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Post by Hush on Aug 15, 2017 8:48:58 GMT
Timeline: After: The Arrival of Doom Before: Plague Z Previous Threads: None Characters Involved: Hush , BATMAN Location: Various Locals Joy
The first human emotion.
A feeling of warmth and happiness stemming from the anticipation, acquisition or possession of something desirable... What each man desires is something unique to them. His desires had changed so much over the years, he had accomplished dreams and reached goals, but ultimately remaining unsatisfied. Always driving himself to do or be better.
Pristine and unblemished glass, framed in steel and surrounded by polished concrete, the minor distortions caused by the coating applied to block the obnoxious lights if they cast toward it doing little to impinge upon the view as he looked out from the office, observing the world beneath him as it lay silent, everything in order, as it should be, waiting, waiting in expectation for the sea of humanity to soil it once more, for the cycle to continue, to provide joy and comfort to those that needed it. Such had become his role, providing happiness at a monetary cost... for 8 hours an night, 7 nights a week, people flocked to his club for a chance to be happy. For a short while, when he woke to this world, he was content that his life before had passed, no longer did he need to live that existance, the constant and unrelenting scheming and planing. Free to be his own man, not focused on a singular consuming purpose, he could live according to his own wills and expectations. Turning to the desk against the far wall, and looking at the leather bound chair before releasing a sigh as his eye cast to the rest of the room's decor, how out of place the desk and chair seemed, everything else was modern, polished leather recliners, a tempered glass and steel table, even the drinks cabinet, with its brushed metal finish, made the wooden writing furniture look wrong. Making paces across room, running his hand along the polished wood, drawing back the chair before pulling open one of the drawers to reveal a pair of Colt 1911s, loose cartridges rolling back and forth around them as he reached in and removed a roll of gauze. Looking at it as it slowly un-spooled, casting frayed threads from its edges. Taking a thread between his finger and thumb, pulling it against the direction of the spool, forcing it to un-knit with the least effort possible. The coarseness of the threads feeding back a sense of disgust through him, the imagery before him reflecting a message he already knew, his world could be undone by a single thread. Dropping the spool to the desk's padded top, bouncing and rolling towards the chair as his palms slammed into the desk, the sudden crack from the straining wood momentarily drowning out the incessant buzz from the lights before becoming quiet once more. Releasing a deep sigh as his hand slid from the top of the desk to its edge, inverting their direction as the digits clasped around the corner. His mind awash with broken thoughts and tortured images, memories, expectations, and ideas. Striving to be what he wasn't. Most failed to live up to their best ideas, simply because their best ideas, ideas of who they where, what they where capable of, or what they could accomplish, where, for the most part, ideas with a tendency to be the opposite of their natural abilities... But he wasn't most people, He was trying to be like most people... Disgust The second human emotion
A deep and strong sensation of revulsion or disapproval brought forth by something that offends the senses or sensibilities. It extreme cases it can cause the display of physical symptoms. An emotion that he had long since learned to set aside, as a doctor, as a surgeon, and as a professional, he was required to disregard his personal feelings about individuals or actions, something that had come all to easy to him, after all, nothing is wrong if it is necessary.
Normal? What was normal? His entire existence had become that question. His continuing effort to blend in, to be a normal person, to act like they do, behave, react and respond like they do. Always performing his emulation of them as best he could. His understanding and patience being continually tested and eroded. He knew himself, understood himself, his limitations, what he was capable of and what he could endure, this alone set him far beyond the average, he had spend years mastering himself, years turning any weakness into a strength, years perfecting his skills. Now he asked himself why? In truth, he had only ever known two people that actually understood him, one his friend, the other his lover, and he would sell the world to have either of them now. The cold, sobering truth he felt told him that that couldn't be, now or ever. His friend, the man that became the Batman, the boy that was a brother to him, he understood all to well the reasons behind Bruce gathering his brood, the reasons for him becoming the Bat, the two of them where not so unalike, even if Bruce was often led by his heart more than his head. Had things gone differently, the two may have remained friends, maybe partners, but they didn't, things happened exactly as they did, people acted the way they did, and there was no changing that. His lover, the only woman, the only person to ever touch his heart, the only thing that ever made him truly happy, however fleeting it was, if he could he would go back, he would talk sense into himself, make himself realize the hard truth that he wasn't leaving her because he didn't want to be trapped again, but because he was frightened, a foolish scared boy, terrified that he could actually be happy.
'Peyton...' The name passing his lips in little more than a whisper, as though to say it aloud would shatter it's delicate nature and he would loose the memory forever. His eyes closing, stemming the tide of moisture gathering on the corners, as his body slumped backwards into the chair with a thud. He was crying, not outwardly with tears but inside the heart a tortured soul wept, the waves of regret and emptiness that consumed him crashed on his mind, washing away his resolve, how was it that he had become so weak. For all that thought him a monster, it was only that he had learned to hold it inside himself. Never revealing his thoughts of himself. Grief
The third human emotion.
A feeling of despair, at times feeling like fear, it was once said, 'when it comes, it is not in spies, but battalions.' Overwhelming and crippling, rendering even the strongest their most vulnerable. Over the years, he had felt little in the way of remorse for his actions, everything was justifiable, reasoned, or necessary. Because of this, he had little in the way of regrets, but still felt an immeasurable weight from those he carried.
