Johnny Chambers starts teaching Jesse about life as a superhero as a young child.

*Libby and Johnny divorce a few years later after an argument about life as adventurers and superheroes.

* Jesse remains with her father post-divorce.

* Johnny trained Jesse on the use of the spoken formula X2(9YZ)4A to gain the power of super-speed and flight.

* Jesse eventually graduates from the local high school, and goes on to Gotham University at the age of 18.

* Majors in Meta-Human knowledge with a minors in business.

* Graduates from Gotham University at the age of 21.

* Starts working at Quick Start Enterprises with her Father after graduation.

* Takes on her first costumed identity as Jesse Quick.

* Goes into graduate school for business.

* Joins the Justice Society.

* Retires identity of Jesse Quick, adopts her mother's old Persona as the new Liberty Belle. Doing so grants her the power of super strength as well as super speed and flight.

* Opts to join the Justice League as a reservist in case of problems.

* Continues working with the JSA and Quick Start Enterprises, working as the CEO/general go-to when Johnny is busy with other work, using it as a study for her graduate work.

==Personality==

If there was a dictionary nearby and someone looked at it, one would see Jesse Chambers face under quite a few headings, the three biggest ones being 'workaholic', 'perfectionist', and 'knowledge of the past, current, and thoughts about the future'... not that the last one is in a dictionary anyways.

Jesse is a workaholic and a perfectionist, and while she's not entirely proud of it, when push comes to shove, she works hard for everything she does and everything she works for, and when she gets asked to do something, she puts her all into it - because if she's doing it, then it deserves to get done right. This often leads to a frequent lack of something called 'free time', which is... admirable, in its' own way.

Jesse is something like a present living in the past - she grew up the daughter of two notable superheroes, and many people, other superheroes, always came by the Chambers household to visit, and even after the divorce, she often was able to see or discuss views of the world - after all, these people lived through it all, she can learn from them. It's good, in its own way - the past shapes the present shapes the future, after all.

Jesse, even if she is a bit of a perfectionist, she is actually rather practical. While she does have some impulses, typically, she's the one in the back going 'guys? Guys. Think about this.' It helps in a group of impulsive speedsters, because once they get going, it's very hard to stop(ha, ha, ha.)

Jesse's a compassionate, solid person to have around. While she sometimes does things that may not make sense, to her, it's all about doing small things to fix the overall, larger problems - after all, quick fixes are nothing more than bandages on a spreading wound; she likes getting into the middle of things and making sure things are fixed right.

She's sweet, responsible, and kind - what more can one ask for in this world, aside from some general stability?

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-07 - I'm Under Your Spell

2012-02-16T06:36:45Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=I'm Under Your Spell |Summary=The Flash Family(notably Wally West and Jesse Chambers) enjoy a weekly barbeque. Things happen. |Who=Wally West & [..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=I'm Under Your Spell
|Summary=The Flash Family(notably Wally West and Jesse Chambers) enjoy a weekly barbeque. Things happen.
|Who=[[Flash|Wally West]] & [[Liberty Belle|Jesse Chambers]]
|Date=2/07/12
|Where=Residential District - Keystone City
|}}

Reality rewrites so that instead of Barry Allen being present, Jay Garrick is.

The weekly Flash Family get together doesn't always have every speedster present. This week, however, seems to be one of those special weekends where just about everyone in the extended family shows up. Iris West, Jay Garrick, Jesse Chambers, Johnny Chambers, Max Mercury, and Joan Garrick are all here.

Wally, per usual, has a 'Kiss the Cook' apron on as he tosses on some burgers, bratwursts, and hotdogs onto the grill. There's a big family table with plenty of room for everyone. Right now, Wally is chatting with Max Mercury at the grill.
"I'm telling you, Wally, there is more to the idea of the Speed Force than we can possibly guess. It’s almost as if the thing is alive."

Jesse Chambers shows up in a business suit, which is generally received via chuckles from most of the Flash Family that know her all too well. Her response is a standard 'I'm changing, back in seconds.' However, it actually takes such a noticeable length of time(two minutes!) that Libby gives her daughter a look, having actually shown up to the meeting. Jesse shrugs at her.

The dame, decked out in jean shorts and a tank-top, slumps into the nearest large, overstuffed chair, practically sinking into it - it is not often that she deliberately lets herself relax, so her frame, reposed over the chair, looks almost a bit out of place.
Wally's apron is eyed, and a ... somewhat mischievous glance sets in her eyes. Libby notices, and actively(although quietly) makes sure she's out of the way of any speedster shenanigans.

Wally has half a smile on his face as he listens to Max. Wally's just not the type of guy to delve too deep into the mystical aspects of the speed force that powers all of them. But he's learned to appreciate and value Max's thoughts enough not to just brush him off like Wally use to do when he was younger.

"I just don't know Max. If it were alive, it'd explain some of the connections we have as a family... I just don't know how much of that was chance though." The burgers and bratwurst begin to sizzle on the barbeque as he lays them out one at a time.
Wally turns to the crowd, a half-second second glance is given to the way Jesse is dressed compared to her usual. "Okay, who wants what? I've got brats, burgers, and dogs. Special orders will require someone to run out and grab it." Which for speedsters mean a three second jaunt.

Libby leans over and pokes her daughter in the upper arm. "Alright, 'fess up, who replaced my Jesse with this carefree not quite as beautiful as Jesse businesswoman?" Jesse's head falls back over the arm of the chair, gazing at the room upside down. "Mother, you of all people would be able to know me. Well, Dad would too, but he's busy."

Jesse's drawl of the word 'busy' means that Jesse's probably not had a lot of sleep and she's kind of energized herself to be able to be in a good mood, and it's actually showing as she flashes the room a genuine smile. "Hey Wally, does anyone actually ever read your apron?" She calls across the room. "Also burger, please."

Om nom nom probably not quite healthy food that works out anyways. Yay speedster abilities!

"Huh, what?" Wally says as he looks down at his apron. He shrugs a bit, "Just one of those things Jesse."

He then promptly takes the various orders and throws the various items onto the grill for the first batch of food (speedsters means there will be at least three to eight servings). He begins to flip the burgers as Max continues.

"Think of it more like a spiritual force instead of an energy force. It has a type of soul, making it greater than any simple energy force. That soul is what directs it to the various people it is connected too." Max is prone to a lot of hand motions as he speaks but does his best to cut down on it.

Jesse and Libby both share a significant, if not very brief look at Wally's answer to the question about the apron. Libby, after a second, gets a small smile on her face and goes back to her book, Jesse continues hanging backwards over her hair to watch the grill, her nose twitching every time a waft of food scent drifts her way.

Her belly rumbles, and she looks down at it. "You'd think I didn't eat." She says, plaintively. "But I eat the biggest breakfast out of anyone in my area every morning." Libby, from behind her book: "That's because you don't like cooking for yourself."

Jesse wrinkles her nose. "I need to live with someone like Wally, I know."

"But if it’s a spiritual thing," yes, thing, not force... this is Wally after all, "then what caused it to come about? Stuff like that doesn't just spring into existence. Did someone or something create it? I dunno... thinking of it as an energy force just seems simpler. Barry would back me up on this, Occam’s Razor, or whatever it was called, would too."

Wally flips a set of bratwurst over and presses down with the spatula. A nice sizzling sound comes from the grill as the juices drip down onto the coals.

"Hey now, cooking is fun!" Wally calls out as he hears Jesse's comment.

Jesse blinks when she hears the words 'Occam's Razor' come out of someone's mouth, carefully hopping to her feet to peer at Max and Wally. "Occam.. you mean you're saying that we should go for the principle or idea that makes the fewest new assumptions, based on what we know about the force at the time, right?" She inquires.

Jesse's face is genuinely lit-up with excitement over this conversation now that she's tabbed into it, and poor Libby starts reaching for the earplugs, knowing her daughter all too well. "If we take that into account, you can start with the fact that things that start one thing - like Dad finding the formula - also tends to work again on others - like me, although considering I'm genetically related, that might be a thing."

Her mouth quirks. "Occam at work." She leans in over Wally, not drooling but happily enjoying the scent rising from the barbeque. "Mm mm."

The barbeque, in fact, smells /amazing/. Wally is a master at barbeque-fu.

"True. I've used the formula before to give myself a boost." Something that by the looks on Wally's face he's likely never to try again as it sent him hurdling toward the speed of light. He'd only do it in a dire, Brainiac-Luthor situation. Thank god that hasn't happened.

Yet.

"And the fact the formula works just seems to reinforce the energy field idea," Wally adds.

Max just shrugs. He /knows/. But until the other speedsters experience it for themselves, they'll always be skeptical. He looks at Jesse with a raised brow, however, then back at Wally. A small smirk falls across his lips before he says, "I think I'll go try and convince your father some more instead." Johnny and Max's conversations on this subject are epic. Science vs. Mysticism, round 32.

Jesse knows Wally's barbeque-fu is strong, so she has controlled drooling reflexes. There's always enough for thirds, but she's staking her claim at 'first shot at food' at this point. Max's raised brow gets a look from Jesse, one that says 'whatever you're reading into this you're probably very, very wrong, or absolutely correct and I'm not going to tell you.'

"Let us know when you finish the convincing. I believe I'll have grey hair by then." Jesse says to Max dryly. Libby actually snorts from her chair. "Don't even start, Mom." Good old fashioned Libby and Jesse shenanigans.

"We can speed through everything else, but we still have to wait for food to cook." She says, sighing. "It figures." Poor Jesse. Poor, poor Jesse.

These words most would never expect to come out of Wally's mouth:

"Sometimes the best things are the ones that come slowly."

A blur of flesh and blue sweatshirt accompany Wally flipping every single item on the grill ten feet into the air and then catching and pressing each in fast succession onto the grill. "Doesn't mean we can't use a little speed here and there to assist though."

Wally glances over at the way Jesse is dressed. He bites back the immediate comment, something he's been struggling to do the last few months and instead says, "How are things down with the Society?

Jesse and Libby both actually take a moment longer than a couple of seconds to stare at Wally West, Libby's mouth hanging open slightly, Jesse's mouth quirked up into an odd little smile. Mother and Daughter share a small, little smile before Jesse turns back to Wally in time to catch his speed trick.

"Also to show off." She suggests, innocently, even as she's aware he looks over her. She then sighs. "It's actually really quiet lately. I've been taking care of the business side of things with Marvel, and between the two of us we keep things in hand." She finds the nearest wall to lean on, humming faintly. "Probably should use some training, but, most of us can take care of ourselves."

"Admittedly, trying to be an interim CEO and getting my graduates degree at the same time as a hero kind of cuts into my free time." The workaholic perfectionist grins, her nose wrinkling the slightest bit.

"Showing off is half the fun of super speed," Wally says with that type of smile that he has whenever he's just enjoying a good run.

A few moments later the first round of food is done. "Food's up!" The group begins to move forward with plates, Jesse given the first spot, as Wally flips the food up onto plates. "You really need just to kick back sometime, Jes. Catch a Combines game or something here. Or a Metropolis Monarchs game. Just something to take the edge off and live a little."

"I'm already getting Saturday off!" Jesse protests. "I know I have super speed so I don't have to worry about travel times or anything but still, I'm working eight hour days at Quick Start and I know that I'm not completely a CEO but since I can sit on Dad at any point I'm in charge, and then I'm in my last year of my doctorate, so ..."

Libby is watching Jesse from across the room and Jesse becomes acutely aware of her mother's extraordinary ability to say a whole conversation with her daughter without saying a word, and Jesse looks over at Libby, then back at Wally.

"... you know me." She finally says quietly. "I like to make sure things are done right." Which leads to problems. Which is an understatement.

Wally walks around the barbeque (the barbeque is one of those circular pit ones that make it easy to move about) and gives Jesse a friendly tap in the shoulder. "Come on, you could totally make time to relax."

He flips a burger up onto a bun, gives it all the fixings, and hands over the plate to you.

"Otherwise, what good is all the doctorates and company meetings if you don't live life?"

Jesse chuckles. "I'll let you know when I actually try to live life. You know, with the boyfriend and actually trying to terrify my parents for the first time in my life." She takes a big bite out of the sandwich, managing to keep the fixings from getting everywhere. Nom, nom. Nom.

Libby looks over. "Boyfriend?" She asks, scandalized. "Like you even know what it feels like to have a crush on someone, Jesse Chambers!" Johnny is wisely very /very/ quiet on this topic. Jesse's face flames red. "Mom!"

Wally West, Mr. Oblivious, sometimes.

"Oh come on, Libby. She could totally get a boyfriend. Hell, all she'd have to do is wink at half the guys up in the Watchtower and they'd be following her around like a puppy dog."

Libby chuckles. "The problem is, half of the boys in the Watchtower know her lineage and the fact that if someone messes with our baby Liberty Belle, they're going to be facing at least half of the Flash Family, if not every single one of them in complete order." Jesse's mouth is full the whole time Libby is talking, which is a good thing, because she nearly just spluttered at Libby's words.

Finally she clears her throat, and she says, face still tinged red: "I don't want a puppy dog! I want someone that can keep up with me!" Libby's eyebrow raises. Significantly.

"Ha, as if anyone but one of us could keep up with you," Wally says. Mister. Oblivious.

Johnny walks out of the house a moment later with a fridge full of soda. He pops it open and offers everyone one, to which Wally just sad faces, literally and says, "No beer? Come on Johnny."

... Libby goes back to her book, a smile on her face. Johnny is one very lucky man that Jesse has a reign on her temper and impulses(more than quite a few other speedsters in the room.) Finally she takes a deep breath, hamburger gone, and gives Wally a nod.

"Right. I'll go get the beer." She disappears into the house. She doesn't give off an air of being 'mad', more ... well, more like being Jesse who has emotional control *perfected.*

OOC Note: The rest of Jesse & Wally's evening can be read [[2012-02-15_-_Gotham_is_being_invaded_by_the_Reds.|right over here.]]

2012-02-15 - Gotham is being invaded by the Reds.

2012-02-15T14:53:30Z

Spypoet:

{{Logsummary|
Title= Gotham is being invaded by the Reds.
|Summary= An Archer, Two Speedsters, a girl with funny hair, and a guy from the future all walk into a bar...
|Who=[[Terry McGinnis]], [[Speedy]], [[Flash]], [[Ember]], [[Liberty Belle]]
|Date= 2/07/12, and continued on 2/15/12
|Where=[[Gotham City]]
|}}
Gotham's financial district is truly a place where more problems occur then actual business. It's a wonder that any of the shops have truly remained open.

Of course, while Batman is busy trying to protect his city, there are things that slip through the cracks. Some villians from other cities have taken to trying to cause mayhem while Gotham's caped crusader is busy dealing with more pressing issues, such as the Justice League.

This means that while Batman is away, some other questionable people will come out to play, and one such person sits positioned on the nearby rooftops, staring down a scarlet arrow which is pointed the doors of one of the smaller jewlers that calls this place home. At any moment, Speedy's prey will reveal themselves, and like an experienced hunter he will take them down. He's been ready for this moment for all his life, and nothing the League can say well deter him. He's a hero,not a sidekick.

The wait however, is really boring.

Man.

Gotham City is *weird*.

From a certain point of view, though, nothing really changes. Terry McGinnis hasn't been back in time for very long - maybe a day or so at most - but he's been back long enough to recognize that the Gotham of years ago isn't much better than his own. The docks still smell like fish, there's still crime all across the place, and the financial district is still a craphole.

Terry's Batsuit may have some pretty severe damage - and the only reason he hasn't gone right to Bruce is of course that he's afraid of screwing up the time continuum - but he's still not the sort of person to just sit around and wait for something to happen. He's been patrolling Gotham under camoflague, stopping periodically to let the system recharge, and occasionally stopping periodically to kick the living hell out of troublemakers. It was okay, he figured; most of them would attribute their beating to Batman, and Bruce would hear about it, and...

...okay, he didn't think that part through, but the old man was probably just as smart now as he was then. Maybe he'd figure it out.

As he coasts invisibly through the skies of the Financial District, scanning for problems, Terry inevitably spots Speedy (or Red Arrow, or Arsenal, or whatever he's calling himself today) crouched on a rooftop. It wouldn't be a good idea to...

...then again, if he's staking something out, and he winds up needing help...

Terry lands on the other side of the roof, crouching low and remaining silent. It's fine. It'll be fine. He needs to work out some aggression anyway, and Speedy probably had a bead on something to punch.

Terry, he thinks to himself, you're an idiot.

The Tomorrow Knight hops up, landing on a spot on the roof above and behind Speedy. He decloaks, standing tall and crossing his arms, and puts on his best gravelly Batman voice. "Waiting for someone?"

Oh yeah. He's got the old man's grumpiness /down pat/.

There is a brief moment where Speedy spins about, and stares down the arrow towards the Dark Knight of the Future, a look of confusion appearing on his face.

"Who in the.." The arrow is kept primed, which seems to have a large round 'nozzle' on the end. Perhaps it'll fire something once its launched. There's something off about the guy now standing before him, which leads the younger hero of Star City completely off about how to handle this situation.

"..You have five seconds to start talking before I start firing, and let me assure you, I'm damned good at hitting my mark. Who are you, and why are you dressed like Batman?" The smart thing to do in this position would to be call the Bat in himself. But Speedy isn't all that smart at times. This would look good for him if he can take care of an imposter..

There is a brief moment where Speedy spins about, and stares down the arrow towards the Dark Knight of the Future, a look of confusion appearing on his face.

"Who in the.." The arrow is kept primed, which seems to have a large round 'nozzle' on the end. Perhaps it'll fire something once its launched. There's something off about the guy now standing before him, which leads the younger hero of Star City completely off about how to handle this situation.

"..You have five seconds to start talking before I start firing, and let me assure you, I'm damned good at hitting my mark. Who are you, and why are you dressed like Batman?" The suit is obvious as to who its supposed to be, but there's the fact that it doesn't look like its in that great of shape.

The smart thing to do in this position would to be call the Bat in himself. But Speedy isn't all that smart at times. This would look good for him if he can take care of an imposter..

Oh, great.

Terry's eyes go wide at the arrow. He raises his hands immediately, holding them in front of his face. "Woah, woah, woah! I'm on your side!"

The Tomorrow Knight steps forward a bit. "I'm not dressed like Batman. I...I am Batman." If Speedy can tell, he's not lying; his breath doesn't quicken, his heartbeat doesn't change, there's no little tic of lie on his (admittedly masked) face.

Terry takes another step forward. "Look, if I was an imposter, would I land right behind Red Arrow and introduce myself? I mean, come on." Terry gestures at Speedy's mask. "You're in the red and gold, you've got the diamond mask. I'd have to be an idiot to land in front of Arsenal and..."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Red Arrow or Arsenal? Red Arrow or Arsenal? Which one was he?

"...I mean, in front of Roy?" Terry finally defaults. Yeah. Roy. That was safe. /Roy/ wasn't time-based, /Roy/ was his *name*.

'Way to protect the Space-Time Continuum, Terry,' he thinks to himself angrily.

The arrow is lowered, especially as the Tomorrow Knight starts listing off his alias', and then busts out Speedy's name. This is truly a first, and he isn't quite sure how this is to be handled. There are a few more tense moments, until the arrow is finally placed back in the quiver, leaving Speedy to motion for Terry to follow him.

The scarlet archer reaches into his own utility belt (because every hero seems to have one), and pulls out a small communicator. A button is pressed, leaving the scarlet archer a moment before he starts speaking. "Speedy to Justice League. Robbery in progress at the Smith and Son's jewelers in the Gotham Financial district. Notify Gee Pee Dee. I'm having to pull out."

The transmission button is released, he stares at the Tomorrow Knight once more. "/WHO/ are you?" This truly smells wrong, but there has to be more to this story and leaving it unheard could pose problems not only for himself, but for the person standing before him.

"You're not /Batman/, but you aren't lying either which could mean you're damned good at lying, or you're telling the truth.. Why don't you tell me who you are and what is really going on." That's it Roy, actually be nice for once. Maybe it'll help you out.

"I /am/ Batman," Terry replies, a bit more insistently. "Just not the Batman you know. Listen, I'd love to sit here and tell you everything about this, but I *can't*. It's bigger and more important than that. If I told you everything, I'd be putting a lot of people at risk, people I care about."

"Roy...Speedy. Whatever you're calling yourself right now. Listen to me. This is going to sound completely crazy, but I need you to help me get into the Batcave without the Batman you know knowing." Terry knows /exactly/ how crazy this sounds, and it's painfully clear from the look on the cowl that he's aware of it, too; the eyes are widened and the mouth is frowning. "But he can't find me. I can't let him see me, or there'll be...problems. And I don't mean with him."

"A lot of people could die, or worse, if Batman sees me."

There's a moment where Speedy seems to have think this kid has gone batshit crazy. It almost gets a laugh from the younger member of the archer duo. It's a ballsy move, thats for sure.

"Have you gone crazy? Seriously? You want to break into the /Batcave/ without Batman knowing, all while you claim you're Batman as well?" Speedy shakes his head, as if this is really starting to get too crazy for even him to handle.

"First off, I don't know where the Batcave is. Secondly, why would I even want to do that? You're talking about breaking into the most secure place in the world, most likely second to The Watchtower, but even thats a stretch. Fort Knox has /nothing/ on the Batcave, or so I'm told."

Terry just rubs his forehead. "Would it help if I told you Booster Gold was involved?"

"Oh hell no. You're insane.. Yet, you're serious.." Speedy grumbles once more as he idly reaches down to his belt once more, pulling out a different communicator, mulling over it. A button is pressed, and once more the scarlet archer starts to speak.

"..Speedy to the.. Titans. Nightwing.. Flash, respond if you're there.. There's an issue in Gotham." The communicator is once more placed into his belt, knowing full well that by using it once again he's opening himself up to another can of worms of some sort.

"Look Not-Batman. If.. anyone could help you it's going to be them. I'd suggest you stay put until they actually respond.. If they do."

"To be honest," Terry admits with a kind of defeated sound, "At this point, I've pretty much given up trying to keep it a secret. I don't exactly have any other options. But you /can't/ tell Batman. It could...put my entire future at risk."

Meanwhile, in a backyard in the dark swamps...

Wait, that isn't right... in a town named Central City...

./~ I've got time to think of the beauty of a thousand variations. Of the beating of a wing... Of a hummingbird suspended in the aspic of the world. ./~

Wally is standing over his grill flipping a few burgers. Iris West and Barry Allen are sitting chatting out on the patio. Johnny Chambers is standing chatting with Wally while he cooks. "I'm telling you Wally, you should call that reporter. Linda Park was her name? Definitely seems to swoon whenever you're around."

"Nah," Wally says with half a smirk, thinking back to that moment in the museum. "Doubt it. And more importantly, things have been too crazy lately." Wally flips another burger. The sound of his communicator going off in his pocket missed as the music continues to play.

./~ I've got time to think about my past as I dodge between the bullets. How my life was so exciting before I got this way... ./~

Just as Wally flips the fourth burger on the grill, he feels the vibration in his right pocket. Time slows down for Wally as he accelerates to superspeed, pulling out the communicator and hooking it to his ear. The burger has raised another inch in the air by the time he grabs the spatula. "Sorry Johnny, a second..."

He listens to the call. His face tightens as he hears who it is. While Speedy might have burned his bridges, and despite everything that happened, Wally is never, /never/ one to hold a grudge.

"Here, take this," Wally says quickly as he zooms around and puts the spatula in Johnny's hand. Its a good thing Johnny is a speedster so he can keep up as Wally blurs into a small tornado as he changes and zooms out of the house, leaving his guest behind.

Thirteen point two seconds later there's the sound of five very loud crashes around Terry and Speedy. A half second later, the Flash is standing in the doorway nearby, leaning against the frame with a quirked eyebrow. "Another bat? Gotham definitely has a running theme."

Jesse Chambers walks back out of the house, beers in one hand, sliding her cellphone into her pocket with the other, not even blinking when her eyes blur with red. She looks over at her father, standing there continuing to flip burgers and asks, "He got a call, didn't he?" Johnny Chambers nods, and she makes sure to put the beers down after a couple of seconds.

"Right."

Johnny gives his daughter a quick, wry wave, then Jesse Chambers moves, spinning into her own blue and yellow blur as she changes, then she books it to the Financial District after the Flash. Of course, she gets there just a second or two too late, and comes to a neat stop, glancing over at Terry, the Speedy, then at Flash.

"I'm late again, aren't I?" She deadpans.

Ember has been basicly helping out the Justice leage since they'd given her a roof over her head. She also has been doing clean up duty, going after more minor problems in an effort to prove herself, also leave the more powerful people better able to focus on things. Tonight she's in Gotham and has been dealing with petty thugs and the like. She'd got the report of the robbery. She's sadly too late as she arrive not only are Not-Batman and Speedy there? The second that the Flash has handled the thugs, she just pops out of a shadow. Tech armor, goggles, blue hair. Zoom, there's another speed type there namely Liberty Bell.

"That makes two of us being too late."

There's a slight frown from Speedy as standing there is.. was a close friend until things went sour for the Scarlet Archer. "Flash. There's an issue, considering I had already called it into the League to notify Gotham Police, you went ahead and took care of the first bit." Yep, no 'HEY WALLY! How've you been?' for the crimson speedster. Only business, and thats it for the most part.

"This guy knows who I am. As in, /knows/. And if he knows about me, I'm guessing thats not all he knows about, especially since he said Booster is involved."

"And then, not only does he know.. Get this. He wants into the Batcave, without you know who knowing. There you go. You're up to speed."

The Tomorrow Knight batsuit is one of the most advanced things in the world. It is cutting edge, technology so far beyond the current age that it could not possibly exist in the 'now'. A simple glance, for Wally and Jesse, should be more than enough to make that blatantly clear; the damage to the suit exposes its impossible workings for all to see, at least now that Terry isn't hiding in the shadows trying to conceal his identity.

But at the moment, that's not important at all.

Terry's eyes widen - the Batsuit's cowl-eyes expanding - at Wally's arrival. As much as Terry McGinnis is an angry punk, as much as he's a kid with a host of problems in his home and his school life, as much as he's a teenager trying to find his way and his calling, he's also a kid who grew up with stories of the Justice League. He's a kid who's been to the Flash Museum, who owned books about Superman, who studied the adventures of the Justice League Unlimited of his time and their predecessors with a great deal of enthusiasm. It's a reminder of a happier time for Terry McGinnis, before his father's murder, and the look on his face shows as much.

After all, it's not every day one meets one of the heroes of their childhood, let alone one of the Original Eight.

"You're...Flash. You're the Flash. The actual...you're the Flash. You're Wal-"

Suddenly, Terry cuts himself off, flicking his eyes over at Jesse and Ember. "And the second Liberty Belle, and..."

"Dark Ember?!"

And now the Batsuit immediately does what the Batsuit does; Terry reflexively adopts a combat stance, the Batarang sliding out of the wrist (somehow - Flash and Liberty Belle might notice it unfolding but there's no way that's possible under current technology) and into his palm.

No, hang on. As soon as he's adopted that stance, he stops. This didn't make any sense; Wally and Jesse and Roy would've done something if this was a problem. The Batarang vanishes into his sleeve, and he relaxes.

Terry takes a moment to tap the cowl on the side and bring up the biometrics. A quick readout...

Terry's eyes widen again. "Your heart..."
"Pfft," the Flash cracks half a laugh as he assumes Speedy attempts to make a joke about someone wanting to break into the Batcave without the Bat knowing. What stops the laugh is Speedy saying that this black and red bat costumed guy knows who Speedy is.

"Well, Speedy, you've done a few things where..." What he's about to say dies in his mouth as he hears this kid dressed like the bat start to say his real name.

The Flash just gapes at Terry for a moment. His jaw might hit the floor.

A breeze of wind whips across the building top as the Flash is now right in Terry's face, his eyes narrowed as he leans in. He pokes a finger right into the middle of that red bat symbol. He might have seen the batarang but he's not worried.

"Just who are you, eh, buddy?"

Liberty Belle's jaw twitches when she's correctly named as the 'Second' of Two, but it's so quick that it's stupidly hard to notice. Then Wally gets all up in Terry's face and the speedster female sighs. "Flash, come on, take a deep breath, and take at least two steps away so you won't accidently bite his nose off." She's joking, but also actually serious about him cooling off.

The dame crosses her arms, leaning against the nearest wall, waiting for details.
Ember is trying to make heads or tails of the suit, she's noticed it very high tech, more so than about anything she's seen. She hasn't heard much about the Flash other than he's a pretty down to earth guy. She's still wondering about the Batman like guy as he's looking at her. He says that name and there's a frown on her face.

"Woah woah!"

Then comes the comment about her heart and she finishes Terry's thought.

"The other side? Yes, its suposed to be there and it's a long story. Also it's just Ember"

Oh please don't let this turn out like when Lobo thought she was Dark Ember. She really needs to go find the other her and knock some sense into the girl. She really does, but right now she's making to not fight this guy.

"So just who are you, I don't remeber seeing you on the roster."

Ember had gone over rosters of the various heroes and villains of this world, so she'd not end up in an incident like with the Joker again.

There's a brief smirk on Speedy's face as Flash gets sidelined by a kid in a suit. It's not often something like that happens, but it is always hilarious when it does. "And this is why I actually contacted you or Nightwing. I'd have gone to Bats directly, but I'm really not in the mood to piss in his wheaties again, if you catch my meaning."

The sheer idea of making Batman grumpier again is kind of fun for some of the Leaguers, but Speedy doesn't quite want to do that JUST yet. Then again, he's going to anyways before Wally has a chance to go opening his mouth to the rest of the league about this. "Hey, Crimson Speedster, keep quiet on this. The poor kid is going out of his mind with worry about sending Batman into a berserker rage and killing us all." Speedy grins slightly, only to glance at Ember and Jesse. "Sorry girls, Flash is busy fillin' his pants faster then the speed of light. If you want, maybe I can take you both out to dinner after this. I know a few places that're pretty fast with their service."

Terry McGinnis is Terry McGinnis. No amount of Batman development, no amount of being the future's Batman, no amount of maturity, and no amount of time progressed in one time or the other will ever cause Terry McGinnis to stop being Terry McGinnis. So, Terry being Terry, he does what Terry does when Flash gets up in his face and pokes him:

"I'm guessing this isn't a good time to ask for an autograph."

Jesse encouraging Flash to back off, combined with Terry taking a step back so he can put a little distance (although as far as Flash is concerned, it might as well not even be a step forward) between the Fastest Man Alive and the Tomorrow Knight, and maybe kind of regain his dignity after his mistake about Ember's identity.

"I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I'm Batman. Not the Batman you know. I don't want to get too specific about it, but let's just say that when I'm from, the old Batman needed a gofer, and I happened to be available."

"It's really important that I get into the Batcave so I can fix my suit without the current Batman seeing me. If he does...I'm not sure what will happen, but I don't really feel very eager to experiment with time and space, if you fly my lane."

Oh, futureslang.

Terry looks over at Speedy. Yeah, he wasn't really worried about Batman at all, he was worried about time and space going completely upside-down topsy-turvey, but Speedy and the others would probably gather that with a little bit of work.
Speedy gets one of those looks that say 'you, of all people, shouldn't be talking smack right now or hitting on women, especially Jesse' before he looks back at Terry McGinnis. He takes a step back and crosses his arms, raising his left hand up to his chin as he begins to think about the situation.

"I've not known Batman to fly into a berserker rage," Flash says, deadpan, "but then here's always a first. Speedy has a tendency to tick the Bat off."

He cracks a small smile as Terry attempts to break the sudden tension by asking for an autograph. A second later, Flash is standing next to Terry and has his arm around Terry's shoulder. "The batcave is a no go. But I bet I know another place that may just be better suited to the task."

The Flash raises a hand to his right ear, "J'onn, I need a visitor pass tagged for a friend of mine down here."

Flash gets one of those Looks from Liberty Belle when Flash gives Speedy a Look about Flirting With the Girls, especially Her. It's that look that reads 'I'm 23, when did you turn into my dad?' She actually sticks her tongue at the Flash too, a moment of silliness for the somewhat bored speedstress.

