[identity profile] gotham-gargoyle.livejournal.com
After picking up one of the stashed motorcycles he'd hidden around the city, the Batman has made his way back home - through the cave entrance, of course. With any luck, he's preceded Dick by more than a minute. One of the downsides of the Batmobile is its comparative lack of maneuverability.

The security system recognizes his access codes, and he pulls onto the elevated parking bay, setting the cycle's kickstand and sliding off.

"Computer. Display recent casefile summaries."

Yes, he was here to see Alfred and Tim, but a quick peek at recent events would only take a few seconds.
[identity profile] themightyoracle.livejournal.com
 It feels like months since she first started trying to reach her father, but Babs knows it's only been hours.

Nevertheless, she's worried, because she knows her dad. She's been off-grid nearly five days now, and since she first moved in with him when she was thirteen, Barbara has never gone more than a night without speaking to him. 

Well - there was one glaring exception. 

Which only reinforced her sense that something wasn't right, but with all the recent chaos in Gotham, it was possible there was still some sort of reasonable explanation for why Commissioner Gordon wasn't answering his cell phone for his only daughter, nor returning the messages she'd left for him at work or home. 

Babs wanted to go to the station. It wasn't far. Neither was her father's house far removed from her Clock Tower. But there was still a lot of work to be done, and while her leg injury wasn't any further hinderance for her, and she could still get around by herself, Babs had a feeling that certain people might get snippy if she took off on her own again so soon.

There were one or two things she could try before venturing out into Gotham. Calling Dick's cell, she left a voicemail,

<i>"Hey, Dick. Not to be an alarmist, but I haven't been able to get ahold of my father and I was wondering if maybe you had an idea where he might be. Also, if you've got a job for me to help get things running more smoothly, I'm ready to go. Call me when you can."</i>
[identity profile] tim-drake-robin.livejournal.com
Not many would describe the Batcave as being 'homey', 'cozy' or any other adjective that denoted 'warm and welcoming'. Tim wasn't just anyone however.

There were few sights in this world that said 'home' like the under-lit gloom of the cave under Wayne Manor.

Habit, hard won and indelible to his nature now, had him logging in a report to the Bat Computer as soon as he arrived. Ten minutes into the report, Tim laughed at himself wearily.

"Dear Bat-diary. Life in Hell sucks. So glad Lady Shiva and Richar dDragon makes house calls to The Pit..."

Removing the mask, Tim rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

"Careful Drake. Talking to yourself might get you a trip to Arkham.."
[identity profile] uncommon-sensei.livejournal.com
The trek out of hell takes longer than one might expect. All those twists and turns, and the natives aren't exactly reliable for directions. Shiva, Dragon, and Tim Drake have hauled themselves out of the infernal realms, though, with no further interference from Neron. Then back through Gotham Below - finally emerging from a dark alleyway in the East End.

Dragon steps out towards the street, shielding his eyes from the strange reddish cast to the evening sky.

"Are you sure we shouldn't have taken that left turn at Purgatory?"

Seems a fresh kind of hell has come to Gotham in their absence.
[identity profile] femme-du-chat.livejournal.com
Catwoman pulls the motorcycle into the Cave and sits there in silence, long after the rumble of the engine has ceased. Silence holds for a few minutes before the observant will be able to hear a soft sound come from the woman. Luckily, there is no one else here, yet, and she's unconcerned about the cameras or the bats. She takes her time, allowing herself what she's been fending off and unwilling to allow. Allowing seems like acceptance and she still doesn't want to accept it.

After pulling herself back together and making herself mostly presentable, she slides off of the motorcycle and slides her goggles off of her head. The goggles she leaves hanging from the handles, to give any junior detectives who might wander by a clue, and starts her way up the stairs. She needs a shower and maybe some tea before she makes her next decision.

The only thing that is certain, is she's not going to be able to sleep in that bed alone. Showering and getting changed will be hard enough but she's never been one to let difficulty stop her.


May. 4th, 2010 11:09 am
[identity profile] beware-my-power.livejournal.com
Hal flies over Gotham invisibly, using the ring to cloak his movements - with the destination he has in mind, it wouldn't be a good idea to be seen. There's a particular entrance available for visiting Justice Leaguers - well-hidden and very secure, but programmed to recognize certain guests.

He descends from the sky and into one of the secret entrances of the Bat-Cave, hoping to find its current caretaker present.
[identity profile] metromarvel.livejournal.com
Its only been a few hours; he wanted to make sure Lois was home, first. The Man of Steel rockets through the sky, face inscrutable as he tries to figure out an approach for this. Who all's going to be there? Will he have to tell them one at a time? Will they blame him? Should they?

"Stop it." Clark tells himself, ashamed of the selfish fear. He's Superman, for God's sakes. It doesn't make the approach to Wayne manor(the back way, naturally.) any easier, however, on this miserable winter's day. Superman can't help but remember the first time he'd heard Batman rail against Gotham's infamous snowfall, about how a little slush on his cape almost killed him, about how...wait.