How could he have let himself become like he had, How could all of his efforts lead to this, a hollow man, little more than a shell, desperately trying to cling to a memory of something he could never have. Slowly coming to the realization that it was never going to be for him, no matter what he did, no matter what he gave up, he would be alone forever. It was a strange feeling, His life had been spent alone, the brief moments of companionship had always been fleeting, years or weeks, they where but tears to the rain, Bruce, the boy his mother wanted him to be, but would never allow him to become, Peyton, the woman his heart longed for, but his mind refused to allow. For one reason or another he had always forced himself to be alone. Alone, how he detested it, his mind filling with thoughts of failures and failings, of what ifs and hypotheticals, their echoes mocking him. Even in a room of others he was always alone, be it amid a sea of humanity on his club's floor, or a social event, it mattered little, it was he and himself. The longer it went the more unbearable it became, every day that passed the more the numbness spread like rot to his core, the less he felt himself, the more he felt like a visitor in his own mind. The thought of how easy it would be, he could disappear in a moment, erase himself from existence in little more than an instant. The sad truth that he would not be missed, no one would grieve his passing, noone would mourn his legacy, this was something he understood all to well, but it was solely of his own making. Finding this train of thought more amusing than disturbing, what ought a man to suffer if he kills that which is most truly his own, after all, 'to take your own life to avoid poverty, desire or pain is cowardly'. Or so he had always thought, of all the differing ideals and philosophies on the subject, they unilaterally agreed that only when god or the state gave the sign, was it acceptable, but in a world where gods walk among men, could this still hold true? 'bad men are full of repentance'The words forming themselves in his mind, no influence of his own, all the years of study, learning and understanding the philosophers of ancient Greece, his mothers gift, accepting Aristotle's words and comprehending them. Fear The forth human emotion.
The parent to cruelty. A pain arising from the anticipation of evils. Driving men to acts of desperation for survival. Of the three basic triggers, Failure, Survival and Conditioning, it was survival in which he had come to know the sensation, a feeling that he had all but forgotten, long since drowned out and suppressed with understanding and force of will.
In this, he had been unquestionably correct, he was not a good man, not even a good human being. He embodied many of man's worst traits. Hatred, cruelty, aggression, all things he understood more than most. Having a singular ability and capacity for each one of them. His elbows now resting on the desk, fingers intertwined through auburn locks, and palms upon his forehead. How had it come to this. For the first time in his life, he doubted himself, he hated himself. Nothing had changed, there was no explosive moment or polar shift in his life, just a slow burn that brought him here. Placing his right hand into the open drawer he retrieved one of his sidearms, setting it down on the tabletop as his thumb gently pulled the hammer back. The sensation of the bearing surfaces sliding over each other smoothly calming his thoughts briefly, only interrupted as it tripped the half and fully cocked positions on the sear. The blued steel and rosewood grips, a fine example of a 1911 even if it had been re chambered in a stouter cartridge. Normally the rebuild necessitated a compensator or muzzle device to tame the increase in energy, but it was something that he had elected against when rebuilding his pair, mostly on an aesthetical basis... Rocking backwards in his seat, his shoulders coming into contact with the backrest as he ran his hands down his face. Looking first to the door, and then to each monitor in turn, checking who was in the building, and where they where at this exact moment. Finally resting his eyes back on the firearm. Sliding his fingertips gently around the frame, the cold steel against his warm skin, resting the beaver-tail into the web of his thumb as it slid under. Raising the weapon from the tabletop, placing the muzzle under his chin as his index finger rubbed past the flats of the trigger, taking up the slack and drawing it in gently but forcefully, feeling the exact point that the hammer would release, before allowing it to break. As the hammer collided with the rear of the firing pin, the force transferred through the slide, a metallic clack and slight resonation sounding from metal striking metal, followed by silence. A silence shattered by his sigh... It could be that easy, what embers still burned on the wick of his soul could be extinguished with fire and steel, snuffed out, forever removing the shadow of his life, and its impacts, from the world. Anger The fifth human emotion.
A intense emotion, the harbinger of aggression and the most human of them all. Causing the loss of objectivity and self monitoring. When sudden and focused it can turn you into someone you never knew you where. When prolonged and continued it can consume you, paralyze you, or make you stronger...
He had felt anger for a lot of his life, making an art of controlling it, directing it and focusing it, allowing himself to only be angry with the right person, to the right level, for the right amount of time and ultimately only for the right reasons.
Scoffing audibly at this notion, forcibly discarding the weapon as his eyes opened once more, watching as is skittered across the tabletop, sliding off and crashing to the floor with a clatter. He sat, silence filling the room once more, it was deafening, he was trapped in his thoughts, trapped with his emotions. Introspectively destroying himself... because he was bored? because he was alone? or possibly both... 'A man that is satisfied in solitude is either a beast or a god...' He was neither... A frigid smile crossing his face at this thought process, He was a man, a simple creature, raised above savagery by combining intellect and reason, and in this he was more dangerous than many of these 'neos' that the governments where so afraid of. He wasn't as one dimensional as many of those that had allowed their powers, gifts, or whatever they chose to call them, to direct their abilities and mindsets. He wasn't so rigid and inflexible as to become obsolete, if anything his time in this world had proved that. Sure he may be a sociopath, but it was part of what he was, maybe it would have been nice to be a full blown psychopath, to never feel empathy, remorse, or lack the ability to make deep emotional attachments, but that's not what he was, and if anything it would probably detract from his skill set. Lifting and glancing to the inside of his wrist, his eyes directed toward an intricate mechanical chronograph, how long had he been sitting here? how much time had been wasted so fruitlessly. Pushing away from the desk, finally rising to his full height once more. Lifting the pistol from the floor as he strode towards the sealed portal leading to the rest of the world. Placing it into the retention holster in the small of his back as the door cracked open, revealing the metal staircase. The bartender looking up to him as he descended, ' Boss... You heading out?', realizing his questioning tone as a pair of turquoise eyes glared back, ' Juss... Not like you to leave so close to op'ning hours...' Stopping momentarily as he reached the elevator, waiting for the doors to open. Turning his head to face the sheepish bartender, answering the simpleton's inquiry. " I'm going to find an old friend..." BATMAN
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I am vengeance, I am the night, I am BATMAN!