Liberty shakes her head. "Flash owes me a hamburger." With mayo, and lettuce, and tomato, and lots of yummy, melty cheese. She gives Flash another look when he asks for a guest pass, giving a low, thoughtful chuckle before she looks over at Ember. "You ever notice how it's always the men that get excited and trip over themselves?"

There's a innocent look on her face: Classic Liberty Belle at her finest.
Ember pushes her goggles up into her hair and she seems to relax now and grins a little bit. "Don't worry about it" She pauses again as he says he's Batman, and doesn't seem too freaked out. She seems quite suprised about Terry's answer none the less. However she's a dimensional traveler, not by choice mind you but still? Time travel? Time travel, it had to be time travel didn't it? She was going to say something to speedy, she might be foolish enough to say yes, but the world will never know thanks to Batman Future's crashing in on things. "So your Batman's gofer? Well if we head to the tower we might be able to get something in the mess. They really do that a lot don't they."

She grins back at Liberty Belle. She likes her already!

Flash is given a return glance of 'Pssh, and you don't do this at the worst times ever yourself?', causing Speedy to reach into his quiver, pulling out an arrow. "And you don't think that Not-Batman is actually going to be detected by So-Batman the moment you get onto the Watchtower? Come on."

The fact that Roy is telling Wally to use his head is a bit ironic in a lots of ways, only for the scarlet archer to idly play with his now drawn arrow. "Flash. Look. I'm not going to pry further into what is obviously league business now that you've involved the Martian, but this Not-Batman is going to be trouble. I /really/ think you should try and figure out another way. Maybe Terrific could have an idea on how to help."

Of course, Speedy draws closer to Liberty Belle, a half cocked smile on his face. "Well, while I know you speedsters love your food.. Maybe you and I could have dinner sometime, and make you know who a bit more cranky." A casual wink is given to the blonde girl, only for a glance to be given back to Ember. "Offer stands for you as well. You've got my number as well."

Terry's eyes go wide at the idea of going to the Watchtower. /The/ Watchtower, the Justice League Watchtower, high above the Earth, looking down on its inhabitants for protection and safety, *the* Watchtower that by his time...

...Well. Spoilers.

He was just about to say something to Wally before Speedy cuts him off. That's right - the fewer people who saw the Tomorrow Knight Batsuit, the better. He couldn't risk going to the Watchtower, as much as he really, really wanted to; Batman would check the logs, ask questions...they'd just get in trouble. Terry frowns, crossing his arms. "As much as I appreciate the offer, your Batman would just check the security logs later. I'm starting to think anything but me going in alone is going to be a problem."

"And could you stop calling me 'Not-Batman'?"
"Not-Batman does kind of suck..." The Flash taps his chin again. "The Batman of the Future? Nah. The Not-So-Dark Knight? Bah. Batman Beyond? Phooey." The Flash snaps his fingers, "got it! The Tomorrow Knight. So much less brooding and moody."

A moment and then Flash is back on topic.

"J'onn will keep this quiet and help you, if you let him do his Martian mental mojo to scan whether you're telling the truth," the Flash says to Terry, ignoring Speedy's snarky comment. The Flash is a trusting guy and is taking Terry at his word that having the Bat find out would be a bad thing, afterall.

"And trust me, using the resources up on the Watchtower will be a lot less painful than getting caught by Batman." Wally makes a face. It's one of those 'I'm The God Damn Batman and am Super Serious' faces that Batman does. "Do you really want him to give you this look?"

He's surprisingly very good at doing the face.

Because he's seen it a hundred-odd times now.
"Not-Batman does kind of suck..." The Flash taps his chin again. "The Batman of the Future? Nah. The Not-So-Dark Knight? Bah. Batman Beyond? Phooey."

The Flash snaps his fingers, "got it! The Tomorrow Knight. So much less brooding and moody."

A moment and then Flash is back on topic.

"J'onn will keep this quiet and help you, if you let him do his Martian mental mojo to scan whether you're telling the truth," the Flash says to Terry, ignoring Speedy's snarky comment. The Flash is a trusting guy and is taking Terry at his word that having the Bat find out would be a bad thing, afterall.

"And trust me, using the resources up on the Watchtower will be a lot less painful than getting caught by Batman." Wally makes a face. It's one of those 'I'm The God Damn Batman and am Super Serious' faces that Batman does. "Do you really want him to give you this look?"

He's surprisingly very good at doing the face.

Because he's seen it a hundred-odd times now.

Liberty Belle murmurs along with Flash, "...want him to give you this look?" While she's not primarily active around Batman, she survives weekends and various other activities with the Flash on a rather frequent basis, so unfortunately, she knows him. Or is that /fortunately/? Ember gets a wink, even as Speedy goes all...

... casually flirty with her.

"Some of us speedsters manage to maintain our frames through more than just an active metabolism..." Liberty Belle drawls to Speedy. She tilts her frame slightly, looking at Speedy through her eyemask, lashes helping to give the 'dame look' a bit more of a effect. "That and that dear Flash of ours standing over there is ... well." She smiles slightly. "I can think of many ways to make him cranky *without* you." Eyelash flutter.

Ember nods in agreement Batman Beyond is a terible name, "Tommrow Knight seems to be a good one." She then can't help but laugh out loud at Flash doing Batman impression. "I can vouch for that. I got gassed when I first met Batman." She seems amused about it more now than anything. She fiddles with her goggles a little bit. Then looks at speedy with him.

"Why do you want to make the Batman cranky that's not conductive to our health!"

She seems to be trying to size up what Speedy's game is but from Liberty Belle's reaction she's a little bit wary. But she's not sure what to make of the guy and who knows what the counter part on her world is like, if she's even aware of alt Speedy. There has only been one thing the same between both worlds. Lobo is astill a fraggen bastage, and that all there may be.

"Well Belle, if you ever change your mind.. The over protective big brother you have over there can get in touch with me." Another casual wink is offered towards the blonde speedster, only for the scarlet archer to glance once more over at Wally. "While it's a great idea to give him the league's resources..." The arrow that was pulled from the quiver is pointed towards the Tomorrow Knight.

"Pull the mask. It's not quite conducivce to sit there and pull our names out, when you're still hiding behind a mask and asking us to trust you." There's a lot of ways to get to the same point, and for a super? Pulling the mask is one of the biggest ways to pull trust quickly.

"Pull the mask, and give us a name."

"Tomorrow Knight." Terry tries it out for a moment, then shrugs. "Anything's better than Not-Batman. Fine. So what, we just march into /the/ Watchtower, walk through dozens of heroes, avoid all the probably billions of dollars worth of security given Batman paid for the thing, go up to the Martian Manhunter and ask him to please help me fix a suit whose technology won't exist for twenty years, and by the way don't ask questions or you might destroy the entire future, and don't say a thing to Batman?"

"This is starting to sound like an idea just as bad as breaking the Batcave."

And then Flash does a Batman impression, and Terry just bursts out laughing.

Yeah. A Batman, laughing. It's kind of weird.

"I guess some things are timeless," the Tomorrow Knight observes. "He's practically stuck in that face by the time I join."

Speedy's comment prompts a frown from Terry. "My name wouldn't mean anything to you anyway, seeing as how I won't exist for another twenty years. I could tell you my name was John Smith and it wouldn't matter. And if I did tell you my real name and showed you my face, what if you knowing does something to my future?" He sounds kind of angry, actually; he's been driving this point home, and while he really does understand that the Justice League doesn't trust him - and he really does want to make them trust him - he also realizes that he can't risk it.

Terry's hands clench into fists. "It's not worth it. Sorry. I'll do this on my own." He turns around and moves towards the edge of the roof, looking out at the unfamiliar Gotham city. He was in the financial district, so...shouldn't be too hard to find Wayne Manor on his own.

Terry looks over his shoulder at them. "Sorry," he repeats

And then he leaps, the wings of the Batsuit spreading outwards, the rocket boots in his shoes suddenly kicking into being; the Tomorrow Knight goes flying forward, then suddenly vanishes as the cloaking system kicks into gear.
The Flash just stares at Terry as he describes a worst case scenario.

"Or I just ask J'onn to meet us up at the teleporter and deal with it there," he deadpans. Why do the Batclan always have to imagine these horrible scenarios. He just shrugs though, knowing full well how Dick could get once he set his mind on something and assuming that trait is a general theme with anyone tied to Batman and his brooding ways.

"Well, if you change your mind, give me a call. You obviously know who I am, so." There will be questions about that later but for now Wally is willing to give the kid space. He doesn't sense any real malice in the kid and thus is always willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

Wally steps back over toward Jesse and glanes over at Speedy, "He'll tell us if he wants to eventually. For now, I'm willing to trust that he's just trying to fix his suit and get back home."

For some reason, the 'over-protective big brother' thing from Speedy gets a small, light smile on Liberty Belle's face. Everyone in the world knows the one: it's the one where 'you just completely misread a situation and I'm going to enjoy your reaction to this.' It's almost classically used by females only. Especially female superheroes. They *might* just like getting others into trouble.

She peers after the Tomorrow Night, not very fussed, but very confused. She has degrees in metahuman and superhero knowledge and that was /way/ out of her league. "... whatever in the world that was, or whoever in the world that was, that was very, very strange."

She glances over at Flash as he steps over. "You owe me a hamburger and a date." She says blandly. "Since I happen to like you, you can do both at the same time."

Ember gets what's Tommrow Knight is saying, he's in his past. One wrong move and everything he cares for or even himself might go poof. Prehaps something terrible happened to him, prehaps someone if they even knew his name might try to watch out for him. "Take care all right?"

After Terry ihas made his way from the group she just stares at himthen looks to the other heros. All of Tomorrow's actions, his reasons for why he won't show him self. It all leads her to one thing, which she says to the rest before it's time to go.

"...He really is Batman."

She also has designs on a hotdog from the mess, she may put it on Batman's tab. He owed her a hotdog anyway.

"Listen, Speedy, next weekend, you're coming over for beers." Wally hasn't seen Speedy in a long time and its time to start mending fences. Wally, however, is the easy one on this front. Dick and the rest are going to be far less forgiving.

Then Wally registers what Jesse says. All the comments that Jesse was making earlier at the barbeque suddenly come into a stark type of contrasted focus. He looks at her and then just smiles kind of dumbly and nods.

Jesse flashes one of those geninune, sweet smiles towards Flash. "I'll see you next weekend, then. You too, Speedy." With a quick whirl - did she just blow Flash a ki-- no way, that's ... maybe? Don't think about it to hard. -- she takes off. Presumably back towards hamburgers.

Terry McGinnis

2012-02-15T07:51:38Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Terry McGinnis |Image=200px |Name=Terry McGinnis |Alias=Tomorrow Knight |Species=Human |Age=16 |Affiliation=LFG |Quote=''"I /am..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Terry McGinnis
|Image=[[Image:TMcginnis01.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Terry McGinnis
|Alias=Tomorrow Knight
|Species=Human
|Age=16
|Affiliation=LFG
|Quote=''"I /am/ Batman."''
|Powers= 
* Tomorrow Knight Batsuit
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

-Terry McGinnis is the future son of Warren and Mary McGinnis. Unbeknownst to Terry (or anyone in the current time), Terry is also the genetic son of Bruce Wayne thanks to the machinations of Cadmus and the Batman Beyond project.

-Terry, at an early point in his life, was a member of a fairly violent street gang led by Charlie "Big Time" Bigelow. He was put in juvenile hall for three months, during which time his parents were undergoing a major divorce.

-After a chance encounter with the Jokerz leads Terry to Wayne Manor, Terry discovers the secret of the aging Bruce Wayne: that he is the retired and legendary Batman of the past.

-This meeting happens at the exact same time as Derek Powers, corrupt corporate executive, is having Warren McGinnis murdered. Terry uncovers the truth, and takes the evidence to Bruce.

-When Wayne refuses to be Batman again, Terry steals the Batsuit and, with Wayne's help, brings down Powers' nerve gas production. Afterwards, Bruce decides to take Terry McGinnis under his wing, deciding that the city still needs a Batman to protect it.

-Terry continued in his role as Batman for some time, before an event involving Booster Gold's time travelling suit overloading sent Terry spiralling back to the present, damaging his suit severely in the process.

==Personality==

Terry McGinnis is the Batman of the Future. He's aggressive, he's headstrong, he's straightforward, and he's a little bit of a jerk at times, just like one might expect the Batman of the grim Gotham City to be. While he's starting to level out, Terry is filled with a lot of pent-up aggression, over a number of situations: his parents' divorce, his father's death, and (now) his being flung back in time by a situation not under his control. While he is exceptionally cunning and very very clever - almost as intelligent as Bruce, if not as well-trained or well-honed - he isn't yet capable of wielding that intelligence the way he does his raw anger. Instead of fighting foes with cunning, traps, and perfect plans, Terry tends to rely on his wits; Terry's the sort of person who'll make smartassed remarks in any situation, no matter the trouble it'll get him into, the sort of guy who knows how to make people get angry and lose their cool, and takes frequent advantage of that skill.

That doesn't mean that Terry is nothing but an angry thug, however. Terry has a strong sense of right and wrong behind him; without it, he would never have become Batman in the first place. For Terry, the world isn't a good place, but as long as he's around, he can make things a little better for the people within his power to help. Whether this means standing up to a bully for a helpless kid or beating down a supervillain, Terry is always there to lend a helping hand, though it might be in a gruff and somewhat aggressive manner.

Ultimately, it is his heart, not his strength or his intelligence, that makes Terry the Batman Gotham City needs and deserves. He's a jerk with a heart of gold, and he knows it well. He might have some control issues, he might have a problem with his temper, he might not think before he leaps every time, but his heart is always in the right place, no matter what.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Gotham]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Maxima

2012-02-15T07:44:35Z

Poison Dancer:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Maxima
|Image=[[Image:Maxima_standing.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Maxima
|Alias=Lady Maxima
|Species=Alien
|Age=25! (SHUT UP SAZU)
|Affiliation=Team Maxima
|Quote=''"As you can see, nothing may harm me ever."''
|Powers= 
* Superhuman Physicality
* Psychokinesis
* Telekinesis
* Space Flight
* Mind Control
* Teleportation
|}}'''The Lady Maxima, Warrior Queen and Ruler of all Almerac''' is the alien Queen-in-Exile of the distant planet Almerac.

==Background/Timeline==

* The most recent evolution of a centuries-old breeding program designed to produce genetically-superior stock, Maxima was born into a glorious birthright as heiress to the great Almeracian Empire. Inheriting a dizzying array of superhuman powers, she was considered a masterpiece.

* With the people of Almerac bearing lengthy lifespans, Maxima spent many years being trained in the ways of war, as well as learning the proper mannerisms and ethics of a good ruler. Never a particularly good student, she was heir nonetheless, and received the proper treatment from those to become her subjects. For whatever reason, the belligerent girl bonded closely with a servant's daughter called Sazu. Over time, she would take advisements from nobody else, and so Sazu was appointed handmaiden to the princess.

* When Maxima's mother was killed in battle, she was elevated to the throne immediately, with Sazu her Royal Advisor. A living goddess to her people, she was hailed as the present and future of their race; the paragon of Almeracian strength and virtue. This had always been the way - and though they are a warlike race, former rulers have always done so with a measure of wisdom and compassion.

* Unfortunately, no amount of careful tutoring or foetal eugenics can account for a horrible personality. Maxima became a selfish tyrant, putting aside the immediate needs of her subjects as she became ever more completely fixated on a single purpose: mating. Almeracian tradition demands that a suitable breeding partner can only be decided through trial by combat, and so tournament after unending tournament was held, males from all worlds flocking to the royal palace to try their hand. Maxima defeated them all.

* Growing ever more frustrated, Maxima continued to punish her subjects, sending them deeper into the far reaches of the universe to seek more potential mates. Meanwhile, the challengers kept coming from closer to home; until one in particular, by the name of De'Cine, decided to try a new angle.

* Easily defeated by the Warrior Queen, De'Cine instead turned his attention to her advisor. Unbeknownst to the self-absorbed Lady Maxima, he was able to seduce her confidante and plant the seed of a plan to liberate the unrestful populace of Almerac. He passed along information of another candidate.

* On seeing footage of this 'Superman', Maxima was excited. She had never seen one so fast, so strong, or so pec-poppingly handsome. Refusing the aid of her armies or her elite Royal Guard, she decided to set out alone for the distant backwater known as Planet Earth. She had found her mate!

==Personality==

Born to a life of luxury, pampered by smiling hordes of royal lickspittles from the moment she could gurgle her smallest desires, Maxima was always destined to grow up with a certain sense of entitlement. As the successor to an illustrious royal line, some might argue that she deserved what she was given. Governmental systems exist for a reason, after all. What few could possibly stomach is the idea that somehow the full-grown Empress Maxima of Almerac is an acceptable person.

Obnoxiously arrogant, she holds her head high in the belief that not only is she a rightful Queen, but the most powerful and beautiful creature in the known universe; and probably the unknown parts, as well. Accustomed to getting precisely what she wants, when she wants it, Maxima is stubborn in her unwillingness to bear the whims of lesser beings. Impatient and easily bored, she will rarely allow others to have more than a cursory say in her life, and makes not the slightest effort to remember names, faces or even the vague details of the encounters that inevitably occur during her travels.

In some ways it's probably fortunate that such a strong and selfish person only wants a fairly simple thing: a husband. Convinced of the importance in continuing her succession with a worthy mate, she'll happily put aside anything that doesn't concern this very single-minded goal. But therein lies a hint of complexity, because Lady Maxima - for all her horrible qualities - truthfully only wants to bear children and settle down to a life of simple, albeit highly luxurious, womanly pleasure. The route there may /happen/ to contain a fair number of conquered planets and defeated foes, but if she could find an easier way she'd probably take it. She's not evil; just so hugely misguided she might as well be.

Up to this point, Maxima has trusted only one person with any sense of camaraderie. With others considered obstacles at best, it's her Royal Advisor whom gets at least borderline decent treatment. Sazu is the only individual privy to the woman behind the queenly mask, understanding better than anyone that beneath it all Lady Maxima isn't quite the demoniac presence that most are led to believe.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Allison Stonebender

2012-02-15T03:56:49Z

Poison Dancer: corrected typo in picture name... at least I hope it was ;)

{{Characterbox|
Title=Allison Stonebender
|Image=[[Image:AllisonStonebender.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Allison Stonebender
|Alias=allison
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=32
|Affiliation=Stonebender Gym
|Quote=''"Oh."''
|Powers= 
* Growth
* Strength
* Toughness
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

The exact origin of Allison's superhuman abilities is a bit murky, even to her. So far as she can tell, she simply had an intensive growth spurt in her early college years; she assumes it was some random mutation. What has been more important to her life is what she's done with them.

Allison had always been something of a fitness buff, and unlike many who aquire great abilities she didn't feel an overwhelming urge to grab a set of tights and punch crime. Even so, she wanted to do *something* positive... so she started a gym in Metropolis aimed at the metahuman population. After all, exercise equipment built to handle those of superhuman physical ability is very expensive and only independently wealthy or well-supported heroes can easily afford such. By purchasing some and charging a slightly more than modest membership fee, Allison hoped to bring the ability to fully develop heroic potential to the regular folk who got hit by cosmic rays or glowing goo or nanorobots.

It says something about the state of the world that Allison has been very successful, although she's not wealthy. The "baseline" section of the club is what actually keeps the place afloat (as starry-eyed hero watchers wait to catch a glimpse of a favorite figure, or perhaps hope something will rub off) but a number of street level and 'local' heroes are members, even a few slightly bigger names.

Allison uses this access to the metahuman 'community' to keep tabs on rumors and scuttlebutt, occasionally quietly offering a little help in the form of 'muscle' to a few up-and-comers, and also keeps an eye on few supercrooks who have registered as members under false names and aren't nearly as good at disguise as they think. She reasons that if they behave, hopefully it all means they might be going straight. And if not, then keeping them around and engaging them in csual conversation might allow her to tip off one of the pros, one day.

(On a final note, despite its appropriateness, 'Stonebender' is not an assumed name - Allison believes it's an old family name with roots in Ireland, although it's been quite a few generations since the family came over.)

==Personality==

Allison has always been an outgoing, extroverted 'cheerleader' sort. Becoming strong and resilent enough that she rarely has a problem with conflict has exaggerated this for both good and bad. She treats just about *everyone* as a potential friend, but she's got the overconfidence of a big fish in a small pond. While she is fairly potent physically, not engaging in world-saving shenanigans on a regular basis means she never really finds herself over her head, which means she almost never recognizes it when she IS.

While it's not quite arrogance, she also has a bit of well-intentioned bully in her. She always believes she knows better even when she really shouldn't, and thus is liable to push someone into a situation they'd really prefer to not be in in the belief that it'll be character-building. The natural exception to this is in her line of work, curiously enough, where she's very careful to not put someone on an exercise scheme too intense for their powers or development to handle. She just doesn't have much of a sense of perspective outside that domain.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Original]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Wildcat

2012-02-15T01:55:27Z

Brock:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Wildcat
|Image=[[Image:Wildcat.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Ted Grant
|Alias=Wildcat
|Species=Human
|Age=In his 50s.
|Affiliation=[[Justice Society of America|JSA]], [[Justice League|JL]]
|Quote=''"Personally, I think it's more of a job for ... Wildcat!"''
|Powers= 
* Nine Lives
* Exceptional prizefighter
|}}'''Wildcat''' is a veteran vigilante based in [[Bludhaven]], member of the [[Justice Society of America|JSA]] and the [[Justice League]].

==Background/Timeline==

* Ted Grant grew up the son of father Henry Grant, an only child to a single father, his mother having died during childbirth. Not wanting his son to grow up timid and fragile, Henry encouraged Ted to participate in any sports he could well into college.

* While in college, Ted's father died, leaving him bereft of any financial support. Unfortunately for Ted, his athletic ability was not capable of sustaining him through scholarships, and his academic aspirations were not his strong suit, so left college soon finding himself penniless and hungry on the streets.

* One night, Ted came to the rescue of heavywight champion "Socker" Smith who took him in to be his sparring partner. Smith's manager Skinner trained Ted, and this is when Ted found that he took to boxing like a fish to water. It was his time training with Skinner and Smith that Ted found his first love of boxing.

* Unfortunately for Ted Grant, Skinner owed some big debts and decided to pay them off by rigging the fight between Ted and his mentor, Smith. The match went wrong and Smith died; with all evidence pointing towards Ted Grant, he became a fugitive from the law. Thus, Wildcat was born.

* While clearing his name, Ted Grant found a taste for being Wildcat. While he returned to the boxing ring as the heavyweight champion, he continued to moonlight as Wildcat, both in the fighting circuit and as a hero.

* Eventually, Ted Grant met up with one of his childhood heroes, Alan Scott, and became part of the Justice Society. Here he developed many of the friendships and relationships that still survive to this day.

* As Ted Grant found himself getting older, he found himself mentoring some of the up and coming heroes in the Justice Society and Justice League, as well as those who sought him out for his skill. However, his star pupil was Dinah Lance; even though she had trained with many others, Wildcat was able to find a fighting style that worked for the young woman, which became the core of her training.

* Following the Thanagarian invasion, Wildcat found himself as part of the Justice League as both the Justice League and the Justice Society merged. While he was on the semi-active roster of heroes, he found his presence on any missions less and less. This type of idle time grated on Wildcat and he craved more action, and so got himself involved in an underground Metabrawl, run by Roulette. he became so mired into the fighting circuit that it took Black Canary and the Green Arrow to break him of his psychosis.

* Still wishing to play a part in training the new heroes, Ted has stayed a member of the Justice League to train any that wish to learn from him. Of course, he still participates with his old teammates from the Justice Society as they need him, always willing to lend a hand.

==Personality==

First and foremost, Wildcat is a fighter. It is what he was encouraged to be from a young age, and his mentor was the heavyweight champion, so the lifestyle of a fighter has been ingrained into Wildcat's being for better or for worse. It's his belief that the best way to determine someone's character is by fighting them. To him, fighting is honest and straightforward.. the way a person holds themselves in combat can tell him a lot about them. The best way for him to understand the people he fights with and fights against is to study them by putting them into a position of combat, whether it's under the guise of training, or if it's for a worthy cause. (Like saving the world.)

At the same time, his exposure to the world of professional boxing has skewed his view of the world, and he often comes across as a male chauvanist. It's not that he doesn't appreciate women, but he has an old school view of how men and women should act, and what behavior dominates either sex. Because of this perception, he often speaks plainly and honestly, and will often earn him rebuke from those who find his viewpoints offensive and outdated. Even so, Wildcat's not one to let something like that perturb him.. or even change his ways. He is who he is.. and if you don't like it, then that's your problem.

One of the biggest sources of his pride comes from being a mentor to those who wish to learn how to fight properly; learning the sweet science from him. He has found value in teaching other what he was taught back when he was a teenager on the streets, homeless and hungry. He feels that by giving back in such a manner, he is teaching these youngsters valuable lessons that they can use for the rest of their life.

Also, to be sure, Ted Grant is a hero. He has clear ideas of what's right and what's wrong.. but at the same time, he has a full appreciation for all the shades of gray people come in. He's not interested in classifying people as heroes and villains, as not everything in life is quite that clear-cut. He understands different motivations drive different people, and is more likely to be more forgiving than other do-gooders, and at times may even seem like he would be inclined to participate in some less-than-savory side activites.

To his enemies, he is tough, stubborn and can be quite a pain in the ass who won't give up until he's forced to. To his friends, Wildcat is someone who has your back no matter the circumstances. He'll be there to bail you out of whatever mess you've gotten yourself into, even if it's to his detriment. He's someone to count on when the chips are down, and while people may have issues with his personality, he often checks any personal difference he has with others at the door in order to serve the greater good, or to simply kick some ass.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Flash

2012-02-15T01:47:11Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Flash |Image=200px |Name=Wally West |Alias=The Flash |Species=Metahuman |Age=25 |Affiliation=Justice League |Quo..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Flash
|Image=[[Image:Flash01.png|200px]]
|Name=Wally West
|Alias=The Flash
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=25
|Affiliation=[[Justice League|Justice League]]
|Quote=''"My name is Wally West. I'm the fastest man alive. I'm the Flash."''
|Powers= 
* Superspeed
* Phasing
* Vibration
* Non-friction Aura
* Agility
* Accelerated Metabolism
* Speed Control
* Speed Vs Mass
* Accelerated Thought
* Spinning Limbs
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

When you grow up idolizing the heroes of the world, specifically Central City's original Flash, it's quite a shock to find out that your uncle is that very same hero. Wally learned as a teenager that his uncle, Barry Allen, was the Flash. This one bit of knowledge would forever change the way that Wally looked at the world -- he wanted to be out there with his uncle. And as fate would have it, as Wally was visiting the very lab that Barry was working in, the Speed Force wanted him out there as well. As Barry Allen laid out the chemicals in the same location they were in that fateful night, lightning struck twice and gave Wally the powers of superspeed.

(OOC Note: I'm leaving the reason for Barry Allen disappearing as the Flash open. Should someone app him, we can discuss whether it was Barry retiring or if he died in some Crisis event. In any event, Wally likely spent some time as Kid Flash in this universe as well.)

When Barry Allen finally hung up the tights, Wally West took up the mantle of the Flash. Just an everyday guy in college, Wally spent his early career balancing the last year of his time in Central City University and protecting the twin cities of Central City and Keystone City. Graduating with a degree in forensic science, much like his uncle, Wally found that his place wasn't in the lab -- it was in the motorpool. Wally felt much more at ease and at home working with his hands in the motorpool and quickly rose from just one of the many mechanics to the head mechanic for the CCPD.

The world would grow much larger for the Flash over the next few years. Essentially the 'everyman' member of the Justice League, the Flash was taken out of his hometown arena and put onto the global stage when he helped found the Justice League. No longer able to focus just on the twin cities, the Flash was running at even faster speeds to balance his life fighting threats a thousand times larger than his native Rogues.

Wally was there for the Imperium Invasion, the Thanagarian Invasion, the Justice Lords, and so much more over the next few years. And despite his sometimes infuriating jokes and winking at any female superhero nearby, Wally quickly became the anchor that kept the Justice League tied to their consciences. And now, Wally's story continues here on the game.

==Personality==

Everyman. This term gets thrown around a lot by various fans of Wally West, both from the comics and cartoon, with good reason. Wally is just a smalltown kid who grew up in the age of heroes idolizing the second Flash who then got the chance to be the Flash himself. His dreams have, in essence, come true. He's even found his own identity in both the role of the Flash and outside of the costume as just one of the guys down at the motorpool of the CCPD. Wally is the guy everyone in the office loves hanging out with. He's the one who holds the big weekend barbeque parties in his backyard. He's the one who is willing to go to a ballgame or hockey game with anyone who needs a buddy to hang out with. And not so surprisingly, he's the one easiest to talk to about their problems.

Carefree. While this has been dulled in recent years, Wally West is one of those guys that just does not let things easily bother him. Wally just doesn't know how to hold a grudge. His view on this is simple -- if he held a grudge against every punch thrown his way, every lightning bolt from Weather Wizard, cold beam from Captain Cold, or every dimensional threat by the villain of the week... then he'd be as jaded and as brooding as Batman. And what fun would that be?

Impetuousness. This personality attribute breaks down into one of his flaws as well. When you can move at near the speed of light the question of time becomes a much bigger cornerstone of your life. To quote 'The Ballad of Barry Allen', "And you say the world goes rushing by. But it seems so slow to me. And you see a blur around you fly, but it takes too long, it seems so slow to me.' Wally just sometimes forgets that people move on a much slower frame of rate when it comes to time and thus jumps the gun at times.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 1]]
[[Category:Central City]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Mr. Freeze

2012-02-15T01:38:47Z

Spypoet: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Mr. Freeze |Image=200px |Name=Victore Fries |Alias=Mr. Freeze |Species=Metahuman |Age=38 |Affiliation=Unknown |Quote=''"Think of i..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Mr. Freeze
|Image=[[Image:MrFreeze.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Victore Fries
|Alias=Mr. Freeze
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=38
|Affiliation=Unknown
|Quote=''"Think of it. To never again walk on a summer's day with a hot wind in your face, and a warm hand to hold. Oh yes. I'd kill for that."''
|Powers= 
* Suits
* Freeze Rays
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

-Victor Fries is born in Gotham City, son of Charles and Lorraine Fries.

-Victor develops a hobby of freezing animals. His father, a control-freak not understanding how to help his son, sends him to a boarding school. He feels detached from the rest of the world here, developing an apathy for others.

-Fries discovers the love of his life, Nora. Though she's an athelete, and him an egghead hoping to become a scientist in the field of cryonics, the two fall deeply and happily in love. They marry.

-Fries discovers Nora has been diagnosed with a rare and deadly disesase several years out of college. He takes on a job working for a drug company called GothCorp, and uses their funding to develop a method of cryogenically freezing someone perfectly.

-Victor is discovered by the CEO, Ferris Boyle, and he angrily storms into his lab, demanding that the illegal procedure be stopped. Desperate to save his wife, the two enter a fistfight, during which Fries is pushed into a series of cryogenic chemicals.

-Victor's body structure is painfully changed, terrifying Boyle enough that he flees the lab and calls the police. In the ensuing chaos, Fries manages to steal his wife's cryogenic chamber, and flees.

-Fries, feeling his body steadily become more and more susceptible to heat, develops a suit which keeps him at sub-zero temperatures at all times. Infuriated by this injustice, and terrified his wife may die, he weaponizes his cryonics systems, creating a suit with super-strength and durability, as well as a gun capable of freezing objects or firing ice with deadly force.

-Dubbing himself Mr. Freeze, Fries goes on a rampage through Gotham, looking to steal the funds of Gothcorp to fund his research again, killing anyone who stands in his way. He nearly kills Boyle, when Batman stops him, discovering the truth of the situation, and sending Boyle to jail with evidence he'd managed to scrounge from GothCorp's libraries.