Eyes narrowing, Superman eases left, picking up speed as he peers through sin-stained warehouse after sin-stained warehouse. Temperature fluctuation...there. Lead plating, but that doesn't mean much these days, but only one Gotham criminal is going to be working with that kind of ferrokinetic discharge tonight of all nights.

Crashing through the roof, Superman's hunch is confirmed! The armored outline of Mister Freeze stands, slowly working over some strange device while masked and hooded goons carry armloads of cheap industrial diamonds. Well, they were, right up until the maniac in blue pajamas kicked the roof in. "I hope you're giving them overtime for working this close to the holiday, Freeze."

The man...or what once was a man...makes motions that would be shock and horror on being capable of expressing its emotions to any real extent. On Freeze, they're memories, patterns etched into his walking corpse body. "You...!"

There's a crack of wind, then, as Superman gets all up in Freeze's grill, smashing the ice cannon the criminal habitually carries like it were an old beer can. "This is a bad time." Superman says, not raising his voice but somehow expressing the sort of fury that makes six or seven armed men take pause. "So how about you just...stop. Huh?"


One concussion later, the Man of Steel is back in the air. Okay, so Mister Freeze's annual mad scheme to create an eternal winter had been foiled, there...there was no real excuse to keep putting this off. Man up, Clark snaps at himself, and the red and blue blur shimmers in the Gotham dusk.

There is a knock, at the back door of stately Wayne manor. "...Alfred...?"
[identity profile] jla-villains.livejournal.com
Large, green, scaly, scowling, that's the distinct and typical manner of Waylon Jones, known better to Gotham as Killer Croc. His attitude is rarely sunny, and this evening his temper is burying the needle, past murderous rage.

He just feels the need for mayhem.

Quitting the sewers via a manhole near Fittany's Jewelers, he cracks his knuckles and ponders the best way into the bank, beyond the usual M.O. of busting in the window, yanking out some iron bars, and hoping that the schmuck security guard wants to come out and play.

There's gotta be a better way for a guy to make money and get his homicidal freak on in this lousy town.
[identity profile] jla-villains.livejournal.com
The Ventriloquist and Scarface are on edge. They've heard the rumours of what the Odessa Mob did to Harley Quinn, what the Black Mask did to Poison Ivy, and what Two-Face and his woman did to Rupert Thorne. So this meeting with the Black Balaclava Gang, a bunch of mobsters formerly of the IRA in Northern Ireland, is almost certainly going to be more tense than most arms deals.

"Rhino, you stay hidden." Scarface points his tommy gun at a large clothes rail. "Make sure that if any of those gums pull a weapon you've got 'em dead in your sights." Scarface then gestures at some of the other thugs in his employ, each with a Godfather puppet-master design sewn into their shirts. "You guys just hang close, and no funny gusiness. We want to get this cash plain, easy and simple, capiche?"

As the leader of the Black Balaclavas steps into the old clothes warehouse with his men in tow, the Ventriloquist makes a formal nod of his head, and Scarface then follows suit. "Good that you could join us on this cold night. Shall we get down to the gare gones on the deal?"
[identity profile] femme-du-chat.livejournal.com
Selina has finsihed her date with Oliver Queen and must now get to work. It was a lovely dinner but, truly, she had other things she needed to get done this evening. The money, certainly, for getting it finished this evening was an incentive but not as much as bringing the end of this whole thing about.

Really, she wants to get on to other things - like making Talia pay and moving against Black Mask. Admittedly, this has been fun, but it wasn't fun in the beginning. It was nervewracking and painful. She still isn't sleeping well and she'd like to get to the part where she and Bruce bump into each other in public and she gets to slap him.

And only partially because she's going to get to slap him.

Perched on a rooftop, she goes over the building plan in her head again and gets ready to go in. Hopefully this guy isn't here.
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_darkknight_/
Even for billionaire playboys, rising at 3pm is pushing it. Well, what the hell. The Batman was up until dawn collaring a group he thinks is tied to Black Mask - one way or the other, dope pushers need to be taken down - and for his trouble, he got a fresh set of bruises, a shallow gash in his forehead that bled like a son of a bitch, and a headache the side of Mars. He needed the sleep.

Hot shower done, jeans donned, Bruce trots downstairs to the kitchen for food and coffee, occasionally rubbing his hair with the towel tossed loosely around his neck.
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_darkknight_/
The story of his life is a complex thing, but one of the characteristics of Bruce Wayne's personality is figuring how to accomplish the impossible. A hallmark, really, of his success as a businessman and a costumed crimefighter. Ollie Queen, one of his oldest and closest friends (which isn't saying too much), made a tragic and critical mistake: he let slip the real name of his cohort, Speedy, and in the process a very dangerous villain named Merlyn figured out the Green Arrow's secret identity.

For better or worse, Merlyn happens to work for someone once close to Bruce, Talia Head, daughter of Ra's al Ghul. She can help contain the situation, but her cost is high and personal. Now Bruce, sitting in the Batcave before millions in computer equipment, has to figure out whether he can help Ollie without meeting Talia's price of breaking off his engagement with Selina. He also has to determine how to do so without involving a memory wipe, something Bruce personally finds abhorrent, thanks to friends doing that very thing to him. No matter the good intentions, that way led to Perdition.