Moderator
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Post by BATMAN on Sept 24, 2017 4:57:24 GMT
Joy  Bruce stared into a mirror, adjusted his tie, and fought down the old familiar feeling of being terribly out of his element. It happened every time he looked into his reflection, every time he had to be Wayne and not his true self. He forced a smile just to make sure he still could. It was an act of course, more a disguise than the cape and cowl he missed at the moment. Unfortunately, he couldn’t convince the necessary parties to assist him in rebuilding his financial empire if he didn’t come off as hopeful and filled with joy. Medical CEOs and military officials alike were unlikely to sign on the dotted line with a man unable to even crack a smile or grin good-naturedly at a joke. Faking it however, pretending to be happy? That was not new even if this world he found himself in was. He had been pretending, faking it, since he was a child. Happiness, joy, feeling content and safe and loved. Such feelings were not completely alien to Bruce Wayne, but they were fleeting. There were days when he could convince others, the Family perhaps, that joy was part of the goal. When crime was under control, when nobody had to suffer as he had, that would be when he could be truly happy. It was the unobtainable dream, the end game he knew would never come. Ultimately, it was the lie he sold to everyone else, but could never bring himself to believe. There might be a time where the others can find happiness and that is part of the reason I fight, but in the end I know that their destiny and my own are not the same, Bruce thought. In the back of his mind, he knew that the last time he was truly happy was that fateful night. The last legitimate feeling of joy had been when he was 8 years old, dancing around with an imaginary sword, watching his loving mother and father as they took the short cut through the alleyway. That night any chance of him truly being happy again ended with the thunderous crack of a gun, the plinking of his mother’s pearls as they struck the rain slicked street. Certainly, there were times in between where he could lie to himself better than others. He’d done so with Andrea when he was younger, allowed himself to think she was the port in the storm, his way of escaping the monster growing in his heart. He’d learned better or thought he had. Years later, he’d tried hard to be happy, thinking that acting as a father and mentor to the young Dick Grayson would allow him to shrug off the shadows just a little, but that too was fleeting. In many ways his clashes with the young man had convinced him that he’d been right in the first place, that happiness was not a permanent state and instead was merely those small moments in between chaos when he could pretend the world was as he had wanted it rather than what it really was. Dick left, shrugged off the mantle of Robin, and all because he had seen what Bruce couldn’t: his own attempts at finding happiness with a surrogate family were damning his son to the same fate. Sighing as he headed out the door, he glanced longingly at where the suit was stored. His false smile turned into something far darker, but more sincere. Come nightfall he’d see to it that the one small thing that brought him joy, a temporary salve for the ever constant burn of misery, was applied. It was only in those moments when eyes went wide with fear, bones snapped, and grunts of pain echoed through the darkness that he felt something akin to true joy. It was temporary, like all forms of joy, but like an addict he was addicted to it even for the short time it quieted the demons in his soul. Disgust
 New World, same disease, Wayne thought as he left the boardroom. The medical bio-foam he was attempting to market, a derivative of the self-sealing liquid his most recent Batsuits used, could save lives. First responders could seal serious wounds while simultaneously disinfecting them, holding a patient together until they could reach the hospital. Soldiers could apply it in field, seeing to it they had time to evacuate or in worse case scenarios, fight on rather than fall. But did the bigwigs in medicine and government see that? No, they only saw the cost. The medical professionals were already counting the dollars they could make, the prices they could jack sky-high ensuring only incredibly rich cities and counties could afford the product, allowing the rich men and women who lived there to have access to help that yet again the less fortunate could not. The men from the Defense department also only saw cost, deeming it too expensive to put into production. It didn’t kill and had no true offensive capabilities so it was not worth the effort. Saving lives paled in comparison to the ability to take them. In many ways they were as guilty, as evil as the criminals he fought in the streets, only they were protected by laws and a system designed to allow them to take advantage. And New Earth has plenty of criminals already even before those from back home began bleeding over. Masked, powered, or otherwise. The cancer that is crime is as powerful here as it was in Gotham, always growing, always infecting others.The whole concept of taking advantage of the weak, of harming people because you could, of putting profit over humanity was revolting to Wayne and there were reminders of it everywhere. Even across the street he now walked down, gang tags marked out territory, defacing buildings like an infection seeping across the very veins that pumped the lifeblood of the city. Just like back home. Something must be done so that those who are similarly disgusted by this cancer will know that someone is willing to take a scalpel to it.Grief  Night fell and The Batman rose. Crouched atop a rooftop as lightning flashed and rain fell from the sky as if the world itself was in mourning, Batman watched and waited. Though he showed no outward emotion he knew that inside he was torn apart. If he let them, tears that could flood this city more than any rainstorm would erupt. This is wrong. All of it. This is not my first trip to an alternate dimension, but I knew what I was coming home to. Now, I have no idea if there is a home to go to.He’d gained leads on Nightwing, leads that ended up being false. There was a Richard Grayson in this world, but it was merely a man with the same name. Not his son. He was back where he started, not knowing if Dick was alive or dead, if he’d been brought here via a dimensional rift or sent adrift through the universe. Tim, Alfred, Cassie could all very well be dead too for all he knew, visions of a collapsing Batcave and manor threatening to force themselves up from the cavern he’d forced them into since arriving on New Earth. By not figuring out the dimensional breaches, by not being smart enough or fast enough he very well could have failed them all. Bruce knew all too well the price of failure. He’d failed his parents in Crime Alley and he failed Jason Todd when the Joker had taken him. When he failed, however rare it was, it was always his loved ones, his family that paid the price. With Jason he’d kept his suit as a memorial and a reminder. He dulled the sting of his failure by calling him a good soldier, by remembering the boy he had been and not thinking about the man he should have become, and by refusing to say his name. Despite his love and respect for Alfred he’d violently snap at the butler for daring to speak Todd’s name aloud. But here, in this world so far from his own, reminders of him abounded. Memories forced themselves up here even more than they had in the cave. First, it had been seeing the Batmobile in stand-by mode down the alley, an alley not so different from the one where he first encountered the youth stealing the wheels off of it. Then it was the Red Hood, a man that moved like Jason, fought like him, and knew things that only one of his protégés could. Like Clayface had years before when taking Todd’s form, this Red Hood character forced him to feel things he’d long ago tried to bury. He dared give him hope that the source of his most recent grief could be a lie, that Jason