-Fries is interred in Arkham Asylum, Nora's whereabouts undiscovered by others. Eventually he escapes, and finds that now that Boyle is rotting in prison, his desire for revenge is unquenched. He now seeks to spread misery wherever he can, as long as it furthers him towards his goal of saving his wife. He is a man obsessed.

==Personality==

Overview

Mr. Freeze, fittingly, has a personality best described as "cold". He views the world with detatchment from his fellow humans, not viewing himself as the same as them. He does not see himself as above or below them, instead finding himself somewhere separate, yet equal. He is alien to most people, and subsequently they are alien to him. He feels no kindness or sympathy, gives no charity, and feels no sense of honor. All he wants is vengeance; and since his vengeance against the man who made him like this was taken by the Batman, he seeks to make all others who stand in his way, or who may even be bystanders in his crimes, as miserable as he is. He does not care if he takes someone's limbs through frostbite simply because they were nearby when he robbed a jewelery store; they are not important.

Nora

Mr. Freeze obsesses over Nora. He wants to find a way to rejuvenate her, to bring her back to life and hopefully one day live a happy life with her again. He is filled with that single, desperate hope, clinging to it like a castaway to driftwood. And yet, it is impossible, and somewhere, in a part of his mind he seeks to drown out, he knows it. He hates the thought because, of course, it means the love of his life is taken, but he also hates it because he has already committed such terrible acts in the search for a cure. He suffers from the sunk cost fallacy very deeply, not realizing what is wrong in the least. And worst of all, he banishes the possibility that Nora would awaken horrified at what he's done from his mind. That is a fate he simply cannot stand.

Bitterness

Make no mistake, Mr. Freeze is bitter. He is bitterly frustrated at the fact that all his life he has felt imprisoned. As a child, he was stuck in a boarding school; working for GothCorp, he was trapped under Boyle's thumb, especially before his secret got out. And now, he is locked inside his suit or a specially-made cell for the rest of his life, unable to ever feel truly free. His only out, that being Nora's companionship, has been taken away from him, and his frustration has been frozen into cruel fury. He hates his life, he hates existence, and cannot fathom ever being truly happy again. Smiles on his face are mockeries of happiness, usually only worn when he gains the upper hand or quips at someone before killing them--and yes, he has /no/ qualms about killing someone, if anything viewing it as cruel mercy, removing them from this terrible world. He is not convinced that there is happiness to be found for him, or anyone else, no matter where he goes, and the sight of laughter only serves to anger him.

Companionship

Mr. Freeze seeks no friendship, and can offer none in return. If he allies with another person, it is exclusively so that he can gain from it, and if they have nothing to offer, neither does he. As a result, most of the people he works with are either thugs or villains; thugs because they want a cut of the profits, villains because they seek to use him, and offer him money or power in return. It's getting harder to find people willing to work with him nowadays; many thugs have seen that, when injured or suffering from the cold, he's willing to leave them behind and forget them, knowing it's very close to a death sentence to hang around him too long. The fact that he has a propensity for diamonds and cash, however, as opposed to simply killing people randomly or stealing odd items, means that the desperate and destitute will seek him out. It doesn't matter what reasons people have for working with him. All he wants is enough money to continue his research. People don't factor into that cost. At the very least, he gives what he owes; while he's left people to die, he's never killed men to take their cuts from them. Bad for business.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Gotham]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Starfire

2012-02-15T01:28:34Z

Spypoet: Forgot to switch category tags.

{{Characterbox|
Title=Starfire
|Image=[[Image:Starfire.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Koriand'r
|Alias=Starfire
|Species=Alien
|Age=25
|Affiliation=[[Titans|Titans]]
|Quote=''"Friends mustn't do this!"''
|Powers= 
* Flight
* Fortitude
* Solar Sustenance
* Alien Physiology
* Super Strength
* Language Absorption
* Starbolts
* Strength of Emotion
|}}

==Background/Timeline==

The Tamaraneans are a people of peace, despite their respect for their warrior heritage and training they would wish to resolve their disputes through diplomacy rather than force of arms. They, however are not so blind to the world around them that they would let their skills as a warrior people dull, in the off chance peace becomes a lost cause. Their martial tradition demands a great deal of preparedness and constant tests of ability, thus their abilities always outstripped what was needed becoming so much part of their way of life even the children are fearsome foes with little to no training relying upon generations of honed instinct to guide them. The cruel Gordanians value Tamaranean children as slaves as this dangerousness in one form or another can be useful to those with whom the Gordanians deal. Though the Tamaraneans were always successful in the defense of their planet the sheer numbers of The Citadel and its allies was enough to persuade the then Queen of Tamaran, as her husband was already dead, to give herself over to them as a prize to save her people from an unwinnable war. The deal was struck and the Queen's daughter Myand'r became the new queen. She would then marry a powerful noble whose name was Luand'r, they would have three children born to them.

The eldest of the three children was Komand'r. Her birth should've been very special as she was the first princess to be born to her people in over a hundred years, however events transpired to rob her of this honor, she was born darkly hued both of the eye and hair. This trait alone earned her the scorn of many of her people, this scorn made her a bitter and hateful soul. The second of the children was the cheerful and lovable Koriand'r, she too was a princess and given the treatment that should've been given to her elder sister, the second daughter was also chosen to be the heir to the crown. Finally the two sisters were given a younger brother named Ryand'r. The siblings grew up together, though do to the unfairness in her mind Komand'r took out her bitterness for her situation on her younger sister, the elder hating her younger for everything that Koriand'r was given that should've belonged to her. Kori for her part dearly loved her older sister and tried her best to soothe Komand'r as much as she could, her attempts only ended in failure though. As all Tamaraneans, especially the nobility, do the sisters went to the warlords of Okaara to learn the arts of war and broaden their minds with education of a scholarly nature. They both excelled at their scholarly studies , though Komand'r always surpassed her sister by being just slightly better. This victory helped ease the fighting between he two sisters, until their combat training began. In this field Koriand'r proved to be superior sister picking up what she was taught more easily than Komand'r. This was too much for the elder to take and she flew into a violent rage while sparring with her sister and actually injured Koriand'r. This event caused Komand'r to flee the school in fear of reprisals for her injuries of her sister, her flight took her straight to the Gordanians where she proposed a way to crush Tamaran.

Komand'r made her deal with the secrets of how to overcome the powerful planetary defenses of Tamaran and the promise that another member of the Tamaran royal family would be taken as a prize, she could think of no one better than Koriand'r to serve in this position. With the deal made the assault on Tamaran began, with the secrets of the defenses in their hands the Gordanians made short work of the planet's defenders upon storming the palace the demand for Koriand'r to be given into slavery so that her people would be left in peace was made. Luand'r and Myand'r had no choice but to concede and gave over their younger daughter to the Gordanian slavers and were given the peace they were promised in exchange. Kori's time as a prize was anything but pleasant the Gordanians taking pleasure in mistreating her any way they could think of, though they still feared her, this was only made worse because of her defiant stubborn streak. Finally being pushed too far by the abuse she snapped and she fought back, busting out of the ship and flying quickly to the closest planet so that she could free herself from the rest of her restraints. She made her landing and prepared for the pursuit and the inevitable fight she knew had to be coming any minute and the adrenaline that coursed through her body didn't help her to get herself off edge and ready to tear into anything remotely threatening.

The alien girl was confronted by teen heroes as she rampaged in her attempts to break her bonds. After a short scuffle a truce of sorts was made. Needing to be able to communicate with the people of Earth she chose to give Robin a surprise and learned English with a kiss, then shortly after the teens were assaulted by the Gordanians. Banding together they saved Jump City from being destroyed and with those heroics founded the Teen Titans. Since this time she has been on many adventureous missions with her friends, learned about this weird world called Earth, made new friends, and generally grown as young people are want to do. Now a bit older, more experienced, and perhaps a bit less naive she hopes to help the Titans grow by helping a new generation of teens, help save the world when it needs it, and generally continue to become the heroine she knows herself to be.

==Personality==

Koriand'r is a very upbeat individual, she's so cheerful and carefree that some might assume she can't be serious. This of course isn't true as she was the heir apparent of her world she knows more than her fair share about discipline and how to keep herself level headed. She possesses a truly kind and gentle heart, wishing nothing but the best for others and believing the best in them as well. She is also a bit naive and trusting as one might imagine, which combined with the fact she is so very alien to the Earth can leave her frustrated and confused about the world around her and easily taken advantage of. Finally, she's very open with her feelings making it very clear to those around her exactly what she's feeling.

She's extremely upbeat, nothing can seemingly get her down when she's happy and she's almost always happy. Her enthusiasm for life and the world around her make it very easy for her to find joy in the simple things, whether that is enjoying a sunny day or learning how to play a game, it all excites her. It is very easy to make her even more cheerful when others around her are also happy, this can lead the normally positive girl she is to become almost overbearingly free spirited especially to those with a darker outlook on life. While she may seem to be always happy she understands the importance of being serious. She looks at the bright side of things always trying to make the best of the situation she finds herself in, this boundless hope has seen her through some darker days, far darker than anyone would think from how she acts.

Starfire was the heir apparent of her world, as such, she was trained to know when she needs to dampen her cheerful nature and maintain a proper attitude for serious situations. She is very reasonable and fair at most times but when she's serious this trait becomes even more apparent as her decisions and actions seem to reflect that she's using her head more than her heart to guide her. This discipline of making choices with her head can crack very easily though when someone or something she feels very strongly about is brought into a situation. Things she loathes are, however, easier to maintain her composure around while those people and things dear to her heart, though only in some truly life or death situations, are much more likely to cause her to act irrationally.

She's a very kind hearted and generous person, despite the things that have happened to her. She will go out of her way to help anyone she can putting everything she can into it, she'll willingly risk life and limb to help someone in need. To a lesser degree she will give others gifts on special occasions or even when the mood strikes her. Her life before her enslavement was nothing if not idyllic, she wants others to experience this so much that at cost to herself she'll try to provide it for them. Her kindness and belief in others might leave her, as some would say, too trusting and naive of the realities of the world. She dearly believes the best of others as she herself is a genuinely good person and is honest to a fault, those who betray her trust in them will find one very hurt and most likely very angry Tamaranean the next time they deal with her. She'll take people at their word, trusting whatever they tell her to be true, even if she doesn't know them as long as they approach her in a friendly manner. This naivety isn't all consuming she is aware that not everyone is a good person and that they might take advantage of her but her heart is what guides her and this can easily overcome the rational part of her mind when dealing with others.

Starfire is a Tamaranean and as such is pretty open with her emotions. If's very easy to guess her mood as she broadcasts it to anyone around her if she's happy she almost glows with it while if shes irritable one can almost see the stream building up in her system. Given their open emotions it shouldn't be a surprise that Tamaraneans, and Starfire, are given to radical changes in their mood when given the right stimulus. The thing that makes the mood swings potentially dangerous is that very little things can set her off, be it a poor choice of words or giving her an unexpected gift. What she does after her mood changes depends on what was done and her relationship to the person, the less close the person is to her the bigger the action has to be while the closer they are means smaller and smaller things can provoke big reactions. Someone she doesn't know makes fun of her she might ignore them or just fly away while if a friend did it she might slip into a depressed state or be glacially cold to the offender. By the same token if a stranger complemented her she'd be pleased but if a friend did it she'd be positively radiant the rest of the day, almost to a sickening degree. Furthering the possibility of her emotions getting the better of her is the fact Earth confuses her.

Being a non native of Earth is slightly trying for Koriand'r, as she is very much a stranger in a strange land. Her mastery of any Earth language is spotty at best taking things at the dictionary meaning leaves her very oblivious to the subtleties of what's being said to and around her. Puns, jokes, innuendo, subtext, double meanings, slang, and cultural specific terms will leave her confused and totally lost often times she'll ask for clarification or make an assumption based on what she thinks the meaning to be and she might just be confused enough to remain silent till she can work out the meaning on her own. Furthermore, she has her own culture and customs that influence her for example while she may be kind and generous she will take a person's arm off if they get in her way during a meal and like all other Tamaraneans Kori isn't body shy at all, nudity doesn't really phase her nor does she get embarrassed by it. That's not to say she's going to run around naked all the time as even on Tamaran clothing is important it's just that nudity doesn't have the same social taboo there as it does on Earth. This cultural difference also has numerous other odd effects not limited to the way she sleeps on a bed to holidays and food she cooks. These differences can cause further clashes and frustration with her adopted home.

As has been implied a number of times, Kori is a little uncomfortable on Earth due to the constant reminders that she is an outsider. This can leave the emotional girl feeling a bit insecure at times, whether it is her appearance, her behavior, her customs, or any other issue caused by alieness..Starfire is sensitive to this criticism, she tries very hard to fit in but she just can't quite manage to fully blend in amongst the people of her adopted home. This is one area that harsh words even from a stranger can really hit the sensitive woman as hard as those from a close friend. Due to this, Kori can get a bit overly awkward and try way too hard to fit in after such an event, something those that know her well are all too aware of. Most of the time it's easiest for others to just ride the wave until she's rebuilt her confidence but in more extreme cases it might be necessary to take her aside and comfort her. Thankfully the longer she has been on Earth, the quicker she recovers and the less likely she'll go into an extreme phase of overcompensation as her confidence about fitting in has grown over that time. That said, Kori is still insecure about this and a tad more prone to react badly to it.

The product of a warrior people, warriors training, the life of a slave, and a prized experiment. It's amazing that she's as optimistic, helpful, and fair-minded as she is, she may be accused of being mercurial but Tamaraneans as a people are mercurial. She maintains a pride in who she is and what has happened in her life, though her time as a slave wasn't pretty she realizes it was for the good of her people that she suffered so much the less said about the experiments, however, the better. She is also humble and values others' abilities, experiences, and friendship often focusing on their best qualities and even going as far to respect the abilities of her foes. Her respect of others is also present in how she deals with those who need a ear to listen to their problems as she'll do so happily and offer the best advice she can, though due to her cultural differences this advice can vary between extremely helpful if odd to completely useless and embarrassing. Lastly, for someone who is so honest and has few secrets Starfire knows how to keep something a secret when she is told something in confidence she won't betray the trust given to her no matter what, she's naturally very stubborn and defiant against anything that tries to force her to do something she doesn't want to do as the Gordanians found out. All in all she's surprisingly kind and well rounded even though her life hasn't been easy.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-12 - Bat & Bat

2012-02-12T18:54:53Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Bat & Bat |Summary=First the Batmobile, and now the Batcave. Cassandra's night of many firsts continues, but this time the true surprise does not lie in st..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Bat & Bat
|Summary=First the Batmobile, and now the Batcave. Cassandra's night of many firsts continues, but this time the true surprise does not lie in store for the runaway assassin; but for the Batman himself. Both of them.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Terry McGinnis]]
|Date=2012-12-02
|Where=The Batcave
|}}

THE BATCAVE

Hidden underneath the legendary Wayne Manor is The Batcave, the true home of Bruce Wayne. In this living cavern are the devices of the mythic Batman, who stalks the streets of Gotham City like an urban legend in the night, rooting out the wicked, superstitious, and cowardly lot from the good people who live their lives in peace. The Batcomputer, the Batmobile...and more pressingly, the tools to repair those high-tech crime-fighting devices.

Which is exactly what *this* Batman is counting on.

The Tomorrow Knight didn't have much trouble entering Wayne Manor; all he had to do was think like Bruce (and avoid a couple close run-ins with some of the infrared), tap the Batcomputer with the IFF signal, and slip in cloaked through one of the windows and down into the cave's entrance. Once there, he'd managed to locate the...well.../precursors/ to the suit's repair devices, stripped off his damaged batsuit, and started patching it up as best he could.

So here he is, in all his glory - Terry McGinnis, Batman Beyond, the Tomorrow Knight, the Dark Knight Of Gotham Future...in his jacket that won't exist for thirty-five years, his pants that won't come into style for thirty-seven, his shirt that won't ever be in style, and a pair of goggles strapped over his head, working at the suit fervently with tools he's only seen the descendants of. Terry's hunched over the belt at the moment, patching up a particular set of circuitry as best he can without any real supplies.

Terry really didn't want to have to do this, either. The patchwork wasn't what he needed - he *needed* repairs, not 'stringing the suit along' - but he wasn't about to risk the old man finding him here and now. Who knows what that could do to the time stream? No, definitely better just to sneak in, wipe the records of his visit clean, fix the suit, and sneak out.

Then again, every plan that comes into contact with reality deviates from paper.

The Batcave is something of a batcavernsystem, as a whole. Those who coin batterms never really care too much about accurate parlance, however, Batman has found. It stretches, in varying widths and depths and heights, out to the jagged coastline. To the wall of sheer rockface that passes a curve in the mountain road. Up a long, winding tunnel to the grandfather clock Terry uses to access it, much like Bruce tends to. Of course, from this end, as that, it looks like something of a dead end unless one knows when to look. It's the curving, ascending tunnel that runs out to the concealed drawbridge that opens out onto that near-forgotten little backwoods road above Gotham that springs to life, now. The sound of engine, and turbine, and the grate of rock as the steel and mountain portal slides closed behind the batmobile.

In Terry's day, the road was closed. The entrance, sealed save an emergency escape. In Terry's day, the batmobile had long since gotten forcibly retired. The batwing, the batboat... well; if we're honest with ourselves, Bruce: dwindling fortunes, ability, and the all-in-oneder that was the batmobile of McGinnis' possible future made it a logistical decision that had to be made. Entire wings all but shut down, quiet and useless. For one thing, the forlorn ocean overlook a few hundred yards away occupies a landing pad for one of the most advanced jetcraft ever created by mankind, these days.

The batmobile is somewhat retro even today, a throwback to what worked from the earliest machines, and a replacement of what didn't, all crafted into an armored rapid deployment tool so formidable it has a reputation - and voice - of its own. That voice screams through the cave, a familiar, even reaffirming sound for many who would be in it. A sound Terry's never heard before, except in recordings.

It brings the sleek black supercar of an APC down squeeling to its platform in the expansive heart of the cave, the canopy sweeping clear. Within, there are... two passengers?!? The Dark Knight, and a homeless girl in a much too large coat?

It's to be expected that McGinnis took the moments to stop actively tinkering as they arrived, but the Bat immediately notes things out of place, repairs being made, and seeks the vigilante present. He motions for Cassandra to follow, moving away from the platform as a piston cycles and lowers the - well, that particular - batmobile into the cave's recesses for maintenance.

While the alarmingly spry - and stacked - 'old man' surveys HIS cave for interlopers. Albeit, he still expects Robin or Batgirl, maybe even Nightwing someday. He mostly leaves Ms. Cain alone for the moment. It's a lot to take in, isn't it?

Nights come few bigger or more confusing than this one, even for one with the honed mind and implacable will of a League assassin. Though were she her mother, or even one of her acolytes well into their twenties... well. If Cassandra were any other brutally-efficient killer trained in a distant, highly secluded Tibetan monastery, she wouldn't be approaching this incredible sight via the VIP's entrance.

The only similarity she bears to her former compatriots as she enters the Batcave lies in the subtleties of her every motion. The shrieking of heavily engineered tyres may herald her approach alongside Gotham's present-and-correct protector, but that's where any ostentacity ends. Even in her almost comically oversized coat, plain sweatshirt and filthy corduroy pants she moves like a ninja. Slipping from the vehicle's door through the hiss of hydraulic steam, she blends in immediately because the eye seems to refuse to take her in; were she on a street corner, most eyes would look straight through her. Why should they do anything more?

For her part, Cass takes /everything/ in. Beneath the messy tangles of her raven fringe, shadowed eyes peek with the wideness of startlement but the hungry intelligence of a razor mind as she stares about the cave, sinking inside her coat a little further in reaction to the grandeur of this place. Stories don't do it justice, her gaze panning across technological marvel and craggy stalagmite alike, drifting and drifting until... her eye lingers briefly over a workbench, similar to the others. And yet, not.

Her mouth opens, though no sound emerges.

Glancing at the Bat, she quickly slaps a hand against her thigh, then nods toward it.

Surely it's not his work-- someone who walks like he does, talks like he does...

They'd never leave it in such a mess.

Slag.

The minute he hears the car pulling up, Terry freezes. He yanks the suit off the worktable, letting the tools clatter to the floor, and immediately goes to find cover. As much as he'd like to stand there and gawk at the Batmobile, Bruce finding him right now, like this, would cause *problems*. So he's hidden himself away in the garage, putting on the suit one piece at a time as the Batmobile pulls up to a halt. Every so often he peeks out from the garage, to make sure Bruce hasn't gone too far from where he thought the old man was, and puts on another piece of the suit.

Without the whole suit, after all, he can't really turn on stealth mode and get out of the cave, and if he can't turn on stealth mode and get out of the cave, he's risking serious temporal damage, probably. Booster hadn't been too clear on that - something to the effect of 'listen just stay put and don't cause trouble' had been about all Terry'd gotten, and 'if anybody finds you don't say it was me'.

Terry really wishes Booster'd been a bit less vague now.

Move and cover. Move and cover. Terry was glad for the training - the training Bruce had given him in the future, though he was fairly sure Bruce would never believe *how* he was using it. Old Bruce. Not this Bruce. This...disturbingly young Bruce.

Yeah, that was kinda weird.

Terry rolls under the nearest car, pressing himself flat as he attempts to pull on the second glove. He's almost got the whole suit on, he just needed to get the cowl on and he'd be set, he could stealth, he could get out of the cave, home free, no temporal disturbances, no distortions, home free, that's right, /home/ /free/.

Problem. Bruce's style of stealth is notable by its absence. No sound, obscure line of sight, use agility and instinct along with precision timing to coordinate movements with changes or vulnerabilities in the perimeter and perceptions of those one is hiding from. No... if Robin were in the Batcave, he'd not be hidden. It wouldn't be quiet. The last vibrations of the fallen tools wouldn't still hang in the air. There's a heavy, wide-edged batarang, more a nasty bludgeoning and thrown weapon than anything, already in his right hand, flicked from its compact fold to full, perfectly balanced combat readiness before an eye can blink.

The Dark Knight hands it smoothly off to Cassandra. Apparently, he's that sure the girl's not in on this. His other hand goes to his belt as he calmly advances. Unhurried. Patient. Sweeping every crevice, noting every detail, patiently tapping in an uncannily long sequence of memorized digits into a hidden interface. Terry would know the sound of a full lockdown, by now. He'd know there's no getting out.

More presses, fog rises all through the cave, its passage and trends revealing even the Detective's own masterful steps. He frowns, he frowns big. "Dangerous game." He warns. It's not the first time he's been infiltrated... but the security here is only half the reason it's rather safe. In the winding tunnel leading to the grandfather clock, a figure notes the Dark Knight's motion, and slips unseen back into the shadows themselves, fireplace poker still held at the ready. Alfred must have observed Terry in the cave briefly before Batman even arrived.

Living from street to street, gutter to gutter, does not entirely lack advantages; at least in the way it strengthens mind and body, honing the senses needed foremost - and perhaps only ever - for survival. Cassandra's childhood training, those years of unending trauma, prepare her for the batarang. It's an unfamiliar shape, but the balance is tested with a gentle flex of her forearm, and she nods in mute affirmation; it's something she can handle, use to the full potential it offers. Cold and professional, particularly so to the eye of a stranger, she eases into one heel, shifting onto the ball of the fore foot.

But it's something else entirely that sharpens her senses as she creeps in deft, catlike movements - ironically enough, given the shape of the evening that led her here - up and around the workbench vacated by Terry. While Batman sweeps in his own direction, she focuses not on inferring the interloper's location-- because if it were one of hers, if she was wrong about what she told him, in the Batmobile, it wouldn't matter how far they thought on it. There'd be a plan within the plan. All that can be relied on...

For the second time tonight, it's the animal.

Cassie's ears are keen from nine years of listening for every nearby scuff or scrape, from forcing herself to discern the potentially harmful - or deadly - noises from those of rats or cats, passing cars or even pedestrians too set on their normal life to even notice the unfortunate snipe sleeping beside a storm drain. It's important to pick up EVERYTHING; no sound is too small, but even moreso to filter. Combined with her League training she knows; a footstep made in stealthy intent, by someone who is spooked or seeking escape, is vastly different from any other, when nuances are plucked out one sonic thread at a time.

She quickens her pace subtly, a human radar.

/Slag/.

Terry didn't know who the girl was, but she was admittedly far from his mind at the moment. With the fog rolling in and making Terry's attempts at cloaking impossible, it was seriously looking like he'd have to give himself up. But if he did that, the timestream was potentially maybe under serious threat of rupturing maybe!

Slaggit, Bruce, why did you have to be so freaking *thorough*?

The stealth was no good now. Only option was to try and get out outside the fog's field of 'footprints'. Terry slams on the hood and rolls out from the under the car immediately; he flips himself to his feet, leaps upwards, and latches onto one of the stalactites with his claws, pressing up against it as hard as he can. His feet dangle for a moment before he flips upwards, hanging upside-down against the point when the rock and the ceiling meet, on the other side of the rock from the place he'd jumped. Bruce would notice the spot immediately, might even catch the dark shape going up; Terry knew that much, knew Bruce well enough to know that he'd immediately check over by that spot. So he keys on the cloaking device and leaps to the next stalactite, as silently as the suit allows - which is pretty damn silent, but not quite silent enough to evade Cassandra's senses. He moves to the next, then the next, finally stopping between a particularly large pair of them.

Okay. That was good. He had some distance between him and that spot, and the suit was quieter than a mouse in a church. And he was cloaked, he was cloaked for the moment, so he should be fine. Even if they knew where he should be, they couldn't see him if he was *invisible*, and as far as he knew, Bruce's current suit didn't have the ultraviolet cowl. He was pretty sure that wouldn't be invented for another twenty years.

Of course, that doesn't matter, because the cloaking fails about five seconds later, shorting out with a stealth-betraying "kzzzzkkkt."

Terry mutters, inelegantly, in his 'Batman' voice, "/Slag/."

Invisible or not? Picking a path undetected back through the perimeter Cassandra and the Batman of /to(k?)night/ immediately set up would be nearly impossible for any man or superbeing. In Terry's case, he's right about the Dark Knight catching the flicker of motion; not a dark shape, though, momentarily illuminated by the leaking energies and incomplete baffling of the Beyond Batsuit's damaged hull. It's enough to lock the Dark Knight's gaze to a point, to keep Terry's movement options ever in his periphery. The cowl cycles frequencies, tracks the suit as best it can from moment to moment after the Tomorrow Knight goes invisible. Where does he get those wonderful toys?

Well. Wayne Enterprises is one of the world's foremost R&D firms, and while Wayne Combat Solutions has never manufactured or developed a lethal weapon, it's /the/ leading edge in prototype body armor, reconaissance, sensor, self defense, security, and... you get the idea. So many revisions in a well-funded development cycle. So many prototypes and silent back channels. He's easing two black pellets, similarly personally re-engineered from long forgotten military R&D for.. someone somewhere, into his hand now. The Caped Crusader never looks right at Terry, as if bat-watching, but he keeps him in view nonetheless. Getting a fix on his movements, his position. In the dark, for such brief instants, it's hard to say but... maybe this -is- one of his?

"Stand down before we /take/ you down." The Dark Knight intones evenly, when Terry apparently decides the jig is up. Batman agrees. "Who are you, what are you doing here, and /where/ did you get that suit?" Something just screams that he better /like/ all three answers, too. Did we mention the 'we'? Yes, apparently.

EARLIER THAT NIGHT:

"I need to know now. Running, or fighting?" The Dark Knight seems ready to depart, facing the urchin in the alleyway, offering her a choice. She moves forward, Bruce's oversized overcoat snapping behind her, boldly /striding/ to the Batman. Her gaze never leaves his, not for one instant, as she crosses the distance and then abruptly, with a devastating grace /twists/ into her right hip. Her left arm flies out, propelled by the centre into a strike that very few men could stop or evade - even telegraphed as it is. Behind her thrusting palm, her mouth is a taut line, eyes dark and hard.

It's not an answer, but it is. Communicating without words, the Batman steps -into- the blow. It's even more scarcely pulled, a blow that would wind most who took it, by the time it thuds into the protected center of his batsuit. It's not the advanced military sneaksuit technology amplified to the next level. It's not the gauntletted hand that comes to rest over her wrist too gently to have -really- deflected the force of the motion. It's his own, centered focus, momentum, timing. In that instant, he's in a place that she cannot penetrate, perfectly poised to retaliate. Which, of course, the Dark Knight doesn't.

"Then I'll teach you how to hold that line."

Sadly, Cassandra's hearing is far from a superpower, or she'd have some legitimate chance of tracking Terry's progress from the car upward. As it is, her talents are almost entirely countered by the technology of the suit... though the operative word is 'almost'. There's likely not a grown adult male in the world who can roll from beneath a car without leaving at least a faint aural trace, the soft scuffing echo of his motion sounding like an alarm to one who's waiting for exactly such a thing. But he's out of easy throwing range; and by the time she tracks the noise back to its source, he's already moved on.

She doesn't even head to the precise location. It's safe to assume they're dealing with someone smart, which leads logically to someone quick; and capable too. She's never been here, is still taking in the locale, and it's confusing and disorientating. Either the person they're tracking has been here many times before - and knows the precise nature of the Bat's threat - or they've simply done a lot of research.

But if they're so good, why would they leave the workbench in such a state? Why give themselves away?

To the little drifter's mind, furiously working past the nagging ache of her bullet-wound, the answer is obvious. Because they're confident in their abilities. That leads her either to a probable ambush, or the contingent hope that their quarry is OVER-confident; and then their own hubris will be their undoing. They'll have failed to plan for something, believing themselves clever enough to---

She's in mid-step, fore foot hovering, when the electronic hum alerts her like a thousand-watt klaxon.

Her body is in motion before she has tracked the interference visually, coat flowing around her until it suddenly, violently /snaps/ in tandem with the setting of her stance. That same motion sends her weapon-bearing arm up and outward, arcing to the very point that she should release-- and then it all comes flooding back, that same material protest of her oversized garment echoing back to the alley, carrying with it in an instant the entire exchange that ensued, until Batman's firm, powerful words boom in her ears.

The batarang strikes the air hard, and is immediately retracted, a flick of the wrist bending it back against her forearm. The raven-haired runaway - no longer running - sinks her posture, tightly winding into her abdomen and tilting the centre against her left hip, simultaneously opening the right qua. She's ready to throw, poised, the controlled ferocity of her gaze locked onto the source of that uttered curse.

But she holds, and the Bat's voice booms out. This line is his.

Of course. Of course Bruce couldn't just let things be, of course he couldn't see the batsuit and assume that it was something he didn't want to know about. Bruce Wayne didn't have things he didn't want to know about. Bruce Wayne wanted nothing more than to know everything, and that was, in this specific situation, a fatal flaw for Terry McGinnis's unfortunate circumstances.

He was pretty sure the old man was going to find him. He was pretty sure from the moment he'd jumped that he'd get found, that he was just buying time. The cloak's shorting was, ultimately, just the inevitable being un-delayed. So now, he had to think of answers.

Terry puts on his best Batman voice - which is, all things considered, pretty good, the same low, gravelly sort of tone Bruce has going, if not literally Bruce's own. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out how to make one of the world's greatest detectives /not/ want to solve a mystery involving his own house being broken into.

...yeah, this might be a problem.

"I don't suppose 'it's complicated' is the answer you want, Mr. Wayne," the Tomorrow Knight says, a note of actual, serious hope in the Dark Knight's voice. There's also a heavy amount of respect at the name 'Mister Wayne' - as much as Terry thought Bruce was a crazy old man, he was a crazy old man with *incredible* skills, and it would be absolutely wrong to say that Terry didn't look up to him. "But I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just..."

"I just need to repair the suit. And then leave. And then I'll..."

Terry goes silent for a moment. His posture sinks a bit. He already blew it, didn't he? Batman saw him, and so did that girl. He's already been revealed. So...if Booster was right...it didn't matter, now.

Then again...from what he knew of Booster Gold...he really, really hoped he was wrong.