He doesn't want to speak to anyone. He doesn't want to be near anyone. He just needs to think. Ways existed around these problems. How, without shattering Selina's heart and Merlyn's brain, he does not know. He hopes that very soon he would.
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_darkknight_/
Dawn has come and gone, midmorning approaches, and Bruce is still reviewing what he might have missed during his visit to Metropolis, City of Tomorrow and Too Many Damned Glowing Things, to investigate the real estate that local business man/tycoon/slimebag Max Shreck is considering purchasing.

Yes, he should be in bed by now. He should be getting food. He should be doing something other than what he is doing now, which is going over data he recorded in Metropolis and reviewing an eye on the police reports as well. Price of taking time away from his patrols to try to contain Gotham scum within the city limits.

And his coffee's cold. Damn it.
[identity profile] jl-scoundrels.livejournal.com
Maximillian Shreck looks out of one of his panoramic windows across the Gotham skyline. It is daytime. He prefers the city at night, but only because he so thoroughly loathes looking at the smoke that clouds the city. Smoke that many of his factories produce.

He turns around and sits at his opulent desk. Supposedly, it's the one that Richard Nixon owned when he was President. Chip, Shreck's son, had bought it for him as a birthday present one year. Chip is a good boy.

Despite a couple of run-ins a few years ago, Shreck has never been plagued by the criminal community of Gotham, but he's very aware of them. He's had to deal with few directly, but some of his associates, colleagues and employees do so on a regular basis. It's what ensures his stock always reaches him, his factories are never attacked, and his employees are generally quite secure.

But Max is getting sick of being extorted. He's the man with the power in this city. Literally. He holds many of the reins to the power grid of Gotham. It may be time for a change...

The comms on his desk buzzes. Mr Wayne is here. Max slips his black leather gloves on, and drums his fingers on the desk. Plans for destroying the leech-like villains of Gotham will have to wait. Now it's time for a business meeting, with one of his key rivals, and one of the most important power-players in Gotham, as far as he was concerned. He stands as he enters.

"Bruce! How have you been, old man?"
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_darkknight_/
Nygma says that he's starting a detective agency. With, of all people, Crane. Scarecrow and Riddler, in business together.

Stranger things have happened.

Penguin is a nightclub owner. Two-Face is Harvey Dent, as far as he knows. On both accounts, so far, so good where honesty is concerned. Was Nygma right? Is he too far gone, too jaded to think that these criminals could have gone legit at last?

Batsuit doffed, the evening's scrapes and bruises self-treated, Bruce walks wearily upstairs to the kitchen for something to eat for breakfast before trying to sleep for a few hours. And while the activities of those dangerous men should be at the forefront of his mind, he can't help wondering what in hell John Constantine was doing in Gotham.

With Selina.
[identity profile] seriouslyevil.livejournal.com
Oh, if Selina knew where he was right now, there was a good chance she'd kill him.

However, where he was right now was less important than where he had ben earlier. Not to mention what he had left behind.

He glanced at his watch, waiting for a few more precious seconds tick off. Once the he decided the time was right, he flicked open a cell phone, and dialed the number this least favorite kitty.

Ring, ring, Selina Kyle. And you might want to pick up sooner than later.
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_alfred_/
At an appropriate moment in the familial conversation, Alfred makes an appearance, his presence alone prompting silence. "Mr. Grayson, Mr. Todd" he says formally, "dinner is served for you and your family."

The hors d'oeuvre are smoked salmon in endive leaves, with the option of blue cheese spread with walnuts for those who do not enjoy fish, followed by a shrimp and grapefruit cocktail.
[identity profile] -nightwing-.livejournal.com
Historically, Thanksgiving has been a mixed bag of emotions and usually an opportunity for high drama where the Bat family is concerned. There was the year they found out about Bruce's satellite, for instance. The year Selina was first in attendance at the table.

Dick has no reason to doubt that this year won't have another surprise, as he lets his daughter toddle ahead of himself and Barbara into the huge living room, her formal black shoes clumping loudly on the dark walnut floors and echoing around the hallways.

There's never a dull moment where his family's concerned. Despite that, he's not sure he'd have it any other way.
[identity profile] -nightwing-.livejournal.com
Sirens cut through the Bl├╝dhaven night, pulling Nightwing from his vision with a jarring sensation.

He didn't realize it, but he's now on his knees in front of the spinning object.

Was that the future? A possible future? Did Babs just get the same vision, and that's what rattled her so much?

He stares at the object, unmoving. Whatever the hell it is, it's shaken him to the core.
[identity profile] anotherknight.livejournal.com
He's never wrong.

He never allows himself to be wrong.

But it's staring him right in the face.

A lapse in judgment.

An error.

The few strips of gauze he's pulled from the drawer just aren't going to be enough to fix this mess.

The blood soaked wad currently in his hand is hurled in the direction of the sink.


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