was still somehow above ground, that his error had not cost him his son. Grief is dangerous, Batman thought. You give into it and it will swallow you whole, cripple you, leave you weak and useless.Fear  As a figure moved below in the alley, a streetlamp glinting off the metal of a gun barrel, Batman narrowed his eyes. The man with the weapon was following a woman struggling to keep her umbrella from blowing away, exiting a side building as her shift at the diner ended. More dangerous however is fear. Being afraid can cripple the same as grief, but it also makes you stupid. You react without thinking, you run without a plan, and you become as bad as that which caused you sorrow to begin with, Batman thought as he dropped into the alley below, cape wrapping around him. His boots crunching gravel caused the man with the gun to spin around startled. He saw nothing until Bruce triggered his cowl’s vision mode, the lenses going pure white. Shouting the thug fired at the shadowy figure, but the Batman was already gone, the woman running away at the sound of the shots being fired. “Wh-wh-what the hell are you!?” the thug shouted. Without sound the Dark Knight dropped down from above and behind the gunman, his grapple zipping them back to the rooftop. Batman grabbed the gun, twisted, and rejoiced at the sound of a snapping wrist. A powerful blow to the gut knocked the breath from the man. Several follow up haymakers ensured his nose would forever be crooked, his eyes certain to be black if not swollen shut come the morning, and his teeth looser than when he began. “What am I? I’m the thing that kept you up at night as a child, the monster in the dark, the avenging spirit of the night. I’m Batman and you are going to spread the world. Tell your friends, your cellmates, tell everyone. I’m here and I’m coming for them,” Batman informed him before vanishing into the night. Fear. It is dangerous. End of the day, no matter how much psychoanalysis is applied fear is why I am who I am. The Batman only exists because of a scared little 8-year-old boy. And that’s why I have controlled fear, become fear. It was the answer in Gotham and it is here too. Here I go back to basics. I become the urban legend, the myth that keeps criminals in until the sun comes up, the monster that is stronger than grief and loss. Anger  If fear was what birthed the Batman anger is what kept him fed. As he moved across the rooftops the Dark Knight seethed. His grief over what may have been lost to him transformed into a fiery wrath. Whoever was behind all of this was going to have that wrath visited upon them. Researching who or what made the dimensional rifts and how they targeted specific individuals would take time, but Batman could afford to be patient. Time only meant the rage would grow from smoldering to white hot. I will find whoever is behind this. Whether the family is alive, dead, or injured they will answer for what has happened and they will regret it. In the meantime however Batman had plenty more to feed into the furnace that was his heart. All around him he saw signs of crime. Graffiti celebrating Harley Quinn, marking her territory, adorned buildings and walls. Dead men wearing her colors were being attended to by first responders, likely victims of the turf war Red Hood had started. With Joker now here he knew the blood spilt would only increase. His intention to make Chicago, so like Gotham, his home would have to be postponed. New York City was the current epicenter of evil, evil he knew well and had stopped before. And he would again. Getting home, back to Gotham or whatever remained of it, was a priority, but until then he’d share his anger with the scum that had arrived here. When the dimensional transplants were not enough the criminals born of New Earth would get what was coming to them and the corrupt officials rounding up those of power could count on feeling his wrath as well. The embers of anger were now an inferno and the fire that was Batman was ready to burn any scum that had it coming to them. He merely hoped that before daylight he'd find more kindling. Hush
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Post by Hush on Sept 25, 2017 22:01:18 GMT
Surprise The sixth and final human emotion,
An instinctual response causing a brief mental and physiological state as the result of an unexpected event, be it welcome or unwelcome, for the better or the worse. It is difficult to control or predict, especially for humans, with so many expectations, it's only natural that some are going to be violated. Often finding himself in a position of advantage, be it through position, tactically, or even simply through station, surprises came few and far between, becoming a welcome change from the mundanity that currently consumed his existence.
Driving rain, piercing his clothes in sharp droplets until it became impossible to distinguish a bead from an ocean, running in streams down auburn locks onto the nape of his neck, the weight added to his garments bringing a small sensation of comfort. The cut of his suit standing apart from any who would normally frequent the area. Water trying to flee the paved footpaths into drains scattered along the roadside as he strode into the middle of the Manhattan, ripples forming between the individual flags as it collided together, an almost perfect metaphor for the area, the two tribes and their war, no matter what happened, it all ended up in the gutter. A war-zone, you could almost be forgiven for thinking that as he made his way deeper into its heart, glancing at the colorful graffiti, gang tags layered on top of each other and defaced, scribbles of color, yet with a distinct pattern, as though they were something out of Jackson Pollock's dreams. He could hear them behind him, treading through the rain, the soft splashes of footfalls displacing water, focusing on it, no less than four distinct walking patterns, keeping their distance as he wandered, keeping his head lowered and slightly tilted, both in an effort to keep water from hitting his eyes, and to keep his senses available. Little did people realize, this was more than just a War zone, more than just 'The City', as of recent this had become much more important, much, much more, the affairs of The Hood and the Jesterette mattering little to him, they could have their trivial little war, though if he had to pick one to be the victor, it would be his most recent ‘ ally’, though there was a blatant truth that they both failed to realize, nobody would win, nobody could win. There was a reason he kept himself firmly detached from their dealings in the matter, several if he was honest, but if pressed by any of the other ‘underworld’ striplings that thought themselves men his answer would always be explaining in the simplist terms he could, that so long as they fought, more people came to his club. But in truth, he plainly didn’t care, so long as they kept it off his ground, it just didn’t matter. But tonight, tonight he decided that he would walk the killing field, observe their world, their little war-zone that had turned into a hunting ground, and while he was not prey, neither was he the hunter… though, those behind him certainly thought otherwise. A stagger here, a fumble there, the saturating rain, all only adding to the display as he meandered a seemingly random path through the streets. Random to all, but him, continuing deeper, teetering the line between claimed lands, glancing at shopfronts as he passed, gleaning the occasional glimmer of those that followed in his wake. By now, any attention he sought to obtain should have been turned to him, the group had gathered, as they played and frolicked, making no attempts to hide the fact they were following, hands of the harlequin, ragged and painted. His walk becoming hurried, an almost nervous hunch forming as he made oblique glances back. With their p owdered and painted faces, unkempt and scruffy clothes, he found himself wondering if they did it out of some sense of security or was it just hedonistic pleasure, being paid and rewarded with drugs, women, or a chance to ogle the Joker’s pet shrink and plaything.