Terry drops. It's a sheer drop, and would probably be pretty impressive if it wasn't in front of Batman and Cassandra Cain; he lands, both hands above his head, and kicks away some of the fog gently so they can get a good look at him.

The Tomorrow Knight suit is a batsuit. There's no question that it's a batsuit; the sleek black coloring, the red chest emblem, the cowl and its ears, the elegant simplicity of the tool and its obvious multitude of uses made it abundantly clear that it was a batsuit, had to be a batsuit, couldn't be anything *but* a batsuit. And it probably wasn't imitation, either; a glance at the circuits exposed by the damage would be enough to tell anyone looking that this was something that didn't even *exist* yet, wouldn't exist for another twenty years. The technologies in this suit were ahead of their time.../way/ ahead of this one.

Terry glances over at Cassandra. "I didn't know you were so popular with the ladies," he mutters, before returning his gaze to Bruce. "I'm Batman. Not you, I mean." Terry's hand slides down to his face for a brief moment before immediately returning to the air. "I'm not...Bruce Wayne, that's obvious. I'm...Terry."

He's acutely aware that he's babbling, but that's okay, because he's pretty sure 'explaining yourself to me if you ever travel back in time and get caught repairing the suit in the batcave' wasn't covered in Bruce's curriculum.

"As for what I'm doing here, I'm...fixing the suit you gave me. Although, I gotta admit, old man - your workbench is kinda lacking." Terry bends down and picks up a screwdriver, raising it up. "A screwdriver? Seriously? What is this, the dark ages?"

Even in danger of being taken down by his own mentor, Terry just can't resist making a smartassed remark.

"I'm /Batman/." The Dark Knight intones firmly, firstly. It's hard not to take him entirely seriously. It's kind of like when elderly, sad and lonely Bruce gets angry, except backed by as yet undauntable will and the formidably tempered ability to /kick the ass/ of just about anyone who doesn't take him deadly seriously. Or who keeps spouting his OTHER name at him in this suit without EXPLICIT permission. ... never mind that he probably sort of already GAVE Terry permission. That's a whole different issue, at the moment.

That issue is that he's never even met this guy, yet he's clearly here in some kind of future batsuit. Batman would call it inconceivable, and rightly so, but he knows better. It's still rather shocking and difficult to /believe/. "Of course it is. I don't have the parts to maintain a sophisticated piece of equipment I haven't /built/ yet." His 'lacking' workbench. He says it drily, like McGinnis should really know better than to have made the crack in the first place. Like he doesn't get the joke. It's pretty much the same perfectly deadpanned bullshit now that it is then.

"Take off the suit, stand down, and keep your hands where I can see them at all times. -If- I find enough to convince me you're for real, maybe you and the suit both get to leave in one piece." The Dark Knight is getting to offer all sorts of abundantly fair deals, tonight. It's anyone's guess whether he's being straight up, or still thinks Terry's got more than bats in the belfry. Either way, at least he's humouring the Tomorrow Knight instead of going for the kneecaps?

It strikes her far harder than the other bullet she's taken tonight...

Because this one hits her right between the eyes.

"W--"

It's the most Cassandra Cain has spoken in a very long time, the actual span lost in the lapse of traumatic memory, though it may indeed be that she was in her cradle - attempting to childishly frame what little she could - when the last actual syllable left her lips. It's a single letter, a little upturn at the end, and a stammering pause... but it's something. A testament to her shock. Shaded hazel eyes dart sidelong, her stance utterly unmoving but attention uncharacteristically torn from the quarry. It's the first time that Batman-- it's the first time that /Bruce/ will have seen her let her guard down without forethought.

But then it all comes together. The coat, sweeping about her toned, scarred body, lapping against the floor - the only truly, flawlessly kind gesture she can remember experiencing directed to her and her alone. Her life since, defined by the tiny good deeds she's attempted to accomplish around the city - albeit silently, and as invisibly as she can, trying to make up for what's been done. To prove herself worthy. Is this the kind of thing that Bruce Wayne orchestrates? The game that Batman plays? She's encountered him twice since, cowled, for the first and second times in the space of years sleeping rough.

Setting aside the train of thought that follows, she decides...

The important thing is to /see/ the truth. See with the eyes; understand with the eyes.

It's what she knows best.

Keeping one wary eye upon the fallen stranger and the other very intently on the Bat, she lowers the batarang, slipping it with a very smooth and deliberate motion into an oversized pocket - no sudden movements. As she approaches, she scans the caped vigilante one last time, trying to pick out the nuance of form hidden beneath layers of tough, armoured hide. By the time she stands beside him, she feels certain this is right. It's what she needs to do. She's a lot shorter than he is, and she sinks a little further, supplicating herself rather dangerously... it goes against her every instinct, it really does. Her every instinct, bar one.

She promised to trust. She promised. She's never made a promise before.

Her hands lift to either side of her face, miming a tight grasping motion at the base of her cheeks...

"Wayne?" She asks, her voice unnatural, lips and mouth not used to phrasing.

And then she pulls an imaginary cowl up, and back, her gaze sternly boring into his all the while.

>>>TO BE CONTINUED... TUNE IN NEXT WEEK - SAME BAT TIME, SAME BAT CHANNEL!<<<

2012-02-11 - Bat & Mouse

2012-02-12T07:46:42Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Bat & Mouse |Summary=Cassandra takes her first ride in the Batmobile, en route to the one clinic and the one, kindly medic Batman can trust. After having t..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Bat & Mouse
|Summary=Cassandra takes her first ride in the Batmobile, en route to the one clinic and the one, kindly medic Batman can trust. After having the hole in her body patched, the mute girl is asked to make a decision. She decides. But will it be her feet, or her fists?
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]]
|Date=2012-11-02
|Where=Gotham City
|}}

"Here." That's the first word. First things first. The Dark Knight extends a bundle of absorbant material, densely woven, to Cassandra. "Put pressure on it." He doesn't even glance over to look if she knows how to do it properly. There's at least that much trust. More, well, there's also more to be said. At least, by one of them. She's given a moment to peacefully comply before the batmobile moves. It's sharp, abrupt, and coupled with a near-ninety degree turn that the Caped Crusader actually accelerates through. The two within the vehicle weaponized into a war on crime are remarkably stable, however. Shifting far more gently as gyroscopic stabilizers work in favor of traction control and g-force nullification.

"Keep firm pressure on it." It's even, rhythmic. Not so much because she doesn't know it, but because he wants to keep the girl focused on it. The car darts down the backstreets of Gotham and up an overpass, charting a brief course down the near-empty late night thoroughfare. During that brief course the batmobile puts drag racing to shame; she'd go airborne were she lighter. "Figure you want to tell me what happened between you and the League?" So he can.. deal with it? The Dark Knight barely glances to Cassandra, there. A quick glimpse to take in her stance, her demeanor, then back to the road. It's safety as much as anything, they exit smoothly around another car and down into Oldtown. "Didn't think so." The Caped Crusader deadpans, bemusedly.

While he may snark, the Dark Knight has his own guesses. "The League raised you." The Batman postulates, "You're rogue, though. No League or Society agent acts selflessly repeatedly, non-lethally, and by a moral compass." He's either relatively sure, or testing her responses. The Dark Knight can see her in the windshield, did we mention?

"No one trains an elite operative without.." Purpose. It's not that he changes his mind, or doubts hers. It's that he fully realizes it. It's older than Ra's himself. Older than the Bible. The perfect assassin is a heartless child. They certainly fucked that one right up. To kill him? To kill... probably more than one target, at that. The Dark Knight sighs, and drives. "You have to be 100% straight with me here. Is there any sign they are after you? Do they know you're in Gotham?"

Apparently, he also trusts her to be a decent second opinion on that rather high priority recon.

Cassandra's fingers are slick with crimson already, and the effort of maintaining firm pressure is difficult as a result. It's with silent thanks that she takes the proferred material with her free hand, making the switch with practiced swiftness. His trust is well-placed, it seems. She doesn't even flinch.

As the Batmobile starts, she glances briefly at the soiled palm, glutinous red flashing to solid black - and back, in the flickering of passing street lights. Her breathing is calmer than it should be; shallow, controlled exhalations expanding her chest only faintly as she keeps the motion focused in her gut. There's no sense forcing the wound to bleed faster, those poisonous fragments of polyester to nestle deeper. Her gaze maintains a hard distance more even than usual as she focuses, already doing what the Bat prompts her to do.

His words are reassuring even if she shows no sign, not invasive to the process she has already begun; and it's another point in his favour, that he seems both to care and react in the proper way. As if he comes from both her world... and the other, the one she's never been able to truly touch. A soft sigh leaves her parted lips, likely inaudible against the whirring of this incredible machine; but he sees it, of course. She knows he will-- because a wise hunter never removes his eye from the prey. Her own seek the point that his watch, finding it and favouring the masked man with a sharp stare as he makes his joke.

When he continues on, she frowns, brow creasing. It's a confirmation of what she knew. Feared? Perhaps.

Rogue, she thinks, mulling the word over. She's not placed labels on herself, simply... running, and surviving, never stopping for long before she resumes either activity. When Batman trails off momentarily, she takes the time to nod, slow and sure, to ensure he sees it. If he knows, she won't hide, because at this point she doesn't believe she can. A flicker of pain runs through her hazel eyes as she makes the mute admission, however, as though it brings to the fore everything she has experienced. Because it does.

She glances away suddenly, looking to the side window and swallowing tightly. Inadvertent, her fingers press a little tighter against her wound; and not in a good way, the pad slipping, scraping ruined flesh. She hisses, a sharply pained sound that catches her by surprise. Proud, she tries to toss it off with a twitch of her head, dark fringe slapping against her forehead, and then her eyes seek the Bat's again.

There's no thought in what comes next; as soon as the distraction of pain is abolished she shakes her head.

It's the adamant denial of a child, all wide-eyed honesty. She's been careful. She's been /good/.

Confirmation is another thing entirely. On several fronts. Her own origins, if not any of the details of purpose, come together at least in part in the Detective's mind. That the Society of Shadows does -not- seem to know they have a loose operative here also matches up with what the Batman has seen when trailing Cassandra's motions, thus far. The little vigilante does keep busy. "I don't know how long you've been running, but I suspect you're a little tired of it being so all-consuming." The Dark Knight notes simply, slowing down smoothly as he pulls down the side streets towards an old clinic occupying a quiet building in a neighborhood not many criminals bother with. Some, because of frequent patrols despite its economic state. "I can protect you, give you time to get your bearings again, but you have to decide if you trust me." This seems to be a rhetorical question he isn't expecting an answer on -right this minute-. After all, they have pressing business here.

The batmobile cuts openly down the streets hither and yon. It makes the Caped Crusader's presence ominously clear. Then, the vehicle vanishes, and the pulls around to conceal itself in an alleyway behind the starting point, almost back to where the little run began. While everyone is looking back the other direction, trying to see where he went, in all likelyhood. The car is fully darked before the stealth system gives out. "I've brought you to a doctor you can trust. I can fix you up but bullet wounds like that are delicate." The multitude of scars and wounds on his own body that -weren't- properly treated.. well. Let's just say he has expertise. "Stay with me, focus past the pain just a little longer." The canopy opens again, and the Dark Knight vaults out smoothly, coming around to Cassandra's side to assist the unusual urchin.

Trust. He keeps using that word, the echo of it still ringing in Cassandra's skull when it's spoken again - along with a demand. She has to, she must. It's familiar, that expressed sentiment, and her eyes darken as they slip sidelong through the techno-gothic gloom of the Batmobile. She's found his body language hard to read precisely since that first happenstance encounter, but there are clues in all men - even those who know how to conceal them, to work their innermost away from their motions. Those who trained this mute teenager did not do so in order that she perform parlour tricks...

She doesn't nod, frown, or otherwise indicate her emotions until Batman stands beside her on the outside of the vehicle, her eyes still upon him; she only lost sight when he moved briefly into the blind spot created by the ebon bodywork. As he reaches to help, she finally offers a reaction, head shaking brusquely - just once - and her near, bloodied hand lifting to splay that gory palm outward. 'No'. Slowly, but certainly, she moves herself from the seat, legs powerful and sure-footed as she avoids doing damage as best she can. In truth, her motions are those of a soldier; veteran of many wars. She's been shot before.

Likely, many more times than she's had anybody /help/ her.

Blinking back a few unavoidable tears of pain, she nods to the Bat, gathering her oversized coat around her with a shrug of the shoulders, keeping the pressuring hand upon her ribcage. She'll follow again-- though she hesitates a little before moving further, as though she WANTS to say something, her mouth opening and closing with the withdrawal and release of another uncertain breath.

Then she smiles, a tight little thing; a gesture between brothers in arms, going off to die. But it's a concession to the level of trust she's willing to give, allowing a man she's been trained to counter and kill walk her into a strange place. Where another stranger will manipulate her body. It's the only body she has... and the only thing she has. Her health, and a coat. She carries her world upon her shoulders.

The sheer amount of /brutal/ training already foisted on Cassandra hasn't really dawned on the Batman, yet. They're so alike, and yet, where he was forged in an unpredictable instant of tempering thunder... she was carefully honed to that moment. Perhaps not even entirely not-to-plan in her flight. .... at least, until now. The Dark Knight frowns. It /is/ Ra's al Ghul. He's not going to rule out the madman planning on Cassandra finding her way to him; but he's not going to turn his back on the girl either.

The Dark Knight scouts the course perfectly, without missing a step. Shadow to shadow in the span of moments, and in the door with such decisive precision that he stands in the frame propping it open for Cassandra, and addressing a rather kindly old woman already prepping a table and curtain in the back of the room. Batman doesn't bother asking Dr. Thompkins is she got his message.

"Oh for heaven's sake, what happened now." When a kindly old woman who was too compassionate to let a little orphaned boy go uncared for happens to half-adopt Batman, she winds up seeing a lot of things that she'd probably be happier not knowing about. It's something they both already know; injuries happen. "I'll be back." He doesn't tell Leslie to take care of Cassandra. He knows she will. The Dark Knight gives a reaffirming nod to the knight-errant of an Assassin, and slips back out the back.

There's company in the batmobile, after all.

Ready to follow Cassandra may be, but she does not do so lightly. When Gotham's protector moves, she glances in either direction - not moving her eyes, but ensuring any peripheral motion is detected and tracked. His awareness is not something she can rely on; but were any following her-- following them, they would be depending upon a certain reliance between the girl and the Dark Knight. What wounded teenager would watch their own tracks when accompanied by a man like that? Of the many teachings she not only remembers, but have become an undividable part of her being, one rings clearest now. Watch what your enemy does not.

They cannot watch themselves. Another lesson: use what they don't expect. Prey upon their inadequacies.

They'll not be watching her eyes.

Satisfied in an instant that she's safe, the girl follows in the Bat's trail, not employing the stealth and speed that he demonstrates, but moving as she naturally should. Placing aside the wound and her companion, she becomes the vagrant skulking across the street, missed by bystanders by nature of her existence. Why look at a person like her? She's nothing. Nothing at all.

Slipping in past the Bat, she is as quick to take in her new surroundings as she was to scope the street, staring mutely about the room then settling her sharp, dark eyes on the unassuming woman who greets her. Slowly she bows her head, never removing her gaze from Leslie, assessing her even as she makes gracious pleasantry. Her ministrations are met with pliant goodwill, in a most businesslike sense. Cassie's hand leaves her chest, gently lifting away the ichor-soaked pad and allowing it to be taken from her - shrugging off her coat in the meantime. As Leslie moves her into the position she requires, Cassie is already a step ahead, reaching for the hem of her jumper. It's surprising, of course; how trusting the cagey girl suddenly is, and how willing to remove her clothing so the wound can be tended. Gritting her teeth, she lifts the garment away.

She's wearing nothing underneath, and that's when the extent of her miserable past is revealed. Not only is the girl no true waif - she's athletic, incredibly well-toned muscle lining her frame, even moreso in the absence of several hundred hot dinners - but she bears the marks of a dreadful history. Scars line her torso, though nowhere more than her back, which is covered in ugly jaggedly-healed holes, rips like claw marks and other trophies so numerous it might turn the stomach of any who pause to consider it.

It's almost enough to distract from the even uglier fresh wound, lined with ripped cloth and polyester.

He's screaming, thrashing around in his bindings, thwacking off the interior of the armored compartment, now. Batman smiles, and approaches the batmobile. He thumps twice on the trunk, the vaultlike space sliding open anew and casting light - and fresh, winter air - in for Morice for the first time in some long minutes. "I was hoping you'd be awake. You're a really lucky man. Go out like that, can leave a man with lingering brain trauma." It's not so much true the way the Dark Knight took Morice down. It's true of a number of men left for the ambulances and police tonight, though. The Dark Knight drags the grown man out of the compartment one foot first, tossing him roughly to the ground, "/TELL ME ABOUT HOOD/." Morice whimpers, and scrambles backwards.

"I... I don't know /shit/! He don't tell us /shit/! Oh god man, come on man."
"/Where/ is he?"
"He t.. told us to meet him..."
"Where does he get his men, /how/ does he get his men."
"Look I'm just a nobody, don't know shit!" By this time the poor guy is having the worst night of his life, really, backed up against the wall with the Dark Knight looming a little bit closer every time he scrambles farther away. It's about this time that Batman hits him. Right in the breadbasket, dropping the recently risen mook back to the asphalt with one almost boredly efficient stroke.
"/Think/. Where did he hire you. What did he /offer/ you. Start /there/." The Dark Knight picks the thug up, and pins him to the batmobile, now eye to eye.

Outside, the Batman deconstructs. Inside, Leslie quietly mends. She offers more smiles for the mute, scar-ridden teen than she does words. The questions on who did this, whether she needed help... they're not unlike those the Caped Crusader asks of Cassandra. If a fair bit less menacing, as a rule. She's a careful professional indeed, the doctor carefully cleaning the wound and seeking out the bits of bullet. Mending what she can; it's certainly miles beyond any field medicine. "You'll be alright, dear." Possibly the most meaningful single words. It's not long before she'll be good as new. Better, even.

Dr. Thompkins does believe it, most days. Enough to believe that, at least for this girl, her first impression was erroneous. This isn't a child the Batman got injured. Not a bystander in his unending and often rather violent and dangerous war on crime. Cassandra's been caught up in it from the first; in one sense, longer than Bruce Wayne. "There, there." It's repeated here and there, no pun intended, as the process is gently conducted, "I think I have a fresh shirt, back here." Leslie offers, her voice muffled by the fact that she's already digging in the clinic's cabinets for the remaining charity inventory. Her back is to the assassin, next to the tray of medical tools.

It's something of a contrast. "G..g... godddamn man!!" Morice half-squeals, "I worked for the guys runnin' guns on the harbor. Irish crew. Hood shows up, kills all the bosses but one. Hires that guy. Th... took a few of us..." He doesn't seem to want to talk about this much. The Batman palms his wallet as Morice as dropped to the ground unceremoniously... but more gently.

"I know where you live." The Dark Knight notes, plucking a driver's license out of the mook's billfold, then flicking it into his face. He tosses over a prepaid cellphone, "Take an hour, decide. Me, or the police." It's a fair offer. Most of them call the police.

Inside, Cassandra is supplied with shirt and fresh bandages, and offered her coat back. The Batman seems to have a pretty good sense of when to show up at the clinic's side door again just as she's prepared to leave. Who knows what other terror he inflicted in the interim. "Leslie." The Dark Knight offers in deceptively gruff, warm thanks, and looks to Cassandra. He doesn't offer any communication until they're back outside, and he turns back to the shadow-veiled batmobile.

"You're good. I'll leave it up to you for now, but now I need to know. No changing your mind later. Running, or fighting?" Also, a totally fair offer to make to a 17 year old. Desperate times. Or maybe it's more a matter of the situation in question. In wars, you devise any number of weapons; small ones, medium ones, large ones. Ones that counter other weapons directly, particularly the enemy's most powerful or advanced options. However admirable her aims seem to be, Batman knows exactly what he's dealing with.

That she's already someone like him, capable of doing all the great and terrible things they can will.

It's the mark of what she isn't, that Cassandra waits patiently for the kindly nurse to return. Neither flight nor the other, bleaker option crosses her mind as she is left to her own devices, the wound now cleaned and patched enough that she's unlikely to gain an infection - if she were to make her own way now, she'd live. For another week, another month... who could say? It's never been a case of time for her. When one's only pressing goal is survival, time is measured by the minute and the hour, at worst from meal to meal; the body's state of decay the best alert mechanism to be found in the natural world. More than any other race, a human being knows when time is past to gain sustenance.

When Leslie comes back with the shirt, and the bundle of bandages, Cassie hasn't moved an inch. Her body hasn't needed to, but it's more than that this time - her brain has told her not to, something higher and greater than the mere need for continued life insisting that she remain. As the shirt is pressed into her willing hands, she tips her head to one side, birdlike and curious as she peers across the room into a mirrored cabinet - closed, her sweaty, tangled bangs and grimy face visible in the glass.

Her brow creases before she busies herself pulling on the shirt; it fits much better than the abandoned sweater, reasonably snug upon her athletic form. In a way, it's a statement itself. She's not hidden any more, not a tiny urchin inside dirty, oversized clothing. But she certainly won't abandon the coat, large as it is. That's pulled on also before Batman arrives, a final tip of the head going to Leslie before Cassandra moves toward him, tucking the bundle of bandages into one oversize pocket.

Where not an hour ago, a picture of a kitten resided. It crosses her mind now.

It's already crossed her mind; like every event of the past few days...

Outside, she stops at the instant he does, meeting his cowled, penetrating stare with her own just as unyielding - the light of consideration passing quickly. She's been thinking this entire time, of course, processing what she's seen and heard; plotting the best course of action. An assassin is more than a physical, violent beast of a creature. It's a hunter in every sense. A survivor and a force of nature.

She moves forward, Bruce's coat snapping behind her, boldly /striding/ to the Batman. Her gaze never leaves his, not for one instant, as she crosses the distance and then abruptly, with a devastating grace /twists/ into her right hip. Her left arm flies out, propelled by the centre into a strike that very few men could stop or evade - even telegraphed as it is. Behind her thrusting palm, her mouth is a taut line, eyes dark and hard.

And there the tableau remains, frozen, the taut and calloused flesh aimed to stop a half-inch from impact.

Whether he stops it or not; that's up to him. If he doesn't, then she'll more than adequately stop herself.

It's an answer. But what will he make of it?

2012-02-10 - Cat & Mouse

2012-02-11T10:00:17Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Cat & Mouse |Summary=There's a heist at the museum, and for once it isn't just Selina Kyle out on another shopping spree; her own robbery conflicts with a ..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Cat & Mouse
|Summary=There's a heist at the museum, and for once it isn't just Selina Kyle out on another shopping spree; her own robbery conflicts with a more deadly one masterminded by Red Hood. Who else but Batman should intervene? As he fights his former apprentice, the moonlit wanderings of another feline lead a third to the fray. A single destined meeting becomes two; or three, or four? The Fates are keeping busy tonight.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Catwoman]], [[Red Hood]]
|Date=2012/02/10
|Where=Gotham Museum of Natural History
|}}

Museums are useful places when you want to get things with customs without a lot of fuss or people prodding around. Add a overbearing curator into the mix and you have enough bluster to get things green lit without much fuss!

Of course, things like this work better when you keep the whole plan a secret and don't let word slip out that you've got a big shipement coming in... That's just bound to cause trouble.

Of course, that's exactly what happened here.

There is some unexpected activity out by the loading docks of Gotham's largest museum of natural history. Cars, a pickup, and the obligatory van are parked. The loading bay door is open. Inside, well, inside is a entirely different party.

A man wearing a red, full-faced helmet jams the end of a pry bar into the lid of a crate and levers the shipping container open, nails complain as they are up-rooted until finally giving way, the lid cast aside with quiet crash. It reveals a small sarcophogas resting on a bed of hey. It looks to belong to a child, someone important possibly.

"Come to Poppa." utters the man behind the mask, hefting the pry bar over his head and then bringing it down in a heavy blow that shatters the artifact; revealing not ancient, human remains but instead a sleek, deadly weapon of the future! Though it cannot be seen, the man's smile can be heard in his quiet chuckle as he reaches down into the crate and hefts the futuristic rifle up into his arms. "Look what we have here boys!" he hoots, hefting the rifle up like a trophy as he turns to the group of toughs that had been watching. They cheer or whistle their appriciation "A XR-56 High Powered Laser Assault Rifle... Can't even get your hands on one of these in the black market. Looks like breaking all those fingers was worth it." he provided some idle exposition, idly letting the rifle come to rest on his shoulder before he tossed the bar to one cronie or another, "Finish up, get everything loaded. I want to be out of her in the hour, got that?" he jaws to one subordinate or another. When the affirmative is given, he thumps the man on the shoulder with a fist and moves on to the next matter.

"Now then... what the hell am I going to do with you scum?" his voice dips, chill and cold as he approaches a gathering of battered, besuited men. They sport black eyes and swolen jaws. They look well worked over, but alive. "You think ou can bring this kind of fire power into my city without me noticing? Ballsy! Gotta admire that!" he prattles, hammering the toe of his boot into one man's ribs. "But your boss aughta know better than that by now..." he lets on, the sound of more crates being opened and more crashes of shattered 'artifacts' can be heard. "That's disrespectful... Means I have to send him a message... But it only takes on man to deliver a message." he continues, flipping a switch on that rifle, causing it to come to life with a sudden, high pitched whine as he brings it around, fixing the stock against his shoulder and setting the sights before his eyes.

Trouble comes... in more forms than one. In more forms than some tipped-off vigilante 'group', claiming to be on the side of 'justice'...

But this trouble cannot be seen... unless one knows where to look.

Meaning only to stealth inside the museum this evening and whisk away some precious artifact or another, the ruckus on the outside at the loading bay has brought her here as a casual, curious observer. She lays on the stone - the roof, with an old-fashioned awning - stretched out luxuriously and peering down through gold-tinted goggles at the scene below. She idly strokes a 'claw' up and down the length of her thigh, black-painted lips curving at their limits, forming a quirky, charming smile. "I see..."

The woman - Catwoman - speaks only to herself, cracks of crates holding her attention for mere moments longer, and the destruction of a sarcophagus. Watching while the man in the red mask removes a gun from the box, the cat burglar rolls away back into the shadows.

Looks like she's no trouble, after all.

In a second, this incident is deemed as 'none of my business'. Catwoman has no interest in a shipment of fakes, especially when they're used to conceal sophisticated firearms.

Arms lifted, the cat stretches, back arching, legs soon drawn beneath her. She rises in the darkness, mind returning to the task that she means to complete, but may have to reconsider the methods. She could slip in through a skylight, or maybe... intentionally trip an alarm. The police wouldn't think to look inside, spotting something gone awry like that around the back of the building...

Reaching up, her 'paws and claws' sink into the edge of the second roof above, and rotating her hips, slender legs are brought overhead. Catwoman lands in a crouch, adjusting the whip looped around her waist like a belt and the goggles. It would be so convenient, if there was an alarm outside, or something to trigger a spotlight. Ho hum. Oh well.

Trouble comes in more forms than one. The Batman knows it. Sometimes, when word of a top secret, high-end weapons shipment comes up through the grapevine, Malone catches word of it. Really, more than sometimes. If it's on the street, it's not long before Matches picks up the story. Particularly when the movements have been getting bigger, the hardware nastier, the players that little bit brutally overconfident. Sometimes, it's a solid tip. Sometimes, it's a load of shit. Others, it's a trap.

Other times, it's a legitimate tip that's already been hit by one of Gotham's other /myriad/ interests. Both of these all-too-common events make a distant perspective on otherwise urgent things all but essential. The Dark Knight starts on a building opposite the lot. He watches Jason's crew pull in, a small pair of portable goggles shielded against the telltale glow of other nightvision fitted over his cowl. He's mostly behind the building's duct exhaust, for the curious, one ear isolated from the working heat by that same cowl, which instead feeds him input from a directional array he aims down at the docks during the initial entry; only the Red Hooded man, and the professional aplomb of the squad, gives the Batman pause. The batbinoculars come off, slipped away behind his back in some hidden compartment, and he's all but silent as he joins a breeze in falling to the streets below, his cape forging a bat-themed parachute as easily as he lands on soft, black soles, eyes snapping upwards. He knows this Red Hood. He knows how he works. He knows the rival syndicate isn't getting out of here alive, unless he moves fast.

By the time the laser rifle powers up, the Caped Crusader is crouched, dark, in the shadows left by the loading dock's slightly lowered door. They've left the top of the truck in darkness. He doesn't make a sound until he does.

"Hood." It's to draw the vigilante's attention to him. Notably, it sounds in nearly the split second the Batman releases a whirling black shurikenlike weapon SOME IN THE MEDIA have dubbed a batarang at the gun the Red Hood holds. It's actually a stage magician's technique. Most of the oldest, most amazing sleight of hand comes from nothing but distracting the human eye. Playing on its instinctual tendency to focus when shocked, or surprised, or drawn by quick motion. In this case, it's the sudden, deep intonation of the Dark Knight's intent voice, coming high. While the batarang... the batarang whips in /low/.

It's a beautiful night for those hunting their heart's desire; be it weapons, trinkets, or cold hard justice. They say that everybody wants something, don't they? But the vast number of Gotham's residents, as most in the world, share a common inclination toward far humbler goals than the acquisition of murderous power or valueless wealth. And few even know what 'justice' means.

A small, unassuming figure clad in a coat several sizes too large creeps with alarming stealth through the grounds surrounding the museum, around the corner of the vast walls from where Red Hood plies his illicit trade; and completely, blissfully unaware once again that she is within proximity of the Batman. Cassandra Cain is here tonight on a simple purpose, with a simple goal. Shadowed hazel eyes lie intent beneath the unruly raven shag of her hair, flicking first from what she bears in her hand - and then to a tiny shape, huddled against the steps leading to a fire exit against the building's side.

She doesn't speak to herself, lacking both inclination and - to all intents - ability. But her gaze gains a certain shine, a gentle tweaking of her lips falling short of a smile, but expressing itself well enough. If she was uttering a word, any word at all, it would be 'gotcha'.

As quietly as she can, which to one so dextrous and sly is effectively silent, she folds the crumpled piece of paper in her right hand; flipping it shut and stowing it away in an over-large pocket. Her sneakers shift against the damp grass, as she creeps ever closer to the object of her attentions. Slower and slower she moves, until to the eye she is motionless... but she's so close... so very close...

A shot rings out. No; not a shot. Something else. Cass doesn't twitch, but her eyes flash toward it.

She's not the only one alerted.

"Mrowl!"

Her quarry suddenly bolts, lunging up the steps and nudging against the fire exit. Someone at the museum hasn't done their job, and the doorway sits just a little open, giving way before the insistence of the sleek, black feline. If only all of her kin could be so lucky. The dark-haired drifter bites momentarily on her lip, looking from the front of the building to the open portal. From here, she still can't see the truck; though she can hear motion further up, she has no idea what, or who. And she's gained very little from being curious. Drawing and releasing a tightly controlled breath, she rises on the balls of her feet, and creeps into the museum after the escaped creature. It's a trespass, but her consience is clear - the door IS open.

I had a idea for Jason to be moving the business end of the gun from one mook to another while reciting 'Eenie, Meanie, Minie, Moe' but it sounded too Jokerish. Still I figure it's fairly entertaining, so I might suggest it to him sometime. I mean, it's like a version of Duck, Duck, Goose but you walk around and cave in the head of the goose with a hammer... which kind of means they couldn't get up and chase you... So basicly the worst case of Duck Duck Goose ever.

Anyway! Now back to Batman: Jason Todd is a bit of a dick that kills people!

'Hood.' "What?!" He was just about to fire off the first shot when his name was called. Whipping around to answer the call of his name, Jason finds, not one of his lackeys but instead a set of white eyes drilling into him from the shadows. He's hit with just a heart beats worth of surprise. It was only a matter of time after all. There's a whistle of air and then a impact. The hooded man jerks slightly, looking down finds thecause. A bat-shaped shuriken protrudeds from his weapon. The narrowing of those eyes that can be seen through the two breaches in the helmet could be from ire, aggitation. The smooth, glossy surface hides the slight smirk that quirks at his lips. Should have known.

The gun doesn't take kindly to being batarang'd. Arcs of electricity surge out around the intrusion. "Sonuva-!" curses the masked man as he flings the weapon away. It goes sailing through the air, clattering to the floor next to several canisters.

What's that warning label say?

You guessed it!

FLAMMABLE

The weapon explodes, puncturing one of the canisters. It's a magnificent chain reaction that causes it's neighbors to cook off as well! This is what startled Cassandra's meal. Not a gunshot, EXPLOSIONS! The gunshots will come however, don't you worry your pretty, little head. They will come!

Selina gets her alarm, a fire alarm! It shrieks to life, seeming to awaken the overhead sprinklers, soaking mook, goon, and Hood alike. "It's the bat!" "Waste 'im!" Out come the guns, mostly pistols, one man pulls out a small, automatic weapon. Brandishing their small arsenal towards Batman, they fire as one. Jason is again hit with a fit of nostalgia. He'd tell them not to bother but why ruin his fun? It's just getting interesting!

Not all of them are so, unshakably stupid however. More than one is a veteran goon. They fire their few shots along with the rest before deciding that this just isn't worth it and make a break for it, crashing through one set of doors after another in hopes of finding their way out!

As she straightens, a black silhouette with the full moon at her back... She can almost sense him. Smell him, in the air.

It should be clear to all at this point, why Selina Kyle had no interest in the conversations happening below, or some psycho brandishing his gun, threatening to shoot /whoever/ execution-style.

Why she simply observed these events, and why this isn't her problem.

It's Batman's problem.

She knows he'll strike, before it's too late. She knows he's here. It's not her place to interfere, because that's his job.

Not to mention, she's incredibly selfish and self-serving. The vigilante lifestyle just wouldn't suit the likes of Catwoman for long. She's a burglar, not some hero. Let the Caped-Crusader handle the clean-up on aisle three. He's the one that wants to.

Locating whichever skylight is in close proximity to herself and hovering over it, the cat presses her 'paw' to the pane. Her toothy, black-lipped grin is reflected back as claws cut around her fingertips, tracing a circle, digging through layers of glass. The piece pops free with a small scrape; pleased, Catwoman sets it aside. "Now that that's done..."

She really does bring new meaning to the term, 'STICKY FINGERS'.

With her arm hooked through the circular hole, Catwoman releases the latch, pulling the skylight open. She wastes no time; she dives in without delay, the crack of her whip catching a beam in the ceiling, allowing her to drop down with nary a sound on the polished, gleaming floor. Her golden gaze surveys her surroundings - the infrared lasers make her smirk. Such petty defense mechanisms, they expect those to keep the greatest of thieves at bay? The cat is tempted to scoff openly, but refrains. There is other work to do...

She searches in silence for an alarm. A control panel... Anything, really.

However, there is none in the area.

Catwoman sighs, and means to continue when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly rises. She hadn't realised there was another presence here, and this occurs likely at the same moment outside when Batman confronts the masked madman. In the darkness, two yellow eyes are shining...

Two horrible, terrible-- nah, it's just a cat.

The feline ambles to her side, and Selina does not conceal the small measure of surprise, scooping the creature up in her arms, supporting the animal's hindlegs as it is brought to her shoulder. "Where did you come from, mister?" It purrs in response. She rubs her knuckle against the cat's jaw, over the scent glands, and the purring grows louder...

Somehow, in some way, this is communication. Her head lifts in understanding. Lightly stepping forwards, she makes a straight approach to Cassandra, who she is very much aware of. The cat 'told' her. Catwoman emerges out of the darkness, into a column of light cast into the museum from the door left ajar. She lifts the goggles, setting them upon her brow, smiling at the trespassing waif, "Lost your cat? He's very friendly." The cat maos, requesting more attention, "This place isn't where you should let your kitty wander--"

KABOOM!

The cat yowls loudly and huddles at her oversized collar, burying itself in fear against Selina. The fire alarm sings its shrill song, and overhead, sprinklers erupt. So, they decided to take the fight inside, did they?

Catwoman sweeps forwards. She'll never be able to make the heist now, not when Batman is likely to be crashing in at any moment, either in pursuit of or being chased by the masked man and his men. "Come," She says kindly to the poor girl with her oversized jacket, "It won't be safe here for either of us. Lovely ladies shouldn't be caught in the cross-fire, don't you agree?" Any friend of a feline is a friend of hers... She's not going to let an innocent girl stumble to her death.

Yes, no matter how selfish she is, or how little Selina cares normally.

The door to the inner museum crashes open from the loading bay, and goons stumble in. Fu-- perhaps a change of plans is in order?

The first sound was muted; difficult to discern even for those whose senses have been heightened through years of hard training, to tell friend from foe - and danger from opportunity. Cassandra has trailed her little quarry inside not through the folly of confusion, however, but on instinct; much like the feline, she has learned to trust her gut, to respond to the environment around her using the tools gifted by nature. Human beings are animals too, born of the earth and blessed with deep, savage knowledge.

It's what the League seek to hone into a weapon. There is nothing super or meta about their methods. The unassuming, raven-haired teenager is a creature more than a person, led to believe that the difference between she and others is a critical one, that she's no more part of society than the cat creeping ahead of her.

Perhaps less. It's somebody's pet; it has a home. It has a place.

This weighs merely as a mental footnote to the process followed by the dimunitive drifter, pursuing her goal with a single-mindedness that only the truthfully aware can bring to bear. She's intent not upon the light at the end of the tunnel, not on the ending, but on how to reach it. Entering the museum was a risky proposition even aside from the sounds echoing from within and without, and she's prepared for anything. Or so she thinks... and the whip's crack is her first sign that she may have inadvertently entered the tiger's den, placed her dark-haired head inside the mouth of a lion. Miaow, indeed.

Catwoman's entrance sees her come face-to-face with the girl sunk low, her very appropriate 'cat stance' falling deeper as the black-clad interloper makes herself known. Hazel eyes, deep and impenetrable in the dim light of the building, focus upon Selina's own as that explosion echoes forth. The girl doesn't budge an inch; not one /iota/, completely and utterly composed as hellfire appears to meet history. Dark eyebrows lift into her forehead, meeting the urbane burglar's casual friendliness with an odd, implacable stare. Barely human.

And she nods, mutely, lowering her arms from the loose guard position they have assumed about her, rising enough from her crouch that she can step easily and lightly to stand beside the taller, more ravishing woman. They're an odd pair; the coat-clad waif and the statuesque, sleek form of Catwoman. Perhaps though...

Perhaps they can make this work. As goons filter in, Cassandra looks up and sidelong, watching them from one corner of her eye as she affixes on Selina. Her eyes faintly narrow, a twitch of her head directed toward the goons while she busies herself loosening her arms and wrists, flicking them out deftly, fast and calculated movements that double in masking her sudden, fierce assumption of a battle stance. It's taken her all of a second to realize these are not museum guards-- their attire, their posture. It's all wrong. These men do not belong here any more than the mistress of thieves. But they're the threat. They're panicked, wild.

Cassie is a blur then, leaving Catwoman to make her own arrangements as she crosses the floor in a near-instant, her short figure blurring in the flashing lights of the alarms as she casts her coat open with one hand, the other snapping downward as she bends like a willow. Fingertips brush the museum floor, and then she's rising into a pirouetting, inverted butterfly kick, legs snapping to either side, bearing a foot for two individual cheeks on either side. She's brutally, efficiently fast... and far more powerful than such a tiny girl has any right to be, especially concealed so comically within the folds of a very large man's coat.

/Want/ to do it? No, no. The Dark Knight doesn't /want/ to do it, even if he does, sometimes, enjoy parts of it a little too fervently; but someone has to. He's taken it into his own hands because he /can/, and probably more than a little because surrender isn't in his unflinchingly stubborn vocabulary often. It's quite a price to pay to possibly bring some criminals to justice, in the end. The sub-code gas cannisters will be a whole new investigation, as a good chunk of the receiving warehouse gets showered with the explosive results of that detonation. Pity for anyone who's inside, really... or those guards standing right on the edge of the dock.

More than one similar vigilante has concluded that the cape is more trouble than it's worth, but the shadows it carries move like part of the Bat as he vaults sidewards, sweeping low with the scalloped end of said cape. Most of the rounds, he does avoid. The rest? It pretty much looks like he does anyway, the small-caliber rounds caught in the ultramodern material of the batsuit. As he drops off the side of the truck with absolute grace a man his size simply shouldn't possess, landing soundlessly (or at least relative to the scene, it's soundless). A trio of small, black spheroids with jagged protrusions go tinkling across the parking lot, across the dock with unerring precision to where the mooks still stupid enough to be firing are.

KABOOOOOM!!!

It happens even as he strikes. With the same motion, in the stress of the moment, the Dark Knight subtly affixes a magnetic beacon to the underside of the Red Hood's truck. Then, there'd be several meters of arcing ball lightning around each little clink-clink-clinking bat-taser. Really, all goons should be asked about possible heart or lung conditions before working in Gotham. None of them ever seem to be much worse in the brain function department, though. "So, /that/ kind of Hood, are you?" The Batman intones, eyeslits narrowing, noting as much as asking. He doesn't move in on Jason, though. Not yet. There's a handful of smaller, similarly matte black capsules that the Dark Knight utilizes as he leaps up to the loading dock past the scattering or twitching goons. The Caped Crusader turns as he lands, guarding his flank and keeping Todd on the periphery of his vision as he douses the flames spreading from the explosion with fire retardant, expanding from the impact with an exponential payload of stifling foam.

One has to have their priorities. It's why Batman is as yet unaware of his improvised backup - and potential second front if Cassandra decides Selina had nefarious intent, at that! Were Robin here, he'd be aware. Sadly, he was left home, washing his tights.

What follows is a show of Red Hoods utter disregard for the well being of his minions. Maybe because they are just criminal scum that he uses against other criminal scum. Maybe he's just a dick. As in a jerk, not a Richard.

While the security systems might be so poorly maintained that they'd allow a cat and a bum to wander freely through a unlocked front door, the fire systems are quite up to date. The fire, while not completely doused, is stopped from spreading very quickly, it finds poor purchase in the wet wood of the anachronistic, wooden crates that have been left in the bay. This allows Jason to opperate with a certain level of nonchalance as he soaks, absently watching his men get taken down like the low-tier trash they are. His hand dips into his coat, not for a gun, but rather for a small, plastic package. With a flick of his wrist, Jason coaxs the filter-end of a cigarete to protrude above it's brethren. He'll have a smoke while he waits... Or he would... if it weren't for that damn helmet! The butt is halted by the smooth, wet surface over his mouth. He's bewildered for just a moment before giving up the idea, "Stupid piece of-" he mumbles to himself... He's more accustomed to things that are a bit less restrictive. Ah well! The pack disappears into his coat once more, his hand rummaging about just a bit longer than need be for the stowing of a stray cigarette case.

Batman bestows a few more words uopon him. So he knew about him. Not surprising, good though. He'd warrented a entry into the Bat-puter then. Progress "Yeah, well, everybody's got to start somewhere right?" answers Red as he draws his hand out once more, something about the size of a apple clutched in his hand. With a deft movement of his thumb, the pin is pulled free of the grenade, arming the fuse. With a casual toss, the explosive drops to the ground amidst the pile of rival thugs. Their eyes go as wide as saucers. Anti-personel. BNot much in the way of bang, but it's the shrapnel that gets you. Easily recognized, fuse is just a few seconds. He knows its a easy trick to handle it.

"See you around." he bids with a wave before making for a escape into the museum proper, vanishing past a door. He's not afraid of Bruce... but he isn't ready for him just yet either.

Red Hood unknowingly follows the trail of the cowerdly/wuiser goons that had made a break for it. Five them burst in on the scene of two stray cats and one stray girl. Catwoman is recognized instantly. The girl and her dinner, not so much. Their minds stall, trying to decide what to do. Cassandra makes the choice for them when she drops their number down to four in a instant. The victem barely managed to utter a "What th-!?" of disbelief before his world was made dark by a pair of dirty, dirty, hobo-girl feet. He goes sailing away for a yard or two before dropping to the tiled floor, out cold!

"Crap, she's some kind of Ninja!!" exclaims one, reluctant to engage. "She's just a girl!" snaps another, hefting a pistol and leveling it on the diminuitive figure of Cassandra and fires no sooner than he finds her in his sights, snapping off two more shots to fire the first. "And Catwoman must be working for the bat again! ick a side, lady!" barks another. Two men level guns at her and open up. They arn't as calm as the second, just firing in her general direction, ignorant of the use of the notch and groove at the tops of their guns for the moment!

To any other, meeting Cassandra would be a startling ordeal, seeing her crouched and prepared to strike, but Selina only sees a girl who is much like herself, when she was younger. Savage, surviving off garbage and hand-outs, fighting to protect what little worth that is her very life... Blue eyes, clear like the sky, meet hazel. Her slim, svelte figure is angled towards the waif, presenting herself as harmless, her expression easing further into something truly beautiful, despite the half-mask that covers the upper part of her face and the exaggerated ears at the sides of her head. She understands...

And understanding, knowing how difficult the fight can be and how innocent this teen is, that's why she suggested they leave. To not get involved.

The disturbance doesn't deter her from this, despite a moment's reconsideration of action. Catwoman continues gliding gracefully forwards, holding the feline in one arm and presenting her open 'paw' in a way that is non-threatening, to guide Cassandra along and back outside, where she will be safe.

Unfortunately, nothing goes as planned.

The waif stops, and so does Selina. They share a look, and she releases the animal, "Outside, mister. Hide until its over." While the feline cannot possibly comprehend her words, it can sense Catwoman's intention, darting away. "I don't think that's wise..." She warns. It is tempting to cut in front of Cassandra, forcibly drag her out - a girl like this cannot POSSIBLY challenge a man with a gun, no matter how incompetent...

Yet, she does.

Before she's able to restrain the girl simply by placing a heavy hand on her shoulder, Cassandra is off like a shot, leaving Selina alone in her wake. She moves to pursue, but not too far, because what she sees... makes her reconsider. The helpless waif was perhaps not so helpless after all, perhaps never struggled in her fight, wrestling one of the goons down with her kick alone.

Selina could leave right now, not worrying about this girl...

But her conscience holds her back. What if?

And maybe, selfish thoughts invading her mind, if she sticks around, it could pay off. Catwoman might be able to escape with something worthwhile, when it's all said and done. She is ever the opportunist.

Her choice is made when she's singled out by the thugs, armed with their pistols and taking sloppy aim, gunning for her hide. "Working for the 'Bat'?" Amused by the declaration, clawed fingers grip the goggles, her gaze golden once again. "Not this time~" They open fire, but the agile queen of thieves and cats has sprung, high, into the air. Selina's back arches, bending, momentum carrying her legs over, landing on a glass display that had been behind her. The bullets penetrate the case, and pierce the statute within. "That's a shame." She says sorrowfully, clicking her tongue against the backs of her teeth.

Catwoman launches from her perch, not like a speeding train with no brakes as Cassandra had, but in a clear arc overhead. Halfway, upsidedown, her arm and the whip that she suddenly holds are both unfurled with a snap. It wraps around the wrist of the furthest man, and her flip is shortened. She loops the cord around her knee, dragging one idiot directly into his companion. Her landing is cat-like, sleek form rising like a ghost. "You both should know better." Tsk tsk. Her finger is wagged, cracking the whip back. "Should I tie you both up?" She muses.

"Hm..." A clawed fingertip traces her lower lip as Selina pauses for thought, "You might like that."

They're knocked out by the butt of her whip crashing into each temple and left. She searches for the waif. Hopefully Cassandra was able to hold her own? Catwoman might have wrongfully assumed things about her again... That doesn't happen very often.

"/Right./" The gruffly intoned, singular word /drips/ sarcasm. /Oozes/ it. If the Red Hood is an amateur, then the Batman is a fool. Not tonight. Tonight, he's on his game. The Dark Knight turns from the contained fire, leaving batfoam in his wake as he immediately pursues Jason. He's full tilt in the blink of an eye, black cape flying out behind him. A smaller batarang than the one that graced the helmeted vigilante's gun whips out from his left hand as he moves. To his credit, it does intercept the fragmentation grenade. Moments before it blasts apart its captive audience. It even deflects the round a ways; but it probably won't save a one of them.

Still, it opens the way after his quarry that much more. It makes the amount of shrapnel that glances off Batman that much less. One piece rips across his jaw. Another embeds itself shallowly in the side of his batsuit. Countless others glance off, redirected by the subtly armored sneaksuit. Some kind of ninjas, indeed. The Batman moves like Cassandra does, in the end. It's even the same focusing technique, the same paced breathing, the same ready stance to the charge. He doesn't slow a step, protecting his eyes and face with an elbow, and then using that elbow to plow through the door the Hood travels through, losing almost no speed as his takes it off its hinges and hurtles into the hallway, leading with a thrust of his right, gloved hand.

Batman joins the party an instant late, perhaps. As gunshots ring out and Cassandra and Selina are put in eminent amounts of imminent danger. It just brings a certain anger to the Dark Knight's features. Particularly when Cassandra moves. His motion, yes; that came a moment earlier. At efficient, alarming speeds. A bundle of black wire comes free of his right hand, whirling outwards about itself into a weighted projectile perfectly suited to cross the distance between the Red Hood and the Bat /like/ a bullet. The simple motion of his arm is faster than the eye can track, the sound of the batbola an unerring whistle for the half-moments of travel time. It whips about itself for the Hood's center of mass; a shot at his legs might trip him up faster, but the weapon... it arcs with electricity moments before the intended impact, whipping through the air at an alarming rate.

Still, the Dark Knight does /not/ slow his pursuit. Hands are back in his utility belt as the relentless vigilante pursues his dark counterpart.

Even in this world of bonafide supermen, where human beings train to their absolute physical limit in order to match the ludicrous power of those around them - and where, indeed, those same people have some measure of success, there are still only a handful who can boast natural reflexes and pure martial skill on the level of the League prodigy currently arcing her toned legs down through the air to bring them beneath her, landing in an impeccably agile squat before her hesitant assailants.

'Ninja' isn't the only word that springs to mind. And as for 'girl'...

Well. She may indeed be more creature than man.

Caught beneath the fierce rain of the museum's sprinklers, Cassandra watches the men draw weapons from behind a sopping fringe, tangled locks matting over her forehead to prick at the tops of her eyes. The instinct is to blink, or flip the head to one side, trying to ward off as much of the irritating cascade as possible; but Cassandra stares directly ahead, tensing limber and powerful against the tiled floor, facing down the barrel of a gun as though it were nothing more than a pest, a petty obstacle to overcome.

'Bang,' says the gun, 'Bang.'

Cassie's mouth opens in the same instant as the first bullet leaves the chamber, an exhalation left behind in her wake, because she responds the one way she knows who: with movement, and with violence. A thick flicker of midnight fluid seems to hang in the air, drifting to spatter against the ground far more slowly than the little drifter /moves/-- spinning to her feet and then dancing through space, coming up within a half-second upon the shooter's flank, her gaze bearing the heavy dispassion of absolute focus as it meets his past the risen barrier of her right arm. It shields the lower half of her face as she continues to turn, wrenching into a thunderously-fast half-turn, the left arm uncoiling from her chest with peerless precision...

'Bang,' says her fist, bruising flesh and crushing cartilage. It only speaks once.

Only when the man's nose is shattered - only when his conciousness should give out - does the girl, called "The Nothing" by those who 'love' her most, allow the impact of her /own/ wound to register on her senses. Though she evaded the second bullet, the first remains lodged tight in her ribcage, an inch or two from the heart, fragments of her filthy green sweater coating the casing. It stings; enough to elicit a faint hiss, her tongue pressing to her teeth as she fights back the momentary surge of nausea. She has NOT got time to bleed. Her gaze darts quickly around the room, meeting Selina's own questioning glance but for a moment before settling on the one man remaining. Cassandra's left brow curves up, her head tipping just a degree or two to one side as she chambers her fists, stance firm and ready.

There's no one-liner, but the message is clear. 'Is this really what you want?'

It's a chase. Gets his heart thumping. That he's being chased by his former father figure makes it that much more exciting. Not fun, but exciting. He barrels past another set of double doors, had it been a empty room, he would have tried to bar the door, rig a hastey trap, something. But no. He finds four men on the floor, one standing, and two women... Well, one woman and a girl! Was Catwoman really working with Batman now, had they finally shacked up? Had the loss of Jason Todd made Bruce Wayne realize how short his time with those he cares for really is, thus spurring him to extend himself to Catwoman and bring her out of a life of crime?!

Naaah!

"What the hell, you're taking on sidekicks now too?!" remarked the red-hooded man in the scant amount of seconds before Bruce burst onto the scene like The God Damn Batman and flung a bat bola at him! Split second decision, he couldn't cut it. A charged line would discharge through the knife and into the arm. Couldn't shoot it down. Too fine a target... Just meant one thing!

Morice was a unlucky man. Everyone had told him this his entire life. Every snapped shoe-lace, every lost card game, every bad relationship, every lost job. Morice was just unlucky. He thought it might change when he found himself in the Red Hood's employ. Easy cash the shadey way. It was going to be a new day for Ol' Morice, Yes Sir!

But then it wasn't.

First there was Batman. Then it was that Ninja Girl and Catwoman. Then his new boss came running through the door. Morice was three degrees from shitting himself when The Bat emerged from the door hot on Red's tail. Surely he could sneak away now, right?

Morice shifted, about to bolt... until a hand dropped down on his shoulder. "Sorry about this, Pal." it was a lie, Morice could hear it in the Red Hood's voice. He wasn't sorry at all.

The world shifted and spun, Morice suddenly found himself looking right at Batman! "Oh you son of a b-" Morice managed just before something caught him, bat bolas wrapped him up tight. Then there's a electrical discharge. His flesh feels like it's rying to leap of his bones. Every muscle goes rigid... and then it doesn't! Morice crumbles to the ground, smelling of burnt hair and failure.

Red Hood, throwing suckers under the bus like a boss.

Jason could have tried to stay and fight... but they had numbers. Batman, Catwoman... Catgirl?!

Nah, screw that!

Jason calls it a wash. His hand dips to his belt and finds a grapple launcher somewhere on his !bat-belt. With a pop of a gass canister suddenly discharging, the grapple shoots skywards, punching through a skylight and entangling in the crossbeams before dragging him upwards... It's much less impressive without a cape!

That... that's just unfortunate.

She feels a surge of guilt.

Guilt, for allowing this girl to be harmed...

For assuming.

But it's strange, because the waif... toughs it out like a man. She's still standing, not clutching her side, a wailing, whimpering wreck...

Selina's black-painted lips offer yet another kindly smile, "Forget that punk," She says with a dismissive wave of her 'paw', "He's nothing more than a cowa--"

BLAM!

Stop interrupting her while she's talking, fuck shit!

The double-doors burst open, and the Red Hood has Batman hot on his coat-tails. Her attention is drawn away from the quivering puke and Catwoman is stricken with a faraway look, following the two newcomers' progress into the museum proper, shaken from it only by the Bat's assortment of batccessories, which yield rather shocking results!

Red Hood steals the last of his goons away from them, before either the woman or girl can strike him down, and he is subjected to this... batbola. Her eyes widen behind the gold-tinted goggles. That's... utterly barbaric! She snaps the whip, and it gives a wet crack against the slick floor. Next, will be across Jason's masked face. A young girl injured! A travesty! The Cat is about to wind up, but that gas container is chucked right in their vicinity. Immediately, the collar is pulled over the lower half of her face. It could be anything...

Tear gas, chlorine gas...

Should she protect Cassandra? It smells only like smoke, and dissipates during the Red Hood's escape, after he rockets to the skylight. If Batman doesn't continue his pursuit, then Selina swiftly turns to the Caped-Crusader, "Fancy meeting you here." She jokes slyly, twisting the cord of the whip around her slim hips and securing the handle. Ugh, her leotard is sopping wet. "She'll need the hospital, mind taking her there?"

Wait wait, woman, shouldn't you explain yourself?

No, rather not.

She offers, "I'll look after your cat for you, missy. Sound good?" while backing up. Her retreat won't be so hasty, but it is coming and coming soon...

The Red Hood's tactics. The way he /moves/. There's something familiar about it, to the observant eyes of the Dark Knight. Particularly when his erstwhile former protege grapples out of there like he's done it for years. The Batman frowns. He frowns a lot. He doesn't pursue the Red Hood, though. Not now, now here. As the scene fully lodges in the Caped Crusader's mind, he pulls up short of his pursuit, blank cowlslits of eyes narrowing ominously at the disappearing killer. He stares that way for a lingering moment, as if trying to make sense of it all. As if he doesn't even hear Selina.

"Picked a bad night for a robbery." The Batman murmurs simply, casting a glance at Catwoman as he moves to Cassandra's side. No, no. She doesn't need to explain herself, not to him. The Dark Knight knows her too well. In fact, he sounds almost... disappointed. Steely, intentional distance applied in deducing the master thief's not so mysterious motives motives; and amusingly unpredictable goodish luck. Still, if there had been a coordinated effort here...

The Bat's undersell of the threat falls on no one but himself, though. He should have had a team here. He needs to be ready for this one... before it gets out of hand. Stooping by the homeless girl, the Batman offers out a surprisingly gentle, open hand. Low, palm up, relaxed. It's a rather vulnerable stance. "Let me help you." It's simple, easy to understand, as genuinely calm as an outlandishly threatening musclebound man dressed like a giant bat /can/ sound, probably. The Dark Knight -does- have his soft spots, here and there. It's only now that he absently picks the pieces of shrapnel out that are still lodged in his suit, as he studies Cassie carefully... sparing several glances to Selina, uncharacteristically distracted; or suspicious. "This can get infected on the street, and will scar and limit your mobility without proper treatment. Assuming you don't bleed out."

No, the Batman doesn't just assume this particular urchin will follow because he says so. She seems to be a lot cagier than /that/.

'Bang' may have been the first, the second and the third...
But the last word is 'fzzt'. Don't have to be an illiterate to know that's not even a /proper word/.

Cassandra draws and releases a breath as the red-masked vigilante-criminal makes his entrance, her face not showing precisely regret-- she's too controlled for that, though any catching her hazel eye might catch a dim flicker of the darkness within, the surge of mixed anger and guilt that marks the unfortunate man's passing. She's not to blame; part of her deeply realises and understands that fact, yet she'll hold herself responsible because one can never be sure... if anybody else will. If the world even cares. There's always the question; could she have been faster, could she have made a difference. Doesn't she owe that much?

But it passes, as all moments must, and the smoke hits the deck. Choking fumes rise to encoil her lungs, though she exhales again in a long, calm stream to prevent the worst of it, stumbling back in quick steps and fanning her near arm across her unmasked face. Black bangs fall over her eyes, further obscuring her vision of the escaping man. And then there's the Bat; expected, given what she's heard, but his apparition still causes a faint narrowing of her eyes, a frown creasing her brow... he helped her, but...

Her lessons come streaming back to her. Everything she's heard, seen, and experienced in her short life gives her no immediate knowledge of how she should react to the stern, gruff monster in black leather. At the end, then, it can only come down to her bestial nature. To the animal instinct by which she's survived so long. Cassie shifts focus to her injured torso, acute senses homing in upon the wound, assessing it, asking her body the questions she needs to ask. Help? She doesn't deserve it. She hasn't earned it. But he's right.

The silent runaway regards the Batman, and his upturned hand, for several moments longer.

And then she turns, the length of her ill-fitting coat swishing against the floor. He's seen her body language, how she operates and how carefully she places herself around others. Without indicating anything verbally, or providing a single clue in her expression, she should tell him what he needs to know through that single motion, turning her flank to him to turn toward the stunningly beautiful woman across the room.

Catwoman's offer is met with a quick, almost desperate shake of the head. That mute stare meets the burglar's cunning eyes with an intelligent, demanding appeal - it's not that of a little girl, it's that of someone insistent that the right thing be done. In a sudden stride she crosses the room, her guard not fully lowered - a testament made by her still-hovering arm as the other hand dips into her oversized pocket and withdraws that folded, crumpled piece of paper. It's passed to the disguised socialite in a smooth, open motion that gives the doubtless ever-wary woman time to process what's being produced. It's nothing harmful...

Far from it. When she unfolds it, it bears the carefully-pencilled legend 'LOST - one black cat, answers to the name of MITSY'. Cassandra wasn't able to read that part, nor the address printed underneath. She may not have been able to complete her mission of mercy, but in her need to do something good, to make up for the kindness bestowed by the man who passed her his coat... she recognized the plea of another lost soul. A sad girl looking for a stranger willing to make her life just a little bit better.

Her understanding of that lies beyond words.

Which is why, when she looks back to Batman, stepping carefully back from Catwoman with attention still split between them - cautious in a way she wasn't when turning from Gotham's dark protector, she slowly delivers a nod, inclining her head to him in what's almost a bow. An acknowledgement, and a supplication. She'll go with him, for now-- because it's what she needs to do to survive.

Walking back to him, she takes his hand in her own, small but strong-- calloused, like his.

Another figure is watching in silence. Another figure studying the museum and watching with eyes keen and sharp. Hidden behind red lenses inset into a grim, faceless mask. Vast and muscular arms are crossed as the figure stands, perched on one of Gotham's many examples of neo-gothic archetecture. A building overlooking the Museum and giving an excellent view. Slow breaths are drawn in and out, even and level into the powerful chest. Silence and darkness do their work to conceal this figure... who would be hard to miss on any given street corner.

It has been some months since the man known as Bane has faced the Batman in single combat. And the memory of that defeat still lingers.

Before, it had been for others. Salvadore Moroni paid well. The contract went unfulfilled, but 'The Boss' learned just what it ment to employ the man known as Bane. Indeed, many men in Gotham's underworld had come to learn just who Bane is and what he can do.

And now he is back... and he has come to finish the job he has set before himself. There are no contracts this time. No employer. No.

There was no one but Bane.

And his eyes were on him. Distant now and within the building but still visible to his Venom-enhanced predator's senses. Bane takes it all in. Watching the Bat storm into the building like an avenging angel. Watching the man with the Red Hood flee before the assembled forces. Studying the man who also had been making his mark on Gotham's underworld of late.

Bane cocks his head to the side silently, watching as... Batman does not give chase.

Disapointing.

Tonight's show may perhaps be over... assuming the Catwoman does not decide to face the Batman in battle.

A faint mechanical sound comes from the machine hooked to his left wrist. Dark red fluid fills the tube ascending from the machine. Filling up slowly to the back of his head.

The response from Bane's body makes his teeth clench and a low growl escape him. His silhouette changes. Expanding. The rush of it fills Bane with pleasure.

Soon. Soon.

No 'Posht' answers his escape, Batman's not pursueing... or if he is, it's that much quieter.

Troubling.

He takes stock of his situation. His men are all bound for the big house, so are his competitors. The prize is going to nobody save for Bruce's own collection or a police evidence locker. One is a goal much more beyond his reach than the other.

Still... "Not bad."

The vehicles are stolen or unregistered, VIN numbers filed off. The men all have reputations of much the same activities. All are very reluctant to roll over on their employer...

Except for maybe Morice.

It is her intention to retreat, but while doing so, Cassandra approaches. Something about the girl, how she extends one arm, hand thrust into the pocket of her dragging coat... It tugs at Selina's heartstrings.

... Probably because it has everything to do with the cat and her offer.

She doesn't watch the waif with apprehension, but as Catwoman momentarily comes to a halt, eyebrow lifted in polite curiosity, there's something about her posture that betrays the pleasant expression. Ready, for anything.

Even the piece of unfolded paper that she accepts, deftly slipping it away into her sleeve with a hidden smile. "All right," Gentle words of reassurance, "I'll see to it that he gets home safely." Rather than the girl, because she's taken care of now.