They followed him, a lost sheep, looking for his shepherd with a staff to save him from the wolves, these thoughts turned to that of strange amusement, how… biblical. Yet if those were wolves that followed him, they did not follow a sheep, nor a wolf, but something much worse. The sound of chain, the metallic clink of links gliding over one another as it was taughtened, making him glance up, another three individuals blocking his path, ‘guiding’ him to the slaughter ground, little aware of what was yet to be unleashed. The smell of refuse and plastic, the patter of rain on tin, the chromatic effluence seeping from sacks and washing around in lucid patterns, all the sensations of what was about to be exhilarating him, a feeling he hadn’t felt for longer than he could remember. That was until the clang of metal hitting metal filled down the alley, gone were his expectations, gone was the future, the crash of pipe and bin calling forth the arrival of the present, the here, and the now. His mind awash of what fun this could be, a rare opportunity presenting itself for him to cut loose, to enjoy himself, but that was not what he had put this play on in order to achieve, he had something much more important to accomplish. Choosing to turn slowly, his voice broke forth quietly as he gently pivoted around his right heel, the water washing away in a ripple as his left glid a fraction above the ground. Arms reaching up until his wrists were level with his ears. “Without friends no one would choose to live,”
Facing the group, drinking in their size and stature, the posture and positioning. “Though he had all other goods.”
Turning his gaze skyward, beyond the group, searching the skyline for a gargoyle, seeking the watcher, hoping to find the hunter, keeping a wayward eye to the group. Ready. In case he had made a mistake, that ‘this’ Batman was so unlike his own, that he was to be alone again in this world, for now, and forever… Mouthing a single word to the heavens, almost in hope, that his friend would hear. “Bruce…”
BATMAN
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I am vengeance, I am the night, I am BATMAN!
Moderator
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Post by BATMAN on Dec 26, 2017 20:37:46 GMT
SurpriseBatman scoured the rooftops, familiarizing himself with each building taking in the sights, smells, and textures of the night. Had this been Gotham it would be second nature to him. He knew Gotham like the back of his hand, every nook and cranny a potential spot to strike from, each gargoyle a familiar perch. While he had been to New York before, at least the New York of his home reality, he was not nearly as familiar with it. It made him long for his city. Familiarity breeds complacency, he thought. Indeed his knowledge of Gotham and its layout had been of use many a time over the course of his career, but just as when he was on an away mission with the League, he would simply have to adjust. Still each cobblestone, each towering skyscraper reminded him how very different the cities were. The darkened back alleys he prowled were largely absent in the Big Apple as was the ability to merely turn a corner and see clear down a street in both directions. The skyscrapers of Gotham were largely clustered in a single area, not spread as far as the eye could see as they were here. The old brick and mortar buildings of Old Gotham, many of which contained secret tunnels used in the past for smuggling slaves to freedom or booze during prohibition gave the city a feeling of being suspended in time, as if you could drive down the street and encounter gangsters that would fit in with Al Capone. Here in New York there was still history on display, but it seemed to be almost edged out by the future and high technology. Still, there were similarities. Urban decay brushing up against modern revitalization projects, a fierce defiant pride in what made it the city it is, and various small islands connected via bridges, one of which housed a prison, all bore similarities to his home. The biggest similarity however was the criminal element, largely because the worst of it had been transplanted from Gotham. Quinn and Red Hood have carved out sections of the pie for themselves and were at war in an attempt to gobble up even more of the city in a struggle for control. Like Gotham it meant citizens were scared, huddling in doors and avoiding the streets at night for fear of being caught in the bloodshed. Just like home it was his job to stamp them out, to be a beacon for hope, to allow someone to walk outside without fear of being gunned down for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His home or not he wouldn’t let another little boy have his parents stolen from him, have his life upended by a thug with a gun. In the end it didn’t matter if it was Chicago where he had landed, Gotham, or the Big Apple crime and criminals were the same. And so it surprised him to see someone below, walking about as if the 24 hour news cycle had not warned of a mandatory curfew after showing the latest images of violence and bloodshed. For almost anybody else the threat of a clash between Hood and Quinn’s forces was a great motivator for staying in when the sun went down. Granted there were always some who wouldn’t listen. The homeless or those who had to work graveyard shifts, the occasional drunk stumbling out of a bar, but this was something else. He watched the scene below, a group of would be tough guys, bangers of a sort though who they worked for he couldn’t tell, and a man who was strolling almost nonchalantly through the shadows. Even with detective vision active he couldn’t see the man well enough to accurately identify him, but there was something in the way he walked. His gait, how he carried himself, how at ease he seemed, how steady he was…it all reminded him of someone else. Tommy? he wondered. Surely fate had not plucked his childhood friend turned sociopath murdered and planted him here in this reality, in this city, just as the Batman arrived? Deciding there was but one way to find out he stepped off the ledge, rocketed downwards, and landed in dramatic fashion between the man and the would be predators. Cape draped across the ground it seemed to wrap around him as he rose, drawing tighter to his form and making him seem truly inhuman in the darkened streets, only his eyes truly visible as the darted from the man to his would be attackers, waiting to see who would make the first move. Hush
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Post by Hush on Dec 26, 2017 22:35:17 GMT