Batman's words to her finally cause Selina to laugh, as an after-thought. A soft, lilting sound, hand drifting to her collar, her playful grin appearing as it's brought down. Either she doesn't notice that disappointed tone in his voice, or Selina doesn't care. It is likely the latter. "Ah, you think I'm walking away empty-handed? That's just not my style." She backs up further, reaching her exit. Leaning against the frame of the open door, dancing fingertips against her lip, other hand set to her thigh, her voice is a purr, "Even if you ask, you'll have to catch me before I tell."

The woman vanishes in a whirlwind as the Bat watches, either suspicious or distracted, the last sign of her being the end of her whip, whipping out of sight. Selina doesn't need to attract the feline's attention as she moves away; it comes to her freely, having hidden itself in bushes. Together, they vanish into the night...

She definitely does not face Batman in combat, as Bane will note...

And Selina certainly isn't his new sidekick, either. She's NO ONE'S Cat!

The Dark Knight doesn't oppose Cassandra's motions, nor does he show alarm at her intentions. This one's not out to kill him. Not like most of them. At least, if she is, she's /very very very good/. It's not really fair to say that Batman's guard is /entirely/ down, though. When is that ever true? Some call it a shell, others the reason he's so good at his job, but no one says his tendency to prepare for every contingency makes him easy to get along with and get to know. Still, it's a tremendous show of trust for a vigilante who has been hunted by Cassandra's apparent mentors more than a few times. Hell, protecting Ra's would have entailed fighting Batman, sooner... rather than later.

Ra's has kind of a high bodyguard turnover rate, somehow. It would be hard for Cassandra to be convincing as an Ubu, though. The Caped Crusader simply waits there, silent, looking from Cassandra to Selina, and daring a small, subdued smile at the exchange. A reinforced glove drops to a hidden control on his utility belt and punches in a swift code. There's no apparent response, at first, but as Selina darts out the door, her perfectly graceful escape would only be opposed by the sudden and possibly alarming arrival of the batmobile.

The bastard offspring of a muscle car and an armored personnel carrier interjects itself directly in that sidestreet. Even if Selina happened to be /right/ in its path, though, the onboard sensors would have stopped. /Just/ short of her. Probably. He did just change the brake pads. The car fires up its main turbines, because an engine the size of an entire MINI Cooper just doesn't cut it. It's almost like it's laughing; or roaring.

No, no more combat tonight. The Batman returns Cassandra's bow, inclining his head with a formalized grace and crispness, before he rises back to his feet, walking back to Morice and hauling the goon up by the tightly-wound taser bola. "I'm sure this one's feeling particularly happy with his murderous boss." The Dark Knight notes. Perhaps to himself, perhaps to Cassandra. He does carry his captive, almost too easily, back her way, then to the door. A compartment, rather large and rather armored, opens in the side of the 'car' towards the rear. Batman dumps the fellow in there, and closes it. It should be a pleasant way to wake up.

"Open." The canopy does just that, revealing the car's cockpit; full of HUD projections, computer displays, and other systems that would make a jetfighter jealous. The Dark Knight extends a stable arm midway beneath the vehicle's passenger side, and wordlessly waits for Cassandra to join him, turning his gaze back to the urchin... rather than following the Catwoman. If it's true, he'll find out soon enough; and it's not like /hiding/ from him is her favorite game, is it?

High overhead, Bane watches the rest of the events with the Venom singing through his veins and pulsing down his arteries. He watches the lithe, supple clad figure of the goggled Catwoman swing into the dark. He watches the man with the red hood take his own escape into the dark. Inhaling slowly... he watches the Batmobile arrive, and the Batman rescue the girl.

Yet, again, Bane considers the Batman as he comes to understand him. The Bolad man, rather then killed or interrogated at once, is thrown into the car. Perhaps to be taken back to his lair? Will the Batman kill? ...Bane will keep watch. If this one is never seen again, he will know. It should be simple to be aware if that one... escapes... whatever is to happen to him.

Bane watches Batman and the girl for long moments more.

"Soon, Batman. I shall see what kind of a monster you really are."

Bane steps back into the darkness, already unhooking his own length of wire and grapling line. When in Gotham...

If she was going to kill him... she wouldn't do it with a bullet lodged in her ribs. No matter how well a person can be trained to block pain, to fight through it, such an injury is still a handicap - let alone when facing a man of the calibre and battle-forged wisdom that Batman so embodies. It's not just the animalistic process that leads Cassandra to her conclusion of trust; but somewhere, within the maelstrom of the confused teenager and her conflicted upbringing, it's knowing that he could take her by force.

Their trust will have to be built on mistrust, for now. It's a start.

Catwoman's exit, stage right, is observed by the mute girl with an attentive air - she's been analysing the slinky burglar since their paths crossed, and she's doing so still. Gathering data as she's been taught to do, as her brain is hardwired to do. Like breathing, like digesting, it's just another part of what she is. Still, she spares a small and very human smile - a rarity, from Cass - before Selina turns away. There's no real conclusion as to how much she can trust her, or whether they should be friends or allies. She doesn't think like that anyway; people can't BE trusted, but acts of kindness touch her. They're rare, too.

Cassandra settles somewhat once she's alone with the Bat, in whose presence she at least feels resigned. So many questions hang in the air, but she's going with him, and knowing that removes a weight. It gives a purpose, a structure and a goal to achieve; stay alive. Follow Batman. She can do that.

She watches his preparations, and trails behind when bidden by his body language.

A few moments later, her jaw drops, not in any comical fashion - but her mouth opens wordlessly, hazel eyes batting in quiet astonishment beneath her raven bangs. She's heard of it, of course; if she ever had anything close to a bedtime story, it was hearing of the enemies she would eventually face, of those who would oppose the League. Those whom she must be better. But seeing it all is...-- she's still a child who never grew up, still prone to shock and awe, and it would be churlish not to feel those when faced by this. That she reacts so plainly at all is a big thing, controlled a moment after the Bat assuredly notices, and then she meets his gaze with a firm nod. So be it. Still flicking her stare around the incredible machine, she cautiously slips into the machine - using genuinely wary movements, not slow, but quick and seamlessly agile.

In spite of the open wound still seeping blood down her front.

Once she's seated, not moving, she clamps a hand down upon it, stemming the flow as best she can. She'll not speak, but she'll listen to anything said during the journey. If anything is said at all. Her summation of this vast, dark man, whose style mirrors her own in so many crucial ways, is that he'll know better than to address her until it comes time to ask the questions he must ask. She's comfortable enough in the silence anyway, keeping her eyes ahead and out of the window, watching the route they take, and keeping an eye on Batman - at least a corner. Enough that can remain aware. She's an assassin yet.

Speedy

2012-02-10T20:27:58Z

Rusty:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Speedy
|Image=[[File:Speedy.png|200px]]
|Name=Roy Harper Jr.
|Alias=Speedy
|Species=Human
|Age=23
|Affiliation=[[Justice_League|Justice League]], [[Titans|Teen Titans]]
|Quote=
|Powers=
|}}

==Background/Timeline==
Roy Harper Jr. is the son of Roy Harper, a valiant forest ranger who lost his life in a fire. The young Harper was taken in by a Navajo medicine man named Brave Bow, who for most of the child's early years taught him the skills that later in his life would become quite useful. Archery, tracking, and respecting the world around you were the core tennants that were instilled within young Roy. However, his life would change drastically when Billionare [[Green_Arrow|Oliver Queen]] decided to take the child in, and make him his ward. Of course, Oliver was merely mimicking what a rival/friend of his had done, and by taking in the child, the boy was indoctroniated within the world of Heroes and Villians. Oliver Queen held a secret that would also mimick that of the other well known Billionare Playboy [[Batman|Bruce Wayne]]. The Green Arrow, herald of Justice for Star City, and reserve member of the Justice League.

Teaching Roy his own techniques, and noticing that the child was speedy in how fast he could draw his bow, and load an arrow, the child was given the codename of Speedy, and from that moment on he was the sidekick of Green Arrow.

Of course this truly isn't a storybook case. As Roy grew older, a rift started growing between himself and his mentor, as Roy wanted to be recognized as more then just a sidekick, but a hero in his own right. Over time this rift grew into defiance, and then into depression, and then into something darker as Roy started experimenting with substances that could, and almost did take his own life. What relationships he had built up, especially with his own peers that had at this point been apart of the Titans, Roy was an addict, and this wasn't something they knew how to help him through.

This had become the final straw between himself and Oliver, leaving the two's relationship shattered and almost unrepairable, especially as Roy became a legal adult, only to take what little he had been left by Oliver, and run off to establish himself as a hero on his own.

Roy Harper Jr. did what his mentor could almost never forgive, and became an agent of the United States Government, working for the secret program CHECKMATE as the agent Arsenal. Over time however, this would fall through and once more Roy would return to his Speedy moniker, looking to once more establish himself as a credible hero. Maybe things might change for him.

==Personality==
Roy Harper Jr. is brash, quick to action, and quick to dismiss something he disagrees with. In the end, its a lot like his own mentor which in a way is a simple sort of irony. Like Oliver, Roy wears his heart on his sleeve, and takes things very personally. His whole line of skills means that with one misplaced shot, the person you're trying to disable will die, and that is something that is always present. While he does have his own moral compass, over the years since he broke off ties with Oliver, the compass has been misread, leading Roy into perdiciments that in the end, caused him more harm.

The young ward of Oliver Queen has done things that most of the peers in his life have spent their entire career stopping, and in the end he still can't admit his own part in it. He isn't to blame, Oliver is, and from that more anger and resentment continues to grow not only with himself, but with his former mentor for never stepping forward to lend an ear for the younger man to vent to. Instead the distance has grown, and remains that way allowing the darkness that is within Roy to grow, and twist him in ways that may lead him down a darker path if it continues.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}

[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Star_City]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Accel

2012-02-10T20:12:42Z

Dr Orpheus: Created page with "{{Characterbox| Title=Accel |Image=200px |Name=Hugo Crosley |Alias=Accel |Species=Metahuman |Age=20 |Affiliation=LFGCategory:LFG |Qu..."

{{Characterbox|
Title=Accel
|Image=[[File:Missing.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Hugo Crosley
|Alias=Accel
|Species=Metahuman
|Age=20
|Affiliation=[[:Category:LFG|LFG]][[Category:LFG]]
|Quote=
|Powers=VECTOR CONTROL
|}}

==Background/Timeline==
Hugh Crosley, born to a lower middle class family in Gotham, was always considered the runt of the litter. The youngest out of his family, he was often picked on by his older brothers. He did not often have time to spend with his father, who was too busy working to make sure everyone had food in their bellies and a roof over their head. His mother, inversely, was too busy spending their money and occasionally robbing them of the food in their belly. However, life was not completely bad for the young man. However, things were tough, and Hugo was never one to be bogged down with the little things. From an early age he learned the power of money, and he wanted to grow up to be without strings to anyone.

In school he was often a problem student. He had decent grades, and his math teachers thought he was some genius, but when it came down to it...he lacked the drive. School didn't matter much to him, not as much as hanging with his crew. He got into fights at a early age, not getting along with people, or simply trying to prove that despite being the smallest, he was tougher and better than they were. He didn't go too far, he didn't break anything horribly, but he wouldn't take crap from anyone.

THEN FOLLOWED CRIME

Hugo eventually got mixed in with gangs. He felt the only way to get respected was to run with the right crew, bust a few heads, make some money. He was right to a point, the only other people that messed with them were gangs about their size...or when they bit the heels of a bigger dog. Here Hugo learned many lessons about when to get into a scrum, and when to back the hell off. While he managed to geta way with his life, more than one occasion he had to check into the local hospital for a stab wound.

His grades were slipping, as he spent more time getting into trouble, and less time worrying about school. However, his folks were often too busy to deal with him properly, and really only his father cared. However, things would eventually come to a head when his gang decided they were going to mess with a local drug lord that was moving in on their turf.

Hugo decided he would deal with this on his own, moving to find the guy by himself, ambush him, rough him up and go home. However, the guy was more than prepared for him. He had some hired help beat him nearly into a pulp, and drag him to his knees infront of the drug dealer. The man pointed the gun at him and without much of anything pulled the trigger. After that moment...

EVERYTHING CHANGES

Hugo saw everything falsh before his eyes. Battered and barely concious, he saw the bullet seemingly flying at him. He focused...and for a brief moment in his delusional state...imagined that it...just simply reversed directions. When it did...Hugo thought that at first he WAS dead....and that this must be heaven...this was until he hit the pavement when the guys realized that their boss was now lying on his back dead. However, the gunshot attracted the cops, and the hired muscle beat it. Leaving Hugo staring dazzed at someone he just killed.

The cops send him to the hospital, and of course asked relentlessly about what happened. Hugo played his cards close to his chest...he just happened to cross the guy, he had his boys beat him up real good...he was going to get shot...and then the gun backfired or something. While the gun showed no signs of actually backfiring...the evidence showed that Hugo didn't touch the gun, and the only one who did was the dealer.

Eventually freed, and recuperated...Hugo cut his ties to the gang world for a time. Killing someone changed Hugo forever...doing so casually was what changed everything. More then that...he realized that he was different. The experienced left him...with a power he couldn't explain. Looking at objects, he could change their speed..mass...direction..changing the nature of the energy in them. It was amazing...and frightening.

For a time, Hugo tried to leave a normal life. Eschewing the old life and focused on his school. Passing with decent marks, and a scholorship due to his amazing scores in mathamatics, he got into university. However, with student debt piling up...

Hugo realized that there was money to be made with his powers...IF he could control them, and also use them to destroy the crime gnawing at the city. The police wasn't about to pay him for it, but...

SNIPONS' A GOOD JOB MATE

Hugo, going by Accel, opened up buisness in Gotham, helping gangs, often rivals, by taking good amounts of money to take down key members of the other. However, often he would avoid murder, and simply leave the poor smuck messed up and either near the police station, if there was also a sizable reward for them or infront of his rival's house for safe keeping. After all, if HE didn't kill them...then it's not his problem. Sometimes, he got paid twice, which was always good in Hugo's book.

Between this, and his school, he is setting up to have a decent life for himself...maybe

==Personality==
Accel is a young man made by both his family and the streets. From an early age he learned very valuable lessons about how the world works. It is not always who works harder, but who works SMARTER. His mother was a lazy housewife, who took advatnage of his father repeatedly...but his father kept on working as hard as he could to provide for his family. He never got much direction from him, and only ever saw a sucker. His father was a spineless coward, who would rather work long backbreaking hours in the factory, then deal with seperating himself from his wife. Rather this is true or not...it is how Hugo saw it. His mother, on the other hand, used the family's money for her own desires...and occasionally on things that they needed. She never worked a day in her life, and often was more focused on how she appeared to others. Accel quickly learned that many people are shallow and superficial, they lead distracted lives to fill the holes in their hearts with things...sometimes people...often things.

Hugo, often was the subject of abuse by his older siblings as well. He was smaller and more vulnerable. It wasn't anything serious, but they often took his things, bullied him around, typical out of control brother stuff. Hugo took from this that to be respected, you had to be stronger. Without strength, nobody listened to you...this eventually grew stronger.

On the streets, came the more important lessons that he holds with him today. Friends are hard to come by...but when you DO find them, you treat them right. Hugo learned this through the few gangs he ran with. You don't betray friends, but you don't let every sucker off the street be your friend either. That's askin' to be taken advantage of. His views on strength also solidified here...but also slightly changed. Brute strength wasn't enough...you had to temper strength with intelligence. Think smarter, not work harder. So the bigger dogs have bigger guns? Ambush them individually. Take advantage of their weaknesses...but don't give too much of yourself away either.

All of this left a greedy streak in the young man. He wants money and power, he wants to live life without any attachments to anything, to be his own boss and to do things without needing to answer to anyone. What Accel truely wants is absolute freedom from both the law and from society. It is not so much to do horrible monsterous things with, but rather so that he can focus on what he wants, when he wants, and not have to worry about people bothering him. Ordering him to do things, wanting him to do things.

What Accel truly wants, more than anything...is to become a force of nature. Something so strong...so unstoppable...that nothing will ever want to challenge him.

However, beneath this desire too are grains of morality. Why he says his reasons for not killing flippantly is the simple case of 'not wanting to take the easy way out', he can not stomach removing the motion out of something that can make it's own way. He assumes that on every level people want what he wants...to some degree or another. Removing that from them...somehow just feels wrong. Wronger than stopping them, or overcoming them. Setbacks can be recovered from...death doesn't get recovered from very easily. For a freedom seeking man, death is the ultimate trap.
==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}

[[Category:Original]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Gotham]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Zatanna

2012-02-10T19:48:21Z

Dr Orpheus:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Zatanna
|Image=[[File:Zatanna.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Zatanna Zatara
|Alias=The Mistress of Magic
|Species=Homo Magi
|Age=Late 20s
|Affiliation=[[The_Justice_League|Justice League]]
|Quote=
|Powers= 
* ELEMENTAL CONTROL
* ELEMENTAL CREATION
* TELEPORTATION
* TRANSMUTATION
* TRANSFIGURATION
* ENERGY BLASTS
* ABJURATION
* TELEKINESIS
* FLIGHT
* TELEPATHY
* MEMORY MANIPULATION
* HEALING
* SENSE MAGIC
* ENHANCED DURABILITY
* ENHANCED STRENGTH
* PLANT CONTROL
* WEATHER CONTROL
* PROBABILITY MANIPULATION
* MINOR SPELLS
* ILLUSION
* DISPEL MAGIC
* SCRYING
|}}

==Background/Timeline==
Zatanna Zatara was born in Gotham City, the unlikely result of a union between Giovanni "John" Zatara, a famous stage magician and illusionist, and the mysterious Sindella, a descendant of Atlantean stock and a member of the Homo Magi race. Sindella supposedly died in childbirth, though the whereabouts of her body are unclear.

Daddy's little girl, Zatanna helped in her father's act from a very young age, and quickly began to pick up the art herself. When she was a teenager, a man calling himself John Smith came to John Zatara for guidance and training in escape artistry. Zatanna and Smith were fast friends, but after his training was complete they did not see each other for many years.

John Zatara died from an unexpected brain aneurysm when Zatanna was twenty years old. Devastated with grief, she took over his act and began to make a name for herself in the field of stage illusion and escape artistry. Around this time, she was rescued by [[Batman]] when a criminal skeptic attempted to frame her. It didn't take long for her to realize that Batman was really John Smith, the companion of her youth, and that Batman/John was also wealthy playboy Bruce Wayne.

About a year later, Zatanna's Homo Magi heritage suddenly kicked in, and she found herself capable of real magic. Using her father's occult library, she managed to begin training herself in these newfound abilities. It was a great help when she discovered Shadowcrest, an abandoned extradimensional manor left to her by her father, where she quickly set up shop.

Zatanna would call on her old friend Batman when the Justice League began expanding its membership. He had utilized her mystical expertise on behalf of the League when [[Wonder_Woman|Wonder Woman]] was transformed into a pig by the wicked witch [[Circe]], and through discussion with Batman she secured membership in the group. Now, Zatanna works to get a handle on her new powers, to live up to her father's legacy as an illusionist, and to prove to herself that she has what it takes to be a hero.

==Personality==
Zatanna Zatara is a mess of dualities. She's an immensely powerful sorceress who is quite pleased with her vast power, while at the same time she wakes up screaming sometimes after nightmares of that same power going horribly awry. She's a beautiful, mysterious dame with legs like heaven and a penchant for idle flirting, but for all her extroverted behavior she never seems to really get close to anyone she meets. She's a good listener with all the patience in the world, and yet has no time to spare in mastering and expanding her eldritch powers.

Really, though, the most important contrast to be made within Zatanna's mind is the split between the overconfident, superheroic enchantress and the terrified young woman inside, insecure about her new place in life and unconvinced that she's got what it takes to play in the big leagues with Superman and Wonder Woman. Her confidantes are few, but they are treasured. Only Batman really knows that she's not quite as self-assured as she seems, and even he doesn't know much beyond the surface.

The enormously influential figure of her late father still looms large in her mind, even after years have passed since his death. Zatanna feels as though it is her duty and her calling to assume her rightful place as one of the earth's most powerful magicians. She's just not sure she's strong enough to do it.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}

[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Gotham]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Booster Gold

2012-02-10T15:56:26Z

Dr Orpheus:

{{Characterbox|
Title=Booster Gold
|Image=[[File:Booster_Gold.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Michael Jon Carter
|Alias=Booster Gold
|Species=Future Human
|Age=23
|Affiliation=[[The_Justice_League|Justice League]]
|Quote=
|Powers= 
* FORCE FIELD
* FORCE BOLTS
* VISOR
* FLIGHT RING
* SUPER STRENGTH
|}}

==Background/Timeline==
Michael Jon 'Booster' Carter was born in Gotham city in the 25th century, two minutes before his twin sister Michelle. When he was four, his father Jonar--a compulsive gambler--lost everything and abandoned his family, leaving them in poverty to live in a Gotham slum. A gifted athlete, Michael earned a football scholarship for Gotham University where he became the finest college quarterback in the nation. Pro scouts fought for the right to sign him when he graduated, promising money and fame. He would finally be able to support his mother and sister.

When his mother needed a delicate operation to save her life, Michael began betting on the games he was playing in to raise the money, although he never told her nor his sister where the money really came from. Feeling buoyed by his success, he tracked down his father, wanting to bring him back into the family. He found that Jonar still had the gambling bug and was in trouble with loansharks who had already cut his eye out for being unable to pay them back. He guilted Michael into throwing a game, and the officials finally caught on to Michael's illicit dealings. Expelled from Gotham University, banned from college athletics and shunned by the pros, his football career was dead. His mother and sister were devastated; they were still traumatized by what Jonar had done to the family, and it seemed as if Michael had followed in his father's footsteps.

Feeling that he could never expect forgiveness, Michael left Gotham and drifted until he found employment in Metropolis as a night watchman and janitor at the Metropolis Space Museum. Mopping up the Hall of Heroes at night made him reflect on his ruined life. Seeing the love and enthusiasm people, especially children, had for the heroes of the past stirred his interest. He enrolled in Metropolis University, specializing in the history of superheroes from the twentieth and twenty-first century.

Rip Hunter's Time Machine in the museum gave him ideas; perhaps he could travel back in time, to redeem himself as a superhero in the 21st century. And if athletes could do endorsements, why couldn't superheroes? Stealing items from the Hall of Heroes display, Booster was briefly thwarted by Skeets, a museum docent and security droid. Booster deactivated Skeets and took it with him, leaping into the Time Machine. With his stolen technology, Booster was able to outfit himself in a brightly colored power suit modeled after the heroes of the 21st century. Intending to take on the codename 'Goldstar', Michael instead fumbled by referring to his football nickname first and thus ended up with the name 'Booster Gold'.

Well-intentioned and benevolent, Booster Gold honestly does want to make the world better and safer. He just has a deep-seated need for adulation and fame, not to mention money, due to the hardships and failures in his past. He has had some minor success with his company, Goldstar Inc., which exists solely to promote Booster in every possible venue. His initial forays into the realm of crimefighting, however, were not always so efficacious. Over-eager to provide ideal photo-ops in battle, Booster can get distracted from using practical tactics.

Being a reserve (very much in reserve) member of the Justice League, Booster has occasionally managed to help more high-profile heroes with world-threatening issues. Not that they always notice. Leave it to Mordru to be a huge limelight-stealer. No one seems aware that Booster Gold is completely capable of saving the world from things like portable black holes, if he's given at least four or five chances and a running start at it.

==Personality==
A cursory glance at Booster Gold leads people to believe he is shallow, selfish, greedy, arrogant and dim-witted. There are germs of truth in these accusations, but it is not the whole story.

Booster certainly does seek out ways to make money. He grew up in poverty, struggling to get by in a tiny slum apartment with his mother and twin sister, abandoned by his father. When you huddle in a run-down hovel, hungry and menaced by vermin, money is a beacon that promises to lead you to a better life. Booster has spent enough of his life wanting for things he could not have, he is determined to get a piece of what he has been missing.

Having made foolish choices that ruined his opportunity to be a football star, and feeling that he could never possibly be forgiven by his mother and sister for this, Booster also craves acceptance and adulation. In the back of his mind he believes this might ease the pain he feels from disappointing the two most important people in his life. He has seen how people admire and adore superheroes, and while it would be a hollow replacement for what he lost with his family, it is better than being alone.

Despite the glory-hounding, Booster really does have a heart of gold. He wants to be a hero and he wants to help people and save lives. He is also a loyal and devoted friend and would not hesitate to leap in and sacrifice himself to save lives.

But it helps a little to keep most of this hidden, and most people at further than arm's length. It's better to have fun and a laugh and avoid reflecting on the sad things in life. Especially better to not have people expect too much of you, so you won't disappoint them when you fail. Who wants to be dark and grim? There are other people better suited to that niche.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}

[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]
[[Category:Metropolis]]
[[Category:Taken]]

Application/Examples

2012-02-09T01:15:12Z

Brock:

=Sheet=
=====[ Booster Gold: Powers ]=====
FORCE FIELD 
Built into Booster's powersuit is a force field generator. The golden forcefield he can throw around himself and others is incredibly strong--it can take a direct punch from a foe like Doomsday and allow Booster to survive, although a blow of that strength will burn out the forcefield's power. It is generally used for form-fitting protection but does not prevent knock-back. Booster can also utilize it to ensnare others or to help in picking up otherwise unwieldy objects using the field's 'mass dispersal force'. The field can also absorb energy, recirculating and storing it in his suit, although there is a danger of overload. It grants him life-support for going deep undersea or into outer space.

FORCE BOLTS 
Booster can fire powerful golden energy bolts from the blasters mounted on the wrists of his powersuit's gauntlets. He can generate blasts that range in power from a low-grade stun to potent enough to plow through solid concrete or tempered steel.

VISOR 
Booster's visor has a HUD for targeting and threat-identification as well as aural communication. It is also a sensory amplification device, enhancing his hearing and granting him infra-red, ultraviolet and magnified vision.

FLIGHT RING 
Booster flies utilizing his Legion Flight Ring. His normal top speed is 250mph but in dire situations he can focus his will to push that speed much higher. The ring uses a techno-mental interface, which means Booster can summon it to his hand if it is close enough; it also means that if he gets knocked out, he stops flying. This can be awkward.

SUPER STRENGTH 
Thanks to the microcircuitry woven into the mesh of Booster's costume, he can lift roughly 20 tons; double that, with effort. He could do more than this if he overloads the circuitry of his powersuit, with the risk of burnout or power failure.

----

=====[ Booster Gold: Skills ]=====
COMBAT 
Booster is somewhat facile with fisticuffs, although his form of combat tends to rely on his strength and skill as an athlete. He makes do with solid punches and tackles. He is particularly good at throwing things at other things.

ACTOR 
Booster may not be Sir Laurence Olivier, but he can act well enough to land paying roles. What he lacks in thespian skills is made up for by his telegenic looks.

BUSINESS ACUMEN 
Booster has a knack for business and management. Not all of his ideas are successful ones, but he knows how to raise and sustain a corporation and even turn a profit.

ATHLETE 
Booster was a star football player, in excellent physical condition from years of training. In his own time he was considered one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever play the game.

SPOKESMODEL 
Booster is more than willing and able to pimp himself out to corporations and sponsors, using his hero credibility, charisma and good looks to hawk their wares.

FUTURE EDUCATION 
Booster's 25th century college education gives him some advantages over someone with an average education in the 21st century. His history Major (with a focus on superheroics in the 20th and 21st centuries) can come in handy.

----

=====[ Booster Gold: Resources ]=====
TRUE BROMANCE 
Booster has a best friend; that friend is Ted Kord, a.k.a. the Blue Beetle. Booster would take a bullet for Ted without a second thought. In fact, if he had the capability to do so he would gladly warp time, space and history just to save his beloved pal's life. Blue and Gold may indulge in light-hearted banter and get into trouble fairly regularly, but beneath the Martin and Lewis antics is a deep and unbreakable bond.

Since Ted is a mechanical and electronics genius, Booster is forever running to him for assistance in fixing and tuning up his power suit components as well as Skeets.

JUSTICE LEAGUE 
Booster Gold has access to some of the resources available to the Justice League members.

RESIDENCE 
Booster has an adequate apartment in Metropolis. It isn't a penthouse, but it is high enough to have a decent view that is not completely blocked by other skyscrapers.

GOLDSTAR INC. 
Booster started the company, Goldstar Inc., as a way to promote himself in every possible venue. He is having fair to middling success so far, hooking up with acting and modelling contracts and is able to bring in enough money to subsist.

POWERSUIT 
Booster Gold has an advanced microcircuitry-powered combat suit that he controls via a techno-biological interface. It is lightweight and flexible and very durable. When not powered up it can withstand being shot by bullets, although this is still very painful to the wearer. The suit can take quite a lot of physical damage and continue to function.

SKEETS 
A BX9 security robot and docent at the Metropolis Space Museum in the 25th century, Skeets was brought back in time by Booster Gold. Thanks to Skeets' enormous historical database, he is able to feed Booster information on disasters before they happen, allowing Booster to zoom in to help save the day. He is able to fly, assimilate information and access the 'net for quick data access. He can also fire low-level energy blasts to incapacitate average individuals and is equipped with holo-projectors and scanners. When necessary, Skeets can use an emergency over-ride to interface with Booster's power suit. Roughly the same size and shape as a golden football with fins, he acts as a valet droid for Booster and never hesitates to volunteer comments on any situation.

----

=====[ Booster Gold: Specials ]=====
THE FUTURE 
Booster Gold is from the future! How cool is that? Although there are some gaps in his knowledge (and in Skeets' database) with regards to the 21st century, this affords Booster an almost prescient ability at times. He also notices when recorded history--history to him, at least--suddenly diverges from its original path.

----

=====[ Booster Gold: Flaws ]=====
TECHNOLOGY 
Booster has no innate superpowers and relies on technology to perform superhuman feats. His ring can be removed. His powersuit is resiliant but can be drained of power, overloaded or even damaged if attacks get through his powered-up defenses.

REPUTATION 
It may not be entirely true or fair, but Booster has a reputation for being selfish, shallow, dim-witted and arrogant. His glory-seeking and love for money is frowned upon by other heroes.

SCHEMER 
Booster has a propensity for coming up with bids for fame and/or moneymaking schemes. Some of his ideas are good, but too often they are baroque constructs that lead him straight into trouble. Despite this, he continues to brainstorm new plans.

OVERCONFIDENCE 
Being the most handsome, talented, athletic and brilliant hero around is a burden, but one that Booster is willing to bear. He does not question his true capabilities as often as he ought and he charges into the fray, ready to kick butt--and as a result, sometimes seriously gets his butt kicked.

PRANKSTER 
Booster has a playful side that other heroes do not always appreciate. Little jokes and pranks are practically a public service. They ought to lighten up and laugh more!

GLORY HOUND 
Who deserves fame more than Booster? No one! Just as valuable as money, fame is a prize that Booster is forever seeking. This can sometimes backfire on him, as other heroes may resent him trying to hog the limelight, or when his tactics are more complex than they need to be because he detects a great photo opportunity in the making.

GREEDY 
Booster has a deep seated need to make money. Lots and lots of money. While he would never purposely endanger a citizen or double-cross a friend, monetary greed is a major motivating factor in his life.

RATS 
Horrible huge feral rats. Ugh! Booster is mildly phobic of these, especially the nasty enormous sort you can find in Gotham slums and by the docks.

DAMES 
Ooh. Girls. The presence of attractive women can be very distracting to Booster, as well as have a noticeable impact on his I.Q. Where he's from, equality of the sexes is a given, but pretty women still boggle his brain.

----

=====Background for Booster Gold=====

Michael Jon 'Booster' Carter was born in Gotham city in the 25th century, two minutes before his twin sister Michelle. When he was four, his father Jonar--a compulsive gambler--lost everything and abandoned his family, leaving them in poverty to live in a Gotham slum. A gifted athlete, Michael earned a football scholarship for Gotham University where he became the finest college quarterback in the nation. Pro scouts fought for the right to sign him when he graduated, promising money and fame. He would finally be able to support his mother and sister.

When his mother needed a delicate operation to save her life, Michael began betting on the games he was playing in to raise the money, although he never told her nor his sister where the money really came from. Feeling buoyed by his success, he tracked down his father, wanting to bring him back into the family. He found that Jonar still had the gambling bug and was in trouble with loansharks who had already cut his eye out for being unable to pay them back. He guilted Michael into throwing a game, and the officials finally caught on to Michael's illicit dealings. Expelled from Gotham University, banned from college athletics and shunned by the pros, his football career was dead. His mother and sister were devastated; they were still traumatized by what Jonar had done to the family, and it seemed as if Michael had followed in his father's footsteps.

Feeling that he could never expect forgiveness, Michael left Gotham and drifted until he found employment in Metropolis as a night watchman and janitor at the Metropolis Space Museum. Mopping up the Hall of Heroes at night made him reflect on his ruined life. Seeing the love and enthusiasm people, especially children, had for the heroes of the past stirred his interest. He enrolled in Metropolis University, specializing in the history of superheroes from the twentieth and twenty-first century.

Rip Hunter's Time Machine in the museum gave him ideas; perhaps he could travel back in time, to redeem himself as a superhero in the 21st century. And if athletes could do endorsements, why couldn't superheroes? Stealing items from the Hall of Heroes display, Booster was briefly thwarted by Skeets, a museum docent and security droid. Booster deactivated Skeets and took it with him, leaping into the Time Machine. With his stolen technology, Booster was able to outfit himself in a brightly colored power suit modeled after the heroes of the 21st century. Intending to take on the codename 'Goldstar', Michael instead fumbled by referring to his football nickname first and thus ended up with the name 'Booster Gold'.

Well-intentioned and benevolent, Booster Gold honestly does want to make the world better and safer. He just has a deep-seated need for adulation and fame, not to mention money, due to the hardships and failures in his past. He has had some minor success with his company, Goldstar Inc., which exists solely to promote Booster in every possible venue. His initial forays into the realm of crimefighting, however, were not always so efficacious. Over-eager to provide ideal photo-ops in battle, Booster can get distracted from using practical tactics.

Being a reserve (very much in reserve) member of the Justice League, Booster has occasionally managed to help more high-profile heroes with world-threatening issues. Not that they always notice. Leave it to Mordru to be a huge limelight-stealer. No one seems aware that Booster Gold is completely capable of saving the world from things like portable black holes, if he's given at least four or five chances and a running start at it.

----

=====Personality for Booster Gold=====

A cursory glance at Booster Gold leads people to believe he is shallow, selfish, greedy, arrogant and dim-witted. There are germs of truth in these accusations, but it is not the whole story.

Booster certainly does seek out ways to make money. He grew up in poverty, struggling to get by in a tiny slum apartment with his mother and twin sister, abandoned by his father. When you huddle in a run-down hovel, hungry and menaced by vermin, money is a beacon that promises to lead you to a better life. Booster has spent enough of his life wanting for things he could not have, he is determined to get a piece of what he has been missing.

Having made foolish choices that ruined his opportunity to be a football star, and feeling that he could never possibly be forgiven by his mother and sister for this, Booster also craves acceptance and adulation. In the back of his mind he believes this might ease the pain he feels from disappointing the two most important people in his life. He has seen how people admire and adore superheroes, and while it would be a hollow replacement for what he lost with his family, it is better than being alone.

Despite the glory-hounding, Booster really does have a heart of gold. He wants to be a hero and he wants to help people and save lives. He is also a loyal and devoted friend and would not hesitate to leap in and sacrifice himself to save lives.

But it helps a little to keep most of this hidden, and most people at further than arm's length. It's better to have fun and a laugh and avoid reflecting on the sad things in life. Especially better to not have people expect too much of you, so you won't disappoint them when you fail. Who wants to be dark and grim? There are other people better suited to that niche.

=Flaws=

A few examples of flaws:

{|width="75%" cellpadding="4" align="left"
|Age (60+)|| Maxima || Berserk || Dependence ||
|-
|Dependent NPC || Destitute || Distinctive Features || Enraged||
|-
|Hunted || Human || Blindness || No Hands||
|-
|One Eye || Unable to Walk || Poor || Always Obeys Orders of Superiors ||
|-
|Cannot Tell a Lie || Casual Killer || Claustrophobia || Code Against Killing ||
|-
|Code of Chivalry || Compulsive Liar || Coward || Fear of Crowds ||
|-
|Greedy || Hatred of - Group || Honorable || In Love with - Individual ||
|-
|Overconfidence || Paranoid || Prankster || Superpatriot ||
|-
|Vengeful || Public Identity || Reputation || Rivalry ||
|-
|Secret Identity || Susceptibility || Unluck || Vulnerability ||
|-
|Watched || Obsessed || Uneducated || Indoctrinated ||
|-
|}

Application

2012-02-08T19:49:01Z

Brock: /* Character Sheet */

DCAMU's app system is streamlined to allow players to realistically join RP within thirty minutes of settling on a character to play. While this is a target rather than a concrete metric, depending on the availability of appstaff and the current load of applications when you join the game, it is a very realistic estimate that our process is designed to encourage. No one wants to wait a week to get to play a new game, including us.

'''If you do not already have a character, you can create one by following the steps in +help +pcreate in-game. To begin the app process, simply log your character in and enter the <CG> Chargen exit from the OOC Lounge! The room instructions and +views will walk you through this process step by step.'''

=Concept App=
To play on DCAMU, all players have only to complete a simple, brief concept app. This is designed to show a working knowledge of the character, and to give the other players on the game an idea what they are dealing with.

Once you have completed this quick, two-step process, you will be given access to the grid and our RP rooms, and are free to RP with others! Please be [[Behavior|considerate]] of other players and staff, and remember that this is a probationary period to see how you adapt your character, abilities, and attitudes to this game. Please be respectful of any changes staff notes need to be made in this time.

==Concept==
The second room in CG is the Concept Room, here we ask you to summarize your character, in brief.

Please fill out all fields here, using '''+concept/set <Field>=<Details>''' and '''+concept/help <Field>.'''

==Basics==
Also in the first room upon entering CG, you are asked to set IC and OOC info for your character, as well as your desc (+help Describe). Please fill this out to the best of your ability, most characters should complete all fields. See '''News Basics''' for a list of what to set and how.

All characters should have at least one info field set, generally telling others what their IC reputation may be, even if it amounts to "unknown". When you have completed this and all sections of the +concept, type ''+concept/apply'' and staff will get back to you shortly!

=Character Sheet=
The second and final phase of applying for a character on DCAMU is the simple act of filling out that character's +sheet. Moving on to <A> App Central off the Concept Room, you will find yourself in a room that breaks up each section of the sheet into bite size pieces. Please complete this part of the process within two (2) weeks of con-approval. Players that do not finish, and are not actively RP'ing, may be recast at staff discretion after this period.

'''You may view an example of a finished sheet and ideas for flaws [[Application/Examples|here]].'''

==Background==
Your character's full background. In most cases this will be 2-5 times as long as the shortbg paragraph written during con-app. It does not need to be sprawling, by any means. Simply cover the defining moments of your character's life, and what brings them into play, so staff has a good idea of your starting motivations and aims. If you are a Feature Character, you may bullet point your BG. Please precede all list entries with *<Entry>.

To set your background, use the following format: '''+background/add #=info''' where # corresponds to sequential sections (1, 2, 3 as needed). Continue this numbering format until your background is complete.

==Personality==
Your character's psyche, attitudes, and aims. This can be a narrative or a bullet point list (please start all list items with *<item>). This can be as long or short as necessary, just give us a decent overview of how you see the character's between the lines thought processes. Why they fight, how they make decisions, etc.

To set your personality, use the following format: '''+personality/add #=<personality listing(s)>''' Like background, this may continue into multiple listings if necessary, using the same method.

==Powers==
A character's superhuman abilities, if any, belong in this category. You are free to describe their powers in individual entries or one, formatted list as you prefer. Please try to give at least a general sense of their upper limits and level of control, as well as any exceptions to the normal function of their abilities. Most individual powers can be satisfactorily summarized briefly, in 3-5 sentences.

The following format is used to set your powers: '''+powers/add <Power Name>=<Power Description>'''

==Skills==
Non-superhuman abilities that are special about your character. Every character should have at least a few of these. High end mastery should be thoroughly discussed, but in general a brief blurb, even 1-3 sentences, can suffice. Note that these are skills that may apply to your character's ability to meet their aims as hero or villain, mundane skills such as driving, cooking, or painting houses need not be listed, unless they are exceptional and you wish to emphasize them.

The following format is used to set your skills: '''+skills/add <Skill Name>=<Skill Description>'''

==Resources==
Objects and sources of information or materials go in this section. Your character's income, stockpile of money, belongings, or arms, and criminal informants can go here. In most cases these entries can also be very brief.

The following format is used to set your resources: '''+resources/add <Resource Name>=<Resource Description>'''

==Flaws==
Weaknesses and psychological foibles. All characters should have several of these, at a minimum. Ways your power(s) can be circumvented, your psychology exploited, or your loved ones manipulated to someone else's ends are all examples of what belongs in this section. When deciding if a weakness belongs here or in [[Application#Personality|Personality]], consider if it is something that other characters are likely to exploit, or something that your character does to themselves.

The following format is used for setting your flaws: '''+flaws/add <Flaw Name>=<Flaw Description>'''

==Special==
Items that don't fit in the above categories. Perhaps your character is insane, or has peak human physical condition. These sorts of entries go here. As with all sheet entries, if you're unsure what to place where, staff will be glad to help!

The following format is used to set your specials: '''+special/add <Special Name>=<Special Description>'''

 
 
 

'''That's it! Please carefully proofread your +sheet entries before hitting +apply from the main application hub. Applications with misspelled categories and excessive typos will be bounced back for revision.'''

Ember

2012-02-08T06:10:46Z

Rusty: /* Logs */

{{Characterbox|
Title=Ember
|Image=[[Image:Ember-Profile.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Deidra Doyle
|Alias=Bluegirl, Mirror Maiden
|Species=Homo-Magi
|Age=20
|Affiliation=[[:Category:LFG|LFG]][[Category:LFG]]
|Quote=''"????"''
|Powers= 
* Fire Creation
* Flight
* Dark Energy Fields
* Shadow Concealment
|}}
Born into a mirror universe where heroes are villains and villains are heroes, the heroine '''Ember''' found a chance to be more than a guerrilla fighting a hopeless war when she was unexpectedly transported to our world.
 
==Background/Timeline==
Ember, born Deidra Doyle, was unknowingly of a line of innate magic users. Sadly the line had grown very weak and she was the first one with any talent in a very long time. Her parents, while aware of it, tried to get their daughter to hide her abilities from the various Villains that had a stranglehold on her world. She was happy enough growing up in the city of Fargo, North Dakota. Surprisingly, no great tragedy befell her family directly; it would be something else that would turn the young teenager from simply someone on the side-lines of the world.

It came innocently enough - her father who worked for a large company was transferred to their operations in Vancouver, Canada. They were only there for a year or two, but it would be a changing point for the young homo-magus. Like most cities on this earth they were choked with crime and corruption, but not completely at least. The Syndicate didn't come this way too often away from their normal stomping ground. Lackeys and lesser associates, yes, but still as a major port the city was still a haven for crime.

In this, Deidra often kept from getting too far from home outside of school or any other related activities. However, there was a local beat cop who - as far as police went in this world - was honest. He'd not look the other way when people were getting hurt and generally did his job. He was also involved with the community somewhat, getting to know the people on his beat. His name was Rork McGinty, and one day he caught Deidra disobeying her parents and attempting to use her abilities in an old abandoned lot.

He confronted her but didn't berate her, he perhaps encouraged her to at least learn to control her powers so no one got hurt. It always made her wonder with Officer McGinty; he always did try to help people, and about a year after the met? A super-villain made the way into the city and Officer McGinty confronted them to protect a young couple. Deidra never was told the identity of the villain. Officer McGinty lived, but the couple was saved however he suffered grievous injuries which ended his carrier as a police officer. However Deidra was crushed. She also realized had someone with powers like her been there to stand up to this person, it may not have happened. She visited him once or twice and he only regretted he couldn't do more.

She made a fateful choice for herself, her family moved again and several more times over the next several years. She'd taken to training to better use her powers. She first learned to control her flames, then flight. The negative energy powers were not discovered until her first night attempting to patrol for trouble. When attacked, she instinctively drained enough energy from the hood to make him pass out, and she continued to make use of this power. However she never was in one place for long with her family's moving.

Still, in the end she realized her family was at risk because of her, and at the age of eighteen she left home. Leaving a note to her parents explaining why and what she was doing. She doesn't know their response, but hopes on some level they are proud of her.

She survived by doing odd jobs and moving from one city to another fairly frequently. She didn't like leaving people behind, but she could never stay in any place for too long out of fear for attracting bigger fish than she could handle. She also took to seeking out lairs of fallen heroes and villains to make use of whatever might be left behind. This would one day lead her into her current situation. In the hideout of a fallen magic-using hero by the name of Missile Mage, she found a pair of intact tomes, one of which was on warding and protection spells.

She took it to her own lair of the time and was working to cast the ritual to better hide her presence when something went wrong. She doesn't know if the tome was trapped, she messed up, or something greater meddled with the spell. What she does know is she woke up on the streets of an alternate Metropolis (alternate to her at least). She was now in a strange world where everything she knew was wrong.

==Personality==
Defiant - Ember is in many ways a defiant person. Few took the path to face those that terrorized her world. It's not a long-lived path normally. She is trying to defy the odds and those far more powerful than her by fighting back a little. This also leaves her prone to holding her ground unless she's hit with proof that she's wrong, which she can't refute. But this can also leave her not backing down in bad situations when all might seem lost.

Playful - Even with how rough her life's been, she's surprisingly still playful; prone to bad jokes and the odd pranks with friends. Given her magic this can make some of her pranks interesting and perhaps annoying to friends but the intent is always to try to get them to laugh. Even if it's after the fact. She's also prone to ribbing or teasing her friends.

Cheerful - Ember generally seems to be in a good mood, all things considered. With how her life's been she'll try to find the best in a situation or will often just generally seem chipper. At least she tries to be so, someone can not be so all of the time after all.

Curious - She was always eager to learn more about the world and her own powers. Also seeking out what past heroes did, to maybe learn what they did right. Also to learn what they did wrong. This has guided her to be curious about the new world she's in and start to explore its mysteries.

Protecting the Weak - She's not perfect, she knows this, but she's got a very large issue with people who use their abilities be they super powers, a postilion or any other such means to oppress and try to have their way with other people. She's very prone to protecting others even its not the best tactical choice at the time.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Original]]
[[Category:Hero]]
[[Category:Tier 3]]

2012-02-06 - No Joke

2012-02-08T05:52:55Z

Riot:

{{Logsummary|
Title=No Joke
|Summary=An Irishman, an American and a Tibetan walk into an alleyway... No, that's not it. What did the mute vagrant say to the flying pyromancer? Nope. What do you get when you cross a clown with a bat? Oh, never mind. Nobody's sure of the punchline anyway. This just keeps getting more complicated!
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Ember]], [[Joker]]
|Date=2012-07-02
|Where=Gotham City - Upper West Side
|}}

The air is crisp in Gotham tonight, darkened clouds nestling low against the skyline, a slow, cool wind gently buffeting the streets. All but the most resilient are decked out in heavy coats against the chill, though it's not so frozen that mittens and bobble-hats are on prominent display. In this part of town it's unlikely most people even own such things; this is not a wealthy area, but one packed with those simply trying to survive within whatever small niche they've managed to carve...

From the air, Cassandra Cain is just another of these unfortunate dots, moving about the cold in a large coat of her own. Suspiciously new, and expensive, it's rather too long for the dimunitive girl, dragging slightly on the paving-stones behind. As she wanders down an alley between two busy streets, a couple of youths perched atop a nearby set of cellar steps glance at her with some envy. Her dark eyes slide sidewards to match their gaze, a certain tension slipping momentarily into her frame as she pauses to meet them levelly across the filthy street.

The teenage runaway certainly doesn't seem scared, standing mute and solid within the warm confines of her garment as the two boys grin to one another and rise to their feet. Her impassive eyes watch both of them at once, partly shaded beneath the tangled ebon mess of her hair. Her stance spreads faintly, the motion, hidden beneath the coat's hem, as the rough youths begin to circle her.

It's just the sort of time a hero normally turns up, isn't it?

Ember was in a strange world but had lucked out who'd she run into. Ember had been given help by the league and protection. There had been one thing she wanted to do, go for a flight for the first time in her life, and not worry about trouble too much. She'd taken a league tracking device with her so they know where she is. She's not that foolish but she's just been flying along, goggles down and going for a heck of a joy ride. Not putting anyone at trisk however she's distracted at the city. There's a seagull she doesn't see and WHAM. She slams right into the bird, she loses her focus and is going down and going down somewhat hard. She's going down trying to regain focus and she's heading for an alley way. It seems her father's saying about Seagulls being evil is still true in this universe. This is somewhat oddly comforting but she's going down hard and well one of the two teenager is going to find her just slamming into him like a bullet, at least he broke her fall, She bounces once or twice and skids to a halt on the ground leaving the teenager knocked the hell out.

It may be Ember's first week in a brave new world, but if you ask Cass, it doesn't get a great deal easier with time. Whether the problem is an evil seagull or an ill-omened albatross, life is a struggle when it's not outright painful... though today, of all days, she'd be most likely to add that it's not all bad. Once in a very great while - every decade or so - something can come along that makes it a little better.

Unfortunately, this thought is far from her mind in the instant before the homo-magus comes crashing to earth. Cassandra isn't frightened, stressed, or even resolved; she's simply resigned, preparing to defend herself as best she can, causing as little pain as possible for these two boys whose lives have likely been no better than hers. If she hadn't been doing this so long, she'd feel a touch of sadness as she half-turns in preparation for the impending acceleration of the smaller, rangier of the pair. Her mouth opens a little as she draws in a breath, body relaxing, attention focusing until the entire world seems to slow.

And then it happens.
The crash. The thump.

A cry of pain assaulting the crisp, quiet air.

Cassie reacts swiftly to the falling blur, hopping backward about a foot, her sneakers creaking against the floor as she flips into a cat stance beneath her encompassing garb. Her assailant is rather less graceful and alert, his impending charge becoming a stumble, and then he's falling, throwing out a hand...

The raven-haired runaway is there before he can tear open the tender flesh of his palm, catching him upon her surprisingly solid shoulder, one arm around him as the other clasps his wrist. He's startled, believing Ember to be some kind of terrible airborne superhuman assault; the kind he's read about in the news, heard about on televisions mounted in shop windows. As the girl he was moments from attacking sets him down, he is already set on making a getaway, only stopping when she catches his eye and gives a single shake of her head.

'No'. She doesn't say it, not out loud. Her eyes say it for her.

Giving no further reassurance - she's compassionate, but not a saint. He WAS about to attack her. - the dimunitive girl rises and moves across to the tangled heap of Ember and her unwitting prey. For his part, he's throwing his arms about and trying to get free, struggling to escape whatever imagined fate he thinks he's met. Cassandra sweeps him over, seems to immediately realize he's not any more hurt than his cowardly partner-in-crime, and then... she smiles. It's furtive, but it's the closest equivalent she has to a jovial grin, an actual hint of friendly humour sparking her dark eyes as they settle on Ember. A hand is stretched out, her calloused grip easily strong enough to help the other girl up.

Ember isn't quite sure what happened, she crashed slamemd into someone and isn't fully aware of just what happened yet. Still she's alive whatever she hit is alive. Also she's on top of the tangled. She's dazed and trying to get up, she's kinda strange blue hair, a blue jagged line of a tattoo on one side of her face. She does get up however, with the hand offered by Cass. "Thanks, I need to watch where I was flying." She's looking embrassed but well the girl's offered her a hand up.

"So just what happened here?" She looks down at the teenager who was her landing pad.

Cassandra watches from beneath her messy bangs, considering Ember as the other girl considers her. It's an odd stare, at once distant and piercing, intelligent yet curiously empty. If not for the faint twinkle added by the rare smile she's giving the fallen homo-magus, the coat-covered drifter would seem almost inhuman. It doesn't help that she says absolutely nothing, her mouth not even opening as though she means to.

Instead, she nods. Once at Ember, that tiny smile intact, and then twice again; this time her mouth pulling to a taut line, all solemn and serious as she mutely acknowledges both boys in turn. The one struggling upon the ground kicks himself backward through the dirt of the alley until he has his back to the wall, the other scrabbling across to join him before they begin hurriedly conversing.

"What's that girl's problem, man?"
"Are you kidding? It's not the little girl I'm worried about! It's Supergirl, there!"
"That ain't Supergirl, man... I think she's blonde..."
"So what is she? Bluegirl? Opposite Girl?"
"That's not funny! Let's get out of here!"

They continue bickering as Cass turns back to Ember, shrugging her shoulders and lifting a sleeve-wrapped arm. The coat's far too big for her, falling away from her hand as she shakes it out in order to jerk a thumb back at herself - indicating some relationship between the boys and she. It's not that obvious what she means. She shrugs again, though, and then tilts her hand upward, pointing at the sky. An eyebrow raises in query.

This meaning's a bit clearer: 'How about you?'

A lot of people will tell you that the stealthiest place to be is always the darkest, the most concealed. A lot of people are morons. At night, one of the finest hiding places is directly -behind- or -beyond- the brightest sources of light in the vicinity. In this case, that's the lights on either end of the alley, directed out onto the street, and the sconces half-illuminating the alleyway itself. For one thing, not too many people look up and into the light for long; for another, once their eyes adjust to the dark, it's one step shy of impossible to make out anything meaningful if one -does-.

Along the ledges of the buildings, Cassandra is shadowed. Professionally. Perfectly. Without a rustle, almost without disrupting the /wind/. There is no air of hostility to trip instinct and empathy, his mind is clear, alert. His step perfect, patient, unbelievably agile for a man his size.

The Dark Knight is ninja; his kung-fu is strong.

Bluegirl? Bluegirl, tis a silly name. She does push her goggles up out of her eyes. She's thankful and realises hte other one isn't talkng but that's fine. Some people don't have much to say. She looks at the pair for a moment, they seem all right. She then gets somewhat of an idea Cass isn't with them. She's giving them a look and she says, "Just what /were/ you two doing? If you were troubleing this young lady. Well i might have to do something about that. I'm certain your getting on your way to other business." She'll give them a chance to clear out. She looks to her "I'll live, I should have watched where I was flying, I hit a seagull." She's unaware of Bat's being about but she is certain he might be about. This is his city after all.

A faint whistle starts to fill the alleyway as the /other/ most notorious being in all of Gotham starts to walk down it, taking casual notice of the girl on mugger on girl action. If ol' Batsy were anywhere around, the caped crusader just might find a way to make this The Joker's fault! (Even though somehow it generally is.) In his hands is a seemingly harmless bag that is apparently filled with groceries. (Good luck trying to bust him for that Batsy).

Of course, in all pretenses of innocence, the bag is dropped as the Clown Prince of Crime suddenly prances towards the girls and the would-be mugger. "Oh goody! Just what I love to see! The people of this city taking the law into their own hands! Then again.. there does seem to be a LOT of that lately..." A casual stroke of the chin leaves the casual observer wondering just what might be running through the most insane individual Gotham has ever seen's head.

"You know.. You girls look like you could use some help.."

It would almost seem like the right thing to do, if it weren't for that damned grin that grows across The Joker's face.

One might start to get worried at this point.

"Besides, blue isn't even the opposite of blonde, you moron."
"My fist'll be the opposite of your face in a minute!"

It might be worth noting at this point that the thicker and slightly older of the belligerent youths has a heavy Irish brogue. It's not uncommon in this part of town, but it does go some way to explaining why he's so willing to get in a fight at the tiniest provocation. He's probably drunk, too, but who's counting? That part will probably get censored when this episode is shown on Saturday morning.

As they're spoken to sternly by the fallen super-mage, the pair stop their squabbling and turn to her as one, the immigrant with his fist still raised and open mouth pulling to a sneer. Cassandra takes a sudden step forward, drawing level with Ember and turning with smooth, slick grace. It's a simple motion, but forceful in a particularly polite way, her arm lifting to bisect the other girl and her two assailants. It does nothing to calm the latter, but Cassie seems to really not want any help, her gaze meeting the blue-haired young woman's with a hardness somewhere between warning and commanding.

Her mouth DOES open then, in tandem with the next sequence of events; the sudden standing of both boys, and the arrival of the Joker, swinging his shopping bag all bold as brass. That facepaint, that hair, that /suit/ - it's all so horrifically recognizable to anyone who's spent time in Gotham. Let alone grown up here. Scampering feet are all Cassie needs to hear to take her attention away from her would-be molesters.

Now she has a new concern. After taking a quick glance upward to check for falling feathered corpses - stranger things have happened, and all in all she feels a bit bad for the poor seagull - she's all business, using her outstretched arm to keep Ember back as she seeks to take up space between she and the Joker. But she doesn't take a stance, or otherwise appear threatening...

Quite the opposite. Cassie's arms fall to her sides, her body language actually making her seem intimidated as she glances shyly at the Prince of Crime, shaking her head back and forth. Help? She seems to think she doesn't even deserve it. And she can't possibly be hoping he doesn't notice her newfound acquaintance is a fish out of water who might be easy victim for something cruel and unusual. She's just a poor little vagrant.

/Joker/. The Dark Knight's teeth grit, his muscles tense, and every instinct says to drop out of the sky and just snap the Clown Prince of Crime's neck right then and there; ... but that's always the initial rush of sensation. This isn't about emotion, it can't be about that. The Dark Knight waits. To stop the Joker before he even begins to act would give away his interest in one or both of the girls, potentially. Leaving a far greater threat for the future.

Instead, the Caped Crusader lurks directly above, instants away, his hand lingering in his utility belt as he observes, and waits, and improvs a bit of brooding time. /Not good/. Of more positive interest is the way Cassandra insightfully positions herself between the Joker and Ember, and.. /fakes/ being afraid? The eyeslits of Batman's cowl narrow, as he focuses in. Is he reading her right? He has to be. She reminds him of one of his own teachers, so disarming and so natural in every motion, deceptively deadly at every instant.

Ember pauses for a moment as the clown prince of crime arrives she pauses looks like she knows him. she's not caught up on the whose who list. At least not yet and she's about to. She looks peering at him. "Jester?? What's up with the new outfit?" She's got no idea to panic yet. Then she sees Cass freaking out, about this man's arrival. She's confused why is she so worried about Jester? She seems to be quite confused. Still unaware of Batman.

"Well don't worry about us we're all right." She tilts head heaed but she's becomming a little concerned...

The lack of a Bat so far leaves The Joker a bit interested, especially since one of the girls decided to try and act as a meatshield, albeit covertly. Then the other girl has to go and call him a Jester?! This causes the Joker to frown. Immensely. Which he does not like.

"Jester... Why I aughta... No, I promised myself today I'd not kill someone for calling me something like that.. Then again promises are so easy to break..."

There seems to be a moment where he seriously considers this fact, only to start grinning once more, as if this never even occured.

"You know girls, these alleys are pretty dangerous, especially to kids. But your dear ol' Uncle Jay might have something to make it a bit better! They say giving is always better then receiving, and no one can't say I'm not a real giver." A loud laugh suddenly escapes the clown's mouth, especially as he spins in the tip of his feet back towards his fallen grocery bag.

"Now let's see what I have in this bag.." The Joker's right hand plunges into the unsuspecting bag of 'groceries', pulling out extremely mundane things like apples, bananas, tomatos, a loaf of bread, a crowbar with a red and green bow on it, with a very heartwarming card attached, some eggs, and two cans of soda that for some reason rumble violently every so often.

A slight frown appears on his face as he doesn't seem to find what exactly he's looking for.

"Oh poo. I must have grabbed the wrong bag by mistake. I could have sworn I had a few grenades or something in here..."

A look of mild surprise suddenly appears on the clown's face, only for him to frown. "Oh. Right. I gave them to this nice old lady... I hope she doesn't try to pull the stem.."

Jester? It's not a name that Cassandra recognises, but she's a seventeen-year old drifter who spent eight years in complete seclusion from the world. There are a lot of things she doesn't know. A frown appears on her own brow, however, before she can stop it; though under the circumstance it just makes her look confused and petulant rather than cautiously concerned. She's a good actor. She's had to be.

With the Joker's attention diverted by his own breed of dangerous tomfoolery, she is a little more free to watch him with a discerning gaze, head tipping a bit lower to cover her eyes with raven tangles as she sizes him up. There's nothing about him that says she should relax, no sign that everything's going to be okay. And that crowbar, those cans-- she silently draws in a breath, sharp night air searing her nostrils.

Much more visibly, she shivers, huddling more deeply into her suspiciously expensive coat. Playing at nerves, she tosses out a scared, wet smile to the Joker as she reaches backward, groping for Ember's hand. Or at least, she looks like she's groping - so long as the other girl doesn't outright avoid her grip, she'll get it easily enough. And then she tugs gently, with the insistence of a younger sister, bobbing her head to the Crown Prince of Crime as she seeks to steer Ember away to the cellar steps recently abandoned by the two fled youths.

Just the kind of place two runaways would be looking for, to spend a night on the cold streets.

There are several hundred appealing ways in which to snap this or that important part of the Joker, the little voice in the back of Batman's mind reminds him. He's almost within reach. A discerning eye takes in every object that the Clown Prince of Crime draws out. An alert eye... and then some. His cowl cycles through every detection spectrum available to him, examining the cans, examining the Joker, looking for what's hidden, and what may be an imminent threat.

... the Dark Knight doesn't immediately find one, it's almost worse that way. Again, the glass is half full thanks to Cassandra thinking quickly... moving to shut up her new friend and get them both out of the line of fire, let the Joker move on to more interesting prey. At least, if that's the way the clown's psychosis sways tonight. The Caped Crusader remains poised, ready. Hidden just above the ledge, stealthily mirroring the Joker's position.

The raction the clown prince of crime has to her words. She now seems to be getting concerned. She realises okay this man has only the look in common with the Jester she knows of. Also less fashion sense. She looks at the stuff in the bag, she now frowns a little bit. She looks horrifed at what Joker's said she may be about to do something very dumb. She doesn't know how the Joker's wired but is he feeding her a line or did he really give an old woman a grenade disgused as food. She shoot a look to Cass and she starts to take focus, there's a faint black arua about her fists now as she's tugged. She realises Cass is someone caught up in this and gets the idea it's time to pull out. She doesn't know what the this guy could do. If she was on her own she's be far more likely to confront them. Right now Cass needs to get out of harms way. She doesn't need to be pulled along too hard she's moving along following the other getting the message. Cass wants to get out of here, and she's not going to slow that down.

A slight frown once more appears on Joker's face as the girl in the very big coat goes to pull the girl with blue hair away. This doesn't bode well. I mean, girls with that color of hair or wearing that kind of clothing is generally up to no good themselves, and yet here they are, trying to run away from the king of mischief. It's almost heart breaking in a way. Of course, he doesn't notice any of this because there are more important things at hand. Like finding out where the heck he put that shotgun. That is a bit important if one truly thinks about that.

"Now its around here somewhere..." One of the cans of soda is idly tossed over The Joker's shoulder, slamming into the ground...

A violent spray of carbonated beverage and aluminum shrapnel suddenly flies forward, leaving some poor guy's car just outside the alley with two flat tires and a broken window.

"...Whoops! I hope he has good insurance.. I'd hate to leave him in another sticky situation.."

Once more a loud laugh escapes the Clown's mouth, only for him to reach into his overcoat. "Normally, I don't believe in arming minors.. but these streets are just so dangerous. You never know what sort of madman is going to pop up.." An extremely long barreled revolver is retrieved, as the madman's grin grows to epic proportions.

Cassie fights the urge to quicken her step as she feels that energy manifest around Ember's hand, and by extension her own. Almost eerily calm, she glances sidelong - and just a bit upwards - at the other girl, the side of her mouth not facing the Joker quirking upward as if to say, 'Trust me.'