As the shadows descended from the heavens and moulded into the shape of a man infront of his very eyes, a warmth he had not experienced for longer than he cared to think about began to kindle in his soul. Ever predictable, ever the good soul, the shepherd finding his lost sheep and ensuring their safety, even when removed from his home, his allies, and his nigh unlimited reserve of toys, trinkets and tools. He could almost feel a lift to his spirit as the dark knight made his dramatic entrance, as though his heart was set aflutter for the merest of moments, being able to watch the great pantomime of the bat demon rising from the depths of hell, to strike terror into those that would do wrong. The thoughts roaming his mind of the possibility that this was some other individual that decided to don the cape and cowl, after all, the Hood had been a version of the Jason he had once known, but with a very different history, so it was not beyond unreasonable that this could be a very different caped crusader. But even with that truth, the Hood was Jason, the Harlequin was ‘Dr’ Quinzel, different versions of the same person, so it stood to reason that this man before him was a Bruce, though more than likely with a divergent or downright different history. The smile that found itself on his face was anything but a conscious effort, a rare occurence of his subconscious betraying his innermost workings. His friend, here before him, being quietly observed and ready to go to war with those in front of him. Fighting the ‘good fight’ for truth and justice, to protect those that could not protect themselves from the wolves that lay in the hearts of man. As they watched their very first display of these theatrics, they found themselves unsure of just what was transpiring before them, was it some do-gooder getting in above his depth, was it one of these ‘neo’s that the media had sensationalized as a new terror flooding the world, or perhaps, just perhaps, it really was a demon sent from hell to collect their sinful souls. For now, it was more prudent to observe than it was to participate, though in truth, having already discerned the most probable outcomes in his mind, even observation was at this point participation. He would willingly let these men thrown themselves to the slaughter, unknowing of the ferocity manifested before them, but he was well aware that they would in fact live… Killing was easy, and in truth Bruce had a point for the general thugs, or the everyday decent criminals, rehabilitation was a genuine possibility for them, but at a certain point, his own inability to do what was necessary made him every bit as responsible for the atrocities committed by those he refused to grant the only reasonable fate for their actions. The seven finally coming to the consideration that this man was just a freak in a costume, rushing him as one, pressing the advantage of numbers as they flailed chain, brandished hammers and bolt cutter and generally attempted to make themselves an intimidating force. The ability to return to their mistress with a glowing report of how they mauled, mugged and murdered not only a lost soul but also a Neo or other freak, would only see them looked in favor, and perhaps even gain them a bounty for their ‘trouble’. As one swung his bolt cutters high, another attempted to catch the vigilante’s feet with his chain, another ready to attack with a claw hammer waiting to strike should either miss, and the other four attempting to get behind the interloper in their affairs. One with a stained and marred maple bat, another carried a bicycle chain, while the two largest decided to go unarmed, one diverting from his path to attempt to tackle the shadow enveloped man who had made this his business. The advance had come, the moment in which he could finally discover if it was the man he knew before him, or some doppelganger. Only one man fought like his Bruce, but a niggling though remained in the back of his mind, irritating him enough to break his contemplated silence. The thought that this Bruce would do what he always does, make mistakes in the name of protecting those who he deemed needed it… Playful words spilled forth as he took a step back and away from the onrush. “While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring...”
BATMAN
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I am vengeance, I am the night, I am BATMAN!
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Post by BATMAN on Jan 25, 2018 14:41:57 GMT
In some ways this battle was the same as countless others the Caped Crusader had participated in. The moment of shock and disbelief when the enemy first sees him land, witnesses the cape spread out like the wings of a dark demon, and eventually lock eyes with the blank, white lenses of the cowl. There is almost always hesitation even from those who had encountered him before, their brains either fighting to comprehend what they were seeing or contemplating running to avoid the pain they knew was coming. Usually the biggest, bravest, or stupidest among them would charge forward while the others bolstered by the courage of a man willing to attack something they were not sure was even human, hoped that sheer numbers would give them the edge they needed for victory. The Batman himself would take a final deep breath before the action kicked into high gear and time would seem to slow as adrenaline pumped through him. A dance of pain, broken bones, and mangled bodies would follow. Sometimes they got a lucky hit in, most times not, but his mind would push the pain away, file it for later examination at which time he would berate himself for making a mistake and train extra hard to make sure it didn't happen again. Such conflicts rarely left him wondering about them or thinking on anything other than the outcome as they had become as common as breathing. In the early days perhaps he spent time in contemplation, wondering if he had been too rough or second guessing an action. Now though, having spent a decade and some change in the cape and cowl, Batman rarely thought about such battles unless they tied into a greater investigation. In other ways this, like every battle, was unique in flavor if not set-up. The attacking in unison while not unheard of, was not necessarily common. The fairly open street too was a change from the narrow, claustrophobia inducing alleyways of Gotham. Streetlights that allowed for a slight visual advantage were not uncommon back home, but their functionality was. All of these things and more made the encounter different. Different...but not nearly enough to cause the Dark Knight any reservations. Leaping he swept his cape into the eyes of the thug with the bolt cutters, throwing him off balance. The movement also allowed him to avoid the chains swinging towards his legs, the wielder of that particular weapon receiving a spinning kick to the temple that dropped him to the cold, wet street. Claw Hammer dropped said weapon when a batarang, the toss of which seemed to be simultaneous with the kick his partner had received, pierced his palm. As he shouted, Batman grabbed him and spun him about, using him to shield himself from the now recovered wielder of the bolt cutters. Shocked over having knocked his ally unconscious there was a split second hesitation that cost the man as Batman tackled him, driving his spine into a nearby fire hydrant with an unsettling crack that echoed in the cold night air. Regaining his feet he was forced to take a long step backwards, narrowly avoiding the swing of the baseball bat. Another swing intended to take his head off missed as Batman took a single step to the side, a third catching nothing but air as the vigilante ducked under it and delivered an elbow to the collar bone, breaking it. Batman knew the man would likely go into shock, but for the time being he had greater concerns. Retrieving the bat, eyes narrowing at the remaining attackers, he couldn't help but think of Grayson. He'd likely have a snarky comment about him truly being the 'Bat' man now. Had Nightwing himself been in this situation he imagined his son motioning at the the thugs in a 'bring it' manner and smiling when they turned and ran away having seen their allies felled so easily. The thought brought a stab of anger to his heart, anger over not knowing Dick's fate, over being on this strange Earth in the first place, and that anger reminded him that he was not Nightwing. There would be no chances to run, no lighthearted theatrics meant to ease the tension that was combat. Instead he stepped forward brandishing the bat, an overhead swing cracking the elbow of the man with the bike chain before Batman dropped to sweep his legs and thrust the tip of the bat into the stomach of one of the largest, unarmed men. He'd intended to follow up with a strike the chin, but the second large man had changed tactics, bolting past him and towards the man that had been their original target. A spinning throw of the bat collided with his hamstring, temporarily stopping his charge, but the move to protect the man who at a distance reminded him of his former friend, now enemy, had left him exposed. The other behemoth had recovered from the wind being knocked out of him and having recovered his ally's bike chain, brought the makeshift weapon down hard on the Batman. The Dark Knight managed to avoid having it strike his head, taking the majority of the blow on his shoulder, but it was still painful, his fingers going numb as a result. Stupid mistake. Stupid, amateur mistake, Batman thought, knowing all too well never to turn his back on an enemy until they are downed for good. Flipping over the muscle bound attacker, he used his good arm to grab a handful of the man's hoodie, pulling him backwards and off balance. As he stumbled, Batman struck a pressure point in the weapon wielding arm, returning the favor of the shoulder injury and causing his enemy's hand to spring open, dropping the chain. Allowing him to turn, eyes wide in terror over how useless his arm had suddenly become, Batman headbutted him hard enough to cause the man to black out, but not before his nose exploded in a spray of wet crimson. Rolling his injured shoulder in an effort to get blood flowing faster he stalked towards the last remaining thug, only now recovering from hitting the street face first. Briefly looking towards Tommy as if considering trying to rush him once again, he glanced back at the Batman...and screamed. The man had to be inching up on seven feet tall, three-hundred plus pounds of mostly muscle, and he was screaming like a child woken in dark by a nightmare. Seeing his friends all writhing in pain or unconscious, he wet himself just as Batman drove his foot into the man's face, bouncing it off pavement once more.  Barely winded, the Dark Knight merely stood there, staring out into the blackness, unwilling to face the man he thought he knew. In some sense, he wondered if this was how Gordon felt, knowing full well that Batman would be gone when he turned around, a man not wanting to face a problem he had few real solutions for...and even fewer still on a world not his own. Though he did not turn, he did speak, a single word either in acknowledgement or question, even the Caped Crusader wasn't certain. “Hush...” Hush
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Post by Hush on Jan 27, 2018 22:08:33 GMT
“Hush…”His friend’s voice, a familiar yet almost forgotten sound, though the chosen word served more to wound than anything else, a cold formality that this Bruce still saw him as little more than an enemy, an evil that he needed to vanquish from the world. Observing his friend as he stood, back turned, unwilling to confirm with his own eyes if it was indeed a ghost from his past manifested behind him, lowering his head slightly as hands pressed into pockets making his way to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Dark Knight.
“No... Not in this world…”Glancing at the carnage around them, bodies broken by the onslaught, at no point in time was it a fair fight, even had they been five fold in number, the scales were still tipped in the Batman’s favor. Even though his friend stoically refrained from lethality, the doctor in him couldn’t help but catalogue the injuries, the concussions, broken bones, and of course, the embedded batarang. Stepping forward once more, approaching the man with the shuriken sticking through his hand before kneeling beside him, unceremoniously withdrawing the blackened steel projectile, wiping it clean on the man’s sleeve, with little regard to the fact that nothing stemmed the tide of blood flowing from the gaping wound. The edge chipped and damaged, the finish warn and scarred, tapped between his finger and thumb as observations of its condition where made internally, before quietly looking up and towards the only other man standing in the alleyway. “You are haggard…”The suit was damaged, more than Bruce would normally allowed for, a sure sign that he did not have the luxury of the once near infinite resources he had enjoyed. While mostly cosmetic, those that had a half decent eye could see that the suit lacked it's once imposing demeanour, the colours faded and fibers abraded, the cape frayed and belying its rough treatment in combat and for theatrics sake. “Worn…”The proud warrior still took to his fight, irrespective of these facts. Continuing his crusade to rid the world of crime, be it random or otherwise. To protect those that did and did not need it. And to prevent anyone befalling a tragedy similar to his own… Placing his hand on his the Knight’s good shoulder, presenting the batarang between his other middle and index fingers. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he looked his friend and brother in the eyes, face to face, and felt no malice nor ill feeling toward him.
“It hurts me to look at you so…”
A quiet hope that what looked back to him was his friend, the boy that hid behind the cape and cowl, and not the twisted image of the all consumed batman… As he looked at him, as moments passed with no words being spoken, neither man motioning or moving, he couldn’t help but allow for a small smile to break the hard lines of his face, the slightest curl on the edges of his mouth. Unsure of what he currently felt, was it joy, was he nervous of the reaction, was it fear, fear that he would be spurned and be alone once again, fear that the two of them would be locked into that spiral of utter hate forever more. “I…”Stepping back and away from the man in front of him, turning his back to him, as the words fought their way through his lips, their bitter taste almost to much to manage, why was this so difficult for him, why where these feelings so strong. The anger that he felt rising in his gorge both at himself and his friend felt limitless. How dare he make him feel this way… How dare he allow himself to feel this way… “I’m sorry…”The words tasting like acid, eroding his very will as they came from his mouth. The flashing moments of violence flitting through his mind. Calculating every possible method to murder his former friend for even hearing these words from him…Images of unparalleled brutality searing the back of his eyes as he continued…
“You are so very far from home…”If Bruce knew the man in front of him as well as he did when they were growing up, he could hopefully understand how difficult this was… though, never would he had expected himself to want to help his former friend again, never would he imagined these words coming from his own mouth… but never would he guessed that the two would be torn from home and flung far away. He had some measure of normality in his life now, and for a brief time he had enjoyed a world without his friend. He had adjusted to allow himself to let go of the festering wound of their past that consumed him so… but even as he spoke words of friendship and peace, words of regret and remorse, he could feel the bile trying to overwhelm him once more…
“I want to help…”Even though he had a position of advantage in this world, their roles had reversed, no longer was he the one that watched his friend enjoy the easy life, A floodgate in his mind continued groaning under strain, it would take little to overwhelm it and allow old wounds to flow once again… BATMAN
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I am vengeance, I am the night, I am BATMAN!