When that can goes off, the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on high, her shoulders rolling beneath the coat as they tense and relax in rapid succession. The Joker is a maniac; she knows that much, she's heard the whispers and even glimpsed what seemed to be some of his thugs at work. Few ever pay much attention to the ragged brat lurking in the shadows, or even notice her enough to make the choice... she's seen things. She's seen enough.

She reaches the steps in time for the Joker's terrifying laugh, and as the revolver emerges she's forced to move more quickly. There's a point where 'calm' just doesn't cut it, and suddenly she's /yanking/ on Ember's arm with enough force to move a small mountain, her hips rolling and shoulder tucking inward as she seeks - with a mentally uttered apology - to plow the metahuman down the steps and into the door at the bottom. It's unlocked, she thinks; at least the padlock is hanging limply. A collision of a hundred and twenty pounds, plus, should serve to blow the sub-basement wide open, and get the fallen superheroine inside.

Of course, she doesn't know what Ember's capable of; but she's damn quick, and ridiculously strong for her size. If the other girl breaks free before she can complete the throw, Cassie will be as surprised as anyone. And a good deal more worried. If all goes to plan, she sinks down herself at the top of the steps, watching Joker with wary dark eyes and controlling her breathing. She might have to move-- fast!

Okay a gun? This has got more serious, far more serious. The energy is more of a reflex, it's not hurting anything doesn't seem to be some sort of an attack. However she's not going to fight this stranger seems intent to help her and she's not going to argue. She's not even going to sass, you don't sass the crazy man who surives Batman. She's not that good hand to hand, she's plowed quite easily with a suoprised cry. The energy field did fade out and reformed part way down. She boucnes through the door and inside.

Oh, what a predicament. To intercede plays his hand, potentially invites more Joker attention to the young women, and prevents him from figuring out what the Clown Prince of Crime is up to. That, and he could easily escalate the situation quickly, just because it's always more fun to cause mayhem when the Dark Knight is around, according to the Joker.

Cassandra makes the decision easier, taking ready cover for the both of them. Enough risk is enough, though; tracking the Joker back to his hideout, and taking the whole crew into custody is a nice hat trick, but keeping the clown off the streets is nice on its own. He drops from the building above almost silently, coming to rest with a flourish behind the Joker, away from the girls, looming with his arms hidden in his cape, which along with cowl is about all one can readily discern of the shadowy figure. That, and his frown. "/Joker/." That's all there is, that, and about four strikes.

Chest, kidney, knee, and ankle. The first is a lunging elbow, the second a swift, low uppercut; the third comes from the rise and -abrupt- fall of his booted foot, looking to reverse the bend of the clown's leg, a strike that seems to come in tandem with the two from his upper limbs; then he drops low, looking to take the white-faced maniac right off his feet, harshly. It all happens as one continuous motion, with Batman's momentum and center in perfect step to flow from one to the next in the blink of an eye, all while his own stance is compact, mutable. Cassandra would recognize it as highly defensive, and adaptable, to say the least. A mingling of a myriad of styles into one nigh-perfect whole, western and eastern meeting in devastating tandem.

Batman would call it the best way to get the Joker's attention.

"HEY! WAI--" The words are cut short as his name is called out in that ever familiar growling banter. "Oh Batsy! I was wondering when you would sh--"

Four solid blows bring the Clown down to the ground, leaving him dazed and confused for the briefest of moments. Of course, if there is one being on the face of this planet that is use to Bat-Beatings (TM), it is The Joker. Of course, it truly only was a matter of time before the Dark Nugget showed up to plant a boot in his face.

"Aww.. Batsy.. That wasn't very nice! All I was doing was helping those poor girls..." He sits up slightly, glancing around only to frown slightly, hand grasping for that beautiful crowbar.. (Is that bloodstains on it..?)

"WELL, while you're here.. I got your young friend a present, I mean, you are all about passing the torch.. so to speak, right?"

A faint laugh eminates from The Joker's mouth, only to be cut off as he starts wincing. "I think you bruised a rib or five this time!"

"I mean.. I was just here minding my own business.. Doing my grocery shopping, and you just drop in and assault me. I'm going to press charges. Tell me your address so I can send you the papers."

As if Cassie's combat maneuver wasn't warning enough to the wild Clown Prince, the splintering protest of the somewhat flimsy door is preceded by the heavy metallic ring of a steel padlock striking hard concrete. Virtually any girl her age would at least flinch, but the raven-haired runaway seemed utterly prepared for it. The way she crouches, enveloped in that coat, brooding but alert... well. If the Joker weren't immediately distracted by something a good deal more threatening than she, it would form a bizarrely familiar vision.

Which is precisely what Batman provides for her. His initial apparition actually brooks a reaction, her forehead creasing and eyes narrowing as she coils taut against the unyielding step. Ready or not, trained or not, the Batman is a predator-- the natural reaction to such is fear, and a desire for safety. Nature is a difficult thing to overcome entirely. Cassandra has made great strides, there, her gaze settling quickly to track the man's movements rather than the man himself. She looks past the cloak and the darkness.

What she sees, tips her head to one side, the angle giving her the air of a wary predator herself.

Her stare slips to the side, seeking Ember in the basement. Hopefully she's still visible.

A hand lifts, staying her with an open palm, and a nod that Cass hopes will be reassuring. It's as close as she can come right now to offering an apology, and telling her that everything will be alright. Even if she's not fully sure it WILL. But this dark interloper, he's helping her. He's helping them. And there's something she has to find out.

As quickly as she turned her attention away, it's back-- and faster still, is the way the girl /moves/. One instant she's perched upon the step, the next a hand brushes the floor and she's sliding across the alley in quick, low steps, twisting at the hip as she speedily nears the fighting men. From beneath the hem of her oversized coat, a sneaker slides out, clamping down with deceptive weight over a length of dull iron. The Joker's crowbar, caught beneath her full body-weight as she sinks into something approximately a horse stance, tense but springy; powerful without being entirely divorced from the possibility of motion.

Hazel eyes, averted from the blinding light at the alley's head, seek that cowled face now scant feet away.

Wait? No, that doesn't seem to be on the agenda. "You killed three guards escaping." He'd go into their families, but that would just please his quarry. No, the Dark Knight instead is down on Joker in a flash, even as the clown reaches for the crowbar. Even as Cassandra interjects herself to keep him from being able to pick it up. Even as she subtly spurs a change in the Bat's stance, no longer preparing to disarm the Joker and restrain him as he swings the crowbar in. Yes, even in this hectic situation, he's living in a moment that spans about eight moves at a time, apparently on muscle memory and reflex alone.

The new course aims to haul the Clown Prince of Crime up by his fine threads, wrap a gauntlet around his neck, and slam him back into the nearest wall. Batman would then step in, using his elbows and side to pin the Joker's own arms. He has little time for blank, white cowlslits to meet Cassandra's gaze, as they are locked on the Joker's. The Dark Knight's jaw clenched, tight, angry. Press charges? "Add them to the /list/." He growls. Lawful Good, the Batman is -not-. He doesn't even engage the clown on the implied murder weapon, doesn't even flinch. He -does- sound extra pissed, though, doesn't he? "Get /clear/." He doesn't look back to Cassandra, but he's probably not talking to the Joker. It's just that he has to let loose a minute if he's going to further unbalance his quarry by dropping him to the street /again/, ideally buying a moment to recover restraints from his belt, which the unattentive eye would note just kind of appear in his gloved hand like a stage magician's wand.

Loud coughing escapes the Joker's mouth as The Batman slams him into the wall, only to drop him. Three guards? Thats it this time? He could have swore there were more of them. Then again, the number of bodies one is responsible for ending up in Gotham Morgue does get blurred after a while.

Of course what is shocking is that the fact that The Joker isn't even resisting. He holds his hands out, lowering his head as if he's been beaten. "This is the LAST time I ever go grocery shopping. I mean, you come across two kids being attacked and try to do the right thing.. and out comes The Bat, to rough you up.."

Ember has been thrown down the stairs bounced through the door and come to a halt finally. Wait what did that girl throw her down there. She was suposed to protect her. She starts to get up, She's a little off balanced and the energy fields gone again. She dosn't call out however as she starts to stalk back up. She can't leave the other girl out there and she doesn't know Bats has dropped in just yet.

The League's errant prodigy wasn't looking for absolution or acknowledgement; and what her upturned gaze observes is enough for what she was. Her posture relaxes from the urgency of impending immediacy as the formidable Bat seizes control of his eternal quarry. She bends forward, deft fingers darting from coat-sleeves to pluck up the crowbar, and with her subsequent rise to full, unimpressive height she flicks it toward the shadowy gutter to one side of the alley. It bounces and rolls noisily before coming to a stop.

A contrast to the mute girl, who responds to the vigilante's brusque command with a solemn nod. Not taking her eyes from he or the pinned Joker for so much as an instant, she slips back toward Ember, meeting the other girl as she reaches the head of the stair. Cassie doesn't smile any more - though neither is there a hint of hostility in her gaze, as she silently greets the homo-magus with a twitch of her head toward Batman.

'He's got this,' she'd say if she could - would - speak. Inhaling then, she releases a breath before lifting a hand in what appears to be a wave. Any suspicion is confirmed as she takes a step toward the alley's mouth, placing herself with a view of both Ember AND the entangled pair of man-monsters. Quizzically she turns her hand up, pointing at the sky for the second time in this unorthodox meeting. There's nothing commanding about it. She's asking. 'Are you okay to fly?'

The Dark Knight accepts Joker's outstretched hands in surrender. At least, for as long as it takes to grip one wrist, twist the clown around the other way, and bind it to its partner /behind/ his back instead. Sirens fill the street at both ends of the alleyway at about this time, as if /someone/ tipped them off before the encounter ever took place. They come in force for the Joker, easily six or seven cars that waited for /ample/ backup before closing in. Gotham PD isn't stupid or inept, now that they aren't completely laced with the corrupt and stupid.

The Batman guides the Joker, rather roughly, towards the mouth of the alleyway, shoving him clear with enough force to potentially take him off his feet /AGAIN/, for easy pickup. Then he turns towards the two women, nodding once and extending a hand that extends smoothly skyward, holding a grapple gun. He doesn't seem to be planning to give a statement for the police, just their fugitive. ... not that he's likely to leave the convoy behind on its way back to Arkham, either. His free hand, less obviously, lurks within the borders of his cape, punching out an intricate code on a series of buttons revealed near the buckle of his belt.

The Dark Knight simply nods to Ember, showing no recognition despite the fact that he -must- recognize her. He doesn't greet, or engage in any sort of conversation beyond a similar, acknowledging glance to Cassandra, accompanied by a simple, deeply intoned utterance. "Nice coat." It sounds as the grapple line fires skyward with a hiss and a rush of reinforced fiber, sounding a distant clank as the ultramodern hook sinks into Gotham stone. Then the Dark Knight does fly, smoothly up into the sky, using the momentum of the ascent to leap to the rooftop like it was second nature. The attentive ear would hear, disguised in the intermittent gusts of wind, a quiet but intense hum of... turbines? There's /nothing/ visible against the gathering clouds, however.

Including, as of now, the Batman.

Ember has got back up the staris by the time Batman is swinging away with the joker. Sheshakes her head a litle but and looks at the mute girl over for a moment she's rubbing her head. "Thanks I think. I'm sorry... I knew of someone like him. He was crazy but protected people. That wasn't him at all..." She's still getting over the fact Batman's protecting people but he's been honest to her, firm but honest.

"Does that sort of thing happen often around here... oh...ya? Name's Ember. Thanks, just point next time all right I'll get the message.

The steps are near the alleyway's edge, where comparatively bright light filters through the chill air. It's not far from the corner that Cassie pauses to meet Ember, lowering her hand once the unspoken question is asked. Not quite leaning against the dirty brick, she nudges near enough to the wall that she might as well be, meeting Batman's shrouded gaze as he addresses her. Beneath the dark tousling of her fringe, solemn eyes slowly blink, then flicker downward. She snuggles a little deeper into the garment, not defensively or with pride - it's warmer than that, as though it's not the physical comfort of the coat she appreciates.

As though it... weren't a nice coat just because it's a nice coat.

She comes dangerously close to smiling as she looks up, and finds the Bat gone. Abruptly. More than. Cassandra's fast; a tight little bundle of grace and speed, more than most could handle were she really trying, and for the second time in a few short minutes the vigilante has shown himself her peer. The surprising part isn't that this is the case at all - it's /how/ it's the case. The manner of his motions, that particular fluidity, body moving in crescents and circles even when it seems otherwise... hm.

The raven-haired runaway's head tilts as Ember explains her earlier exchange with the Joker; or 'the Jester'. It's not really a birdlike, insinctive tip - but she's found people often don't believe she's listening unless she makes some external gesture, and it comes easier than a lot of the other options. Mentally, she's filing away facts about the friendly young magus. What occurs most is the way she holds herself, as though she doesn't belong. It's something they seem to share. But-- well, it's hard to be sure of anything, yet.

It's been a couple of days since her last meal, but she'll be able to feast on her thoughts tonight.

In response to the question, Cassie thinks for a moment, and then her lips gently part in what looks almost like a laugh, though no sound comes out beside the faint whisper of a soft outbreath. Then, she nods, lips pursing in consideration of the fact that yes, in Gotham this isn't exactly the rarest way to spend a night. She has no reasonable way to communicate that she normally doesn't put herself in the middle of it, which leaves Ember to wonder - what with the way she reacted, the way she /moved/.

Harder yet is how she goes about introducing herself. A sort of panic crosses those dark eyes.

"..." Her mouth opens again, soundless, but a small struggle takes place on her expression, mouth twisting into a grimace and a frown passing her brow. Glancing aside, she shakes her head as though to scold herself, then looks back to Ember with a sigh. Flustered now, she quickly offers up a hand; friendly enough in spite of her apparent confusion, offering a handshake and a firm, desperate sort of nod.

Once it's taken, she'll try to leave, slipping quickly around the corner and gone -- gone, like the Bat.

Ember realises what she might have done a moment too late, she can't even bring up the idea of trying to find a late night place to get something to eat. As the other girl just takes off. She realises wait could the girl even talk? Well it's too late she should be fine and she's got no idea how to track the girl. She'll keep an eye out for her later, for now she takes back to the air and heads off.

2012-02-05 - Reflections that Linger

2012-02-07T19:46:25Z

Brock: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Reflections that Linger |Summary=Ember wakes up to find herself locked up on the Watchtower. Batman focuses on solving several mysteries. |Who=Batman,..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Reflections that Linger
|Summary=Ember wakes up to find herself locked up on the Watchtower. Batman focuses on solving several mysteries.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Ember]]
|Date=02/05/2012
|Where=The Watchtower
|}}

Where was the indeed she'd just woken up and basically yelled at her captors to stop toying with her and just /end/ it. She's still leaning back against the wall in her cell her eyes glancing about looking for any means to get out there is none. Well there's one thing she's not tried yet. She gets up from the cot and looks at the force field holding her inside the cell. She raises a hand and starts to focus preparing not a fireball as the explosion from that would cook her alive in close quarters like this. She's trying to leech from the power systems but all she gets is a jolt and nothing happens.

"What...?"

She shakes her head a little bit and realises trying to use her powers is a bad idea. She checks her utility belt for lack of a better term, nothing there, her wallet's gone too.

"My wallet? Really petty..."

"Look I'm awake what do you plan to do with me I know someone has to be listening!"

There's no immediate answer, no immediate motion. The cell is like something out of the future, near the hardened heart of the Watchtower, in orbit around the Earth below. This deep within, the only clues are the near-alien architecture and technology in even the light fixtures, the entire room reinforced yet sleek. The bed is mounted to the wall in such a way as to withstand a raging rhino, yet both it and the room's solitary chair are quite comfortable. Aside from a similarly sturdy table, there's little to distract the eye aside from the aforementioned recessed channels bordering front and back wall of the holding cell.

Eventually, the door does open. Knowing Batman, it's likely about the time that Ember gives up. It's not the figure she's likely most wanting to see, all darkness and intensity "Miss Doyle. You're not in any trouble.. this time. You were brought here because you seemed distressed and an imminent danger to yourself and others. I'd hoped to get someone to debrief you properly, but our psychiatrist is currently in a hearing to determine if the League is liable for mental trauma the Blue Devil allegedly caused to a crooked televangelist; and everyone more... expert at this sort of thing is busy..."

The Batman moves to the back wall, and manipulates hidden controls, holographic images coming up from the Watchtower's monitoring satellites as he identifies them, "Diverting flooding from a broken dam in India. Negotiating a peaceful settlement to near riots in Chicago and Mexico City. Protecting the President of Taiwan from an entire -team- of superpowered assassins." Batman is obviously pissed about this next part: "I'm /told/... they don't have time."

The Dark Knight turns to face Ember, and gestures to the chair, "Guess what. Neither do I. I'm here to help, so try to keep up. Sit down, and be 100 percent honest with me, and the next stage in your life is going to be better than before. Waste my time, tell me lies, and I will not hesitate to take offense that you're keeping me from monitoring a mute teenager who may be being targetted by an entire -other- League of Assassins." One can almost hear him capitalize the letters. "Read this." A sheet of paper is produced, as if from a void within his cape, and set down on the table in front of her. It's a mirrored page of an encyclopedia, in this case briefly describing a city in Italy, laid out just like her identification was; like Batman suspects is 'normal'.

Ember never seen tech like this even in the remains of a lair of a fairly high tech hero she found once. She pauses as someone arrives, now she was not in flight or flight mode. She can take better stalk in the man before her. The style of the costume so much like another she knows of. She lustens as he speaks to her. She looks suprised, not in any trouble? She seems confused but she'll hope for the best. "So that's where my wallet went." She notes at the mention of her name she pauses at the mental image it's an interesting one to be sure. She hears each comment and just stares in confusion. She sits down, she gets the idea while he looks so much like someone she fears he's like them? One not to be screwed around with. She's ditting with in seconds and listens. She takes the sheet and starts reading it, it's just some random bit about a city in Italy. She seems to be reading it no problem. She finishes up and pauses after finishing.

"Why every other bit of text I have seen look like it was reflected in a mirror?"

Still the scale of the operations mention makes her pause and grapples. Where is she? What really is going on? Well maybe she'll find out.

"Like this?" Batman inquires, without answering, putting down the same paper in 'native' print. "At least you've got the presence of mind to note that much." This, does, seem to be something that counts to the Dark Knight. Her wallet seems to have appeared in his hand at some point, placed back down on the table and slid across to Ember herself, "I bet you had a hard time using any of this on the inverted ATM machines." He notes, actually chuckling momentarily.

It passes, he's efficient, one has to give the Bat that much. "Why don't you start by telling me what you remember of your last twenty four hours, Miss Doyle, and we'll go from there." No, he's not a man who speaks his theories without doing his fact-checking often. "Once I'm more certain of exactly what -did- happen to you." Arms folded within his cape, the Batman turns half away from Ember, lurking near one side of the room as he listens almost patiently.

Ember looks at the now backwards print, at least to her. Her mind grapples with it for a moment. Then she notices the wattlet and takes it. She pauses at the ATMs. "It did, but I got it to work. I still don't know how I had that much money in my account..." She may have just accidently unknowingly stolen some money from her counter part here. She nods. "All right, several days ago I'd come across the lair of a hero who used magic like my self. No I wasn't looking for trouble he'd been murdered and I was trying to get to it before the Syndicate or their lakies got to it. Didn't want them to profit off a good person's death any further. I found only a tome left intact on protector wards. I took it and returned to where I normally hid my self away. I went over what the rituals of protection needed I was hoping to keep prying eyes off my own hideout and get a little breathing space."

"I don't know what happened next, prehaps I did something wrong? I don't know all I know is the ward was designed to keep out someone from phasing through the walls or using means to remote spy on me. The next thing I know it backfires and I'm in a back alley in Metroplis. But everything's not right, everything's backwards, from the ATMs you mentioned, bill boards. Everything was flipped, it was unsettling. Also the fact I was there for over four hours and nothing came out of the wood work at me."

"The account you tapped belongs to a woman known as Dark Ember. A criminal who shares your name, DNA, fingerprints, lip prints, retinal structure, everything. Except this..." Two more sheets, these clear overlays, advanced images of Ember's organs, and a matching set with 'appropriate' placement. "Interesting little variation. As far as I can reason, your magic interacted unpredictably with whatever power was in the tome, and you transitioned between dimensions, from one world into one that's similar, but different in notable and meaningful ways. The good news is, the people who were after you are unlikely to be able to follow you here." Batman pauses, "... though every time I think that someone finds a way." Dangerously Genre Savvy, yes. "At any rate. This is the center of operations for the Justice League, an international force of peace keepers and protectors. You're safer here than anywhere else." Possibly on the cosmic scale.

"I know this is a lot to take in, but I need you to stay calm and work with me. Like I said, I don't have a lot of time. We don't have eyes on your counterpart at this point, she may have switched places with you... or she may still be at large. Until this situation can be resolved, I'm offering you a protected place to get your bearings here on the Watchtower. I'll also assign a League agent to protect you if you need to travel." A (rather restricted) access card is offered across to Ember. "Any trouble.. well. I've made it clear where you are." After a fashion. If Batman realizes the irony, he's completely deadpan about it.

Ember looks at Batman staring for a moment. "Dark Ember? ...Wait another me." She pauses looking at her own orangs and the other sheet. "The hell her heart's on the wrong side!" Then it starts to hit her. There's a glimer of some understanding now as she listens. "So I'm on another world?" She lets out a deep breath. "That's good, that's very good." She slumps in the chair. It's too strange now there's no way it could be the man she was afraid Batman was. She's going to try to not panic, she's on some bizzaro world. "The the Justice League?"

Is this what it could have had the poential to be? She seems to know the name though. "The League's thrived here that's simply amazing. The League were some of the strongest or smartest people left facing the Syndicate. Thank you for the offer and I accept it."

"If you start to have trouble wrapping your head around it later, there are counselors on staff you can talk to." -Not- his department. At least, he likes to think so. "We'll move to confirm the status of Dark Ember, and someone will try to find you a place to stay until you get on your feet, once the current situation is resolved. I don't want thanks, just make sure I don't regret this."

With that, the Dark Knight moves smoothly, almost too smoothly for a mortal man, to the doorway. Quick, almost stealthy even done right in front of Ember's eyes, "If you follow the blue light, it will lead you out to the residential wing. You can get something to eat there as well." There's a momentary beat of a pause, "Good luck." Then, the Caped Crusader takes his leave, rather abruptly.

Ember likely will need it once things set in, right now she's kinda getting it on one level. It's not hit her hard yet just what's happened. She nods for a moment "Don't put it ahead of anyone else's well being." She gets up and stretches a little as she picks up the card. Man it's backwards too, or is she the backwards one on this world. She pauses at the mention of food. She wonders if they have hotdogs, and was the mysterious not Owlman almost apologising for her loss of hotdog eariler? Also /how/ did he move like that.

2012-02-06 - It's Not Hogwart's

2012-02-07T19:37:06Z

Brock: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=It's Not Hogwart's |Summary=Kinetic begins to understand the tests before him, and that he is not alone. |Who=Batman, Superman, Kinetic |Date=0..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=It's Not Hogwart's
|Summary=Kinetic begins to understand the tests before him, and that he is not alone.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Superman]], [[Kinetic]]
|Date=02-06-2012
|Where=The Watchtower
|}}

The hallways of the Watchtower are not exactly teeming with life at this hour of the evening, yet there is plenty of people still moving around the hallways. At one of the junctures between the Command and Habitat wings, Superman is speaking with a technician dressed in a white coat. The Man of Steel's arms are folded over his chest, and there is a grave expression on his face as he listens to the man talking to him.

The conversation lasts only a few minutes at the best, and ends when Superman places a hand on the tech's shoulder and ushers him off with both an apology for keeping him late, and a thank you. And with the technician dispatched back home, Superman turns and starts walking in the direction of the cafeteria.

Wandering out of the cafeteria is Kinetic, the newest young hero to work at defending Metropolis. Earier in the evening, Batman brought him up to the Watchtower after they both encountered Ember and left him in the cafeteria. He got a bit of food, tried to talk to some people, but couldnt work up the nerve. Now the costumed teen is trying to think of where Batman might have gone off to. "Okay...I'm in space and have no idea how to get back..." he mutters, peering out a window.

"It's easy. We put you back on a teleporter and send you back to Metropolis." The decidedly grim voice comes from Superman, suddenly standing just behind Kinetic, arms once more folded over his chest, hiding the 'S' emblem of his costume. Hello, Kinetic. "I understand that Batman brought you with him because he thought you had the potential to get yourself hurt."

Kinetic jumps as Superman enters his awareness field, spinning around quickly. He blinks at th S a moment then looks up at Superman. "I don't know why he brought me up here..."

"From the little Batman told me, you were interfering with League business. He brought you up here with another whom we are also keeping under observation," Superman speaks to the young hero, his clear blue eyes scrutinizing the young would-be hero. "What's your name, young man?"
There's not exactly a chill to Superman's voice as he speaks, but there is a business-like quality to it that brooks no nonsense.

"What?" Kinetic stares a moment. "What business was I getting in the way of? He's the one who dropped out of nowhere and I just stayed back while he went after that woman," he frowns. "I'm Kinetic," he replies with a nod. He's a little nervous but he's really trying not to show it.

"That's my business." Batman notes, crossing back down the corridor from around a corner that no one's likely to have seen him turn. He's midway there with an even, smooth stride, when he speaks the simple words. "The boy's a telekinetic." He tells Superman, "Seems to be relatively strong, by the ease with which he flies. Decent reflexes with it, no need for a warm up period." Yes, he knows Kinetic is right there. "Next to untrained, says he's staying safe by only targetting thugs and small timers. Who never work for anyone more dangerous." Yes, the last part may be sarcasm; and not part of what Ethan actually said.

Somehow, Superman doesn't look surprised to see Batman pop up in the middle of the conversation with the young hero. His head simply turns to the side at the words, and he nods slightly to Batman's description of the young man's powers and abilities. His blue eyes turn back to look at Kinetic again, and his eyebrows rise slightly in silent question.

Kinetic frowns even deeper as Batman appears. It just gets worse as Batman talks about him like he's not even there. "Hey! I didn't say that. I said I'm sticking with the thugs and stuff to work on getting better at this stuff," he says. When Superman looks back at him, Kinetic just looks a little lost. He doesn't know what question is being asked.

A vague sort of gesture acknowledges Kinetic's words with a wave of gauntletted hand beneath the cape, "If you prefer." the Dark Knight doesn't seem to feel it makes any appreciable difference at all, which is likely to sit great as well with the would-be teen hero. Then, he turns focus to Superman anew. "See? We could tell him to stop, but when do they ever stop? He'll just try to be more covert, dividing his attention even more, and getting himself killed. Or others." Plural. Batman's apparently been here before, or at least thinks he has. He holds any suggestions on solutions to this problem, for the moment.

Superman actually pays attention to Kinetic's argument of his own words before turning his head just slightly to listen to Batman as well when he is addressed. "I see," the Man of Steel agrees as he turns back to Kinetic. "How long have you been at this, young man?"

"Would you please stop treating me like I already screwed up before I even had a chance to try?" Kin groans. He tenses at the talk of trying to get him to stop. When asked that question by Superman, the telekinetic teen rubs the back of his neck. "I only started doing hero stuff a few days ago."

"Success and failure are often decided in the first moves we make." Batman intones simply, evenly. "Within our understanding of what lies ahead. I'd rather correct course early, than wait for enough blood to prove it to you." It's calm and matter of fact, at that. There's nothing personal in the Caped Crusader's attitude; or at least nothing personal /to Kinetic/. "You need to learn what you're doing, before you start trying to do it alone. That part's not up for debate."

"He's not wrong," says Superman, adding his own comment to the tail end of Batman's words. "Sooner or later, what drives you to be a hero in trying to stop petty theft will put you in a situation beyond your experience." One hand comes away from his folded arms as he talks, his eyes focused on Kinetic right now. "Or do you think you could idly sit by when you feel you could help?" There is a brief pause after his question, only to be followed up by another. "You're starting down what is often a very dangerous road. Do you know what you're getting into?"

"So you can see the future?" Kinetic asks, that frown going nowhere. "And where exactly am I supposed to learn any of it? They don't offer a superhero elective at school," he sighs. "Of course I wouldn't. If there were people I could help, I'd give it my all to keep 'em safe," he says. He sighs when danger is brought up again. "I know its dangerous."

"Better than you can." The Dark Knight retorts, just as evenly, just as certainly. He sort of nods along with Kinetic's replies, as if each and every word of it just reinforces exactly the point he's trying to make. "We've got experience, data, expertise, and results in our dossiers. You can either continue to act like an obstinate child, who wants to believe we're wrong, or you can factor what we're trying to teach you into where you go from here, and see things outside black or white." The Batman shakes his cowled head, and steps off to one side, "If you think you'll be fine on your current course, that no one will be hurt, then get out of here; but if someone besides -you- pays the price, I'll be there to collect. If you -want- to learn, and survive, maybe you're talking to the right people. I don't have time to argue about it, so decide."

The Man of Steel simply remains silent, allowing Batman to say his peace instead as his arms return to a folded position over his chest. He doesn't soften the Batman's words with his own, only that he simply watches Kinetic quietly, Superman's own attitude a shade or five less harsh and judgemental than Batman's for all that he is still serious.

Batman's ultimatum lingers in the hallway for a long minute before Superman interjects a shade more understandingly; definately the softer touch of the two. "You think you understand the danger in front of you, but you don't. Not yet, young man." Superman glances back at Batman before turning his eyes to Kinetic once more, "We can't tell you to stop being a hero. But it's your choice whether you choose to listen to experience or not." Gee, Kal. Patronizing much?

Kinetic states at Batman as he speaks. He bristles visibly at the ultimatum, not liking the implied threat. Of course as Batman goes on, Kinetic blinks. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something about a headache. "If you're offering training, you could have tried not being such a jerk about it," he sighs. Looking up at Superman, he frowns uncertainly. "You are offering training, right?"

"I could have done a lot of things." Batman murmurs in that deep, intense voice. "It's a waste of all our time if you can't get past your own certainty. You can't teach anyone what they already think they know." It's reasonable enough, really; but that doesn't stop him from remaining a prick. Someone's got to be. Sure isn't going to be the big squishy Teddy Bear of Steel. "I'm sure we can find someone who'll work with you, keep you safe, show you some of what you need to know. Better than the alternative." The Dark Knight notes more directly.

"Not directly with the League just yet," Superman adds on top of Batman's recommendation. "We can provide you with a League mentor or two who know how to teach you the ropes." He looks over in Batman's direction for just a moment before looking back to the young man, "There are a number of other young heroes out there who can serve as your peers to train with, and to learn from. We will probably put you in contact with them, first."

Kinetic just shoots Batman a look. Shaking his head, he looks back to Superman. "Yeah...I don't think someone's who's only been doing this for four days is League material," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Other young heroes? Like Robin, Static, and Speedy?" he guesses, going with the names he knows from online.

Rather than react to Kinetic's clear disapproval, Batman just returns Superman's glance, and then nods once. "Contact the Titans, I'll speak to Robin." He suggests of the Man of Steel. In this instance, the Dark Knight even sticks around for input, arms folded within his black cape as he shifts his stance partly back towards the direction of his initial approach.

"Possibly," replies Superman to Kinetic without committing any direct contact with specific people, nodding back to the Dark Knight. "It will depend on who has time to work with you." He uncrosses his arms now, reaching out a hand for Kinetic's shoulder and guiding the young man towards the teleportation chambers, a clear sign that Batman is now free to go. "We will give you a communicator for the time being so you can be reached when they are ready. It is otherwise for emergency purposes only."

Before sending Kinetic back home to Metropolis, Superman does indeed live up to his word, imparting a League communicator to Kinetic (though it is the same one all trainees get), along with admonitions of what trouble to keep out of while he is training.