Moderator
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Post by BATMAN on Mar 16, 2018 3:46:45 GMT
“Help,” Batman repeated. Of all the words he could have used, of all the offers he could extended, that was the last thing Bruce expected to hear from his childhood friend. Each and every clash he had with the man that came to call himself Hush, had been worst than the last. With each new encounter Bruce had suffered a new wound, some physical, many emotional. The man that have been his childhood friend, who had assisted him when he was injured in pursuit of fulfilling the oath he had made to his parents, had long since died. Little Tommy Elliott, the boy he had played chess with, had skipped rocks with, and considered his best friend was no more. Or maybe he never was. After all, every time they played together or on the rare occasion they had crossed paths as adults, he never gave any hint that he had murdered his own parents. The boy had cut brake lines, the man had resented Bruce and his family for saving his mother and denying him the existence he felt he had earned through his murderous act, and all along Bruce had missed the signs. For the so-called World's Greatest Detective it was a glaring hole in the idea that he actually was just that. Tommy had been a blind spot for him and he couldn't let him or anyone ever serve as one again. Just because this was potentially a different Hush didn't change the fact that he was deep down the same Aristotle quoting madman. The lack of bandages didn't change that. Here, now, in the alleyway amongst the broken bodies of men the like of which Hush wouldn't hesitate to hire as expendable pawns in whatever current game he was playing, it was easy to forget every strike, every attack, every ache and pain. It was easy to forget the incident with Prometheus. Without Robin, Nightwing, Alfred, or any of his other allies the urge to accept his onetime friend's offer of assistance was a strong one. But what he couldn't forget, would never forget, was Jason. Todd had been long dead by the time Thomas Elliot showed his true face, but the fact that he knew the truth of who Bruce was meant he was more than willing to desecrate the memory of the boy he considered a son. He had used Clayface to push the ruse. Knowing that the Dark Knight would stop at nothing to uncover his identity Hush had instructed the shapeshifting villain take the form of his deceased partner. And for a moment it had worked. His hoping against hope that his friend, son, and soldier had not died due to his failure had blinded him to the truth. It was a deeply personal attack, a scar that would stay with him far beyond the end of the drama Hush had instigated. Recently, with the emergence of Red Hood, that old wound had again been torn asunder. Had he not yet again been given that carrot on a stick, that glimmer of hope that Jason still lived, would things have been different? Would he be more open to whatever it is Tommy was offering? He didn't know. Things had happened as they had and couldn't be changed and living in the realm of 'what ifs' was not the way of the Batman. Dealing with reality as it presented itself, that was. Controlling the chaos around him to force the world to make sense? That was who he was. And so, ignoring the gesture of friendship, he readied himself for whatever Hush would throw at him next, because he doubted it would be another poor attempt to endear himself to an old friend. “You are not hurt...yet. And we are both far from home, but that doesn't mean I am going to let you do on this world what you did on another. If you want to help, you can turn yourself in to the authorities, let this Iron Man know you are from another world. Remove yourself from the board before I have to.”
Hush
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Post by Hush on Nov 27, 2018 12:56:43 GMT
" Bruce…" The word breaking past his lips in a mournful tone, little more than a hushed whisper, what his friend had become, what he had become, was it function of this world? A function of who they were? Perhaps it was the hand of destiny guiding them to be something that they never wished to be, some invisible, irresistible force of fate. The false sense of control, the illusion of free will. Were they predetermined to be the people that they were, the monsters of old. Forbidden their dreams, Forbidden their hopes. Ambitions and loves were beyond them, no matter how much they wanted it, no matter how hard they pursued it, how much they sacrificed for it. Tortured and twisted by it all, until they came to be what they are in this moment. A grotesque parody of what they could have been, or what they should have been. They stood together in the rain, two identically different souls casting a reflection upon the other. “ You look at me as though I’m a monster, You want and need it to be so, if only to spite you…” Averting his eyes and turning his head while a metallic taste began filling his senses as he unknowingly bit on his bottom lip, stemming words as they flooded forth without check or control. “ I’m not that man, not the way you think, not anymore...” It had finally boiled down to this, what he had hoped or expected could only serve to torture him, he had been rebuffed, the great knight had cast him down as little more than a knave, and, worst of all, he couldn't help but entertain the thought that perhaps he was right to do so… “ Bruce is right,” a voice in his mind spoke,” You are a monster, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise, to integrate and conform... all a charade, some great pantomime for the world to allow you to exist a relatively easy life.” Palming the Batarang into his pocket before his mind set upon doing something he would later regret, looking hard at the man before him before a heavy sigh broke forth from within him, replaced momentarily with wistful words. “ Mortality... I used to think that was what defined us... I used to think that it held the truth of our existence… Back when I was young... when I knew love… when you were off, gallivanting about the world…” Walking slowly away from his former friend as he spoke, stopping a few paces away as he continued. “ I was jealous of you… so deeply jealous… you were free, of expectations, burdens, responsibilities... no-one held your strings… the master of your own fate…” Looking to the ragged man clad in shadows, he found himself devoid of any sensation outside of pity. “ What has become of you my friend?” He asked, maintaining his soft posture and distance. “ What has become of us?” Maybe Bruce was right, Maybe he should turn himself in. Maybe, just Maybe, he should listen to someone other than himself for a change. No matter what he decided was the appropriate response, Bruce was sure to condemn him for it, he was too far gone. Hatred had filled his soul. He neither expected nor desired an answer to the questions, they were purely rhetorical, they both knew exactly what had become of them. A heavy weight growing in his chest as he began to accept that the Bruce he had known was gone. The internal deliberations grinding away as possible avenues of events were explored in his mind. “ I will let the world know…” a purpose to his words and their deliverance, “ I will tell them the truth… but I will not surrender myself to Stark or his oligarch…” Bruce had never been one to fall behind someone the like of Stark, At least his Bruce hadn’t… “ After all, I have nothing left to lose… except time…” This man, who wore the face of his friend, had taken what little hope he had left… all that remained was time, existence in a grey world, living a life that wasn’t his to live, it was what he had been condemned to, the sum of his experiences twisting his outlook to this very moment, the walls of understanding crumbling around him, peeling away the delusion that he held of purpose. Despite the muted palette around him, it was all so paradoxically beautiful, so simple yet elegant, the simple concept that all they could ever have was time… the moments that filled their existence from birth until their inescapable end. No matter how they tried to escape it, it would find them all eventually. It simply didn’t matter how, or why, it happened. It would happen regardless. “ Time…” Taking a glance at the man that stood in the shadows, a final look to the doppelganger that had taken more from him in this brief encounter than he would ever know. “ Is the fire in which we burn...” BATMAN
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