[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
Any number of reasons could have brought you here.  A tip, a rumor, an invitation, an order, or maybe your own morbid curiosity.  Perhaps you just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

The decrepit two story house stands at the corner of Cedar and Thomas, in a run-down part of town, on a lot that should have been leveled years ago.  At one time, it would have been an owner's pride and joy, with an immaculate white picket fence and a wraparound porch.  Now weeds rise up to consume it and the paint peels freely.  Surprisingly, all the windows appear to be in tact and the steps leading to the front door are sturdy.  There should be graffiti on every surface and in every nook and cranny.  Neither pen nor paint has disfigured its decaying facade.  Nailed to one of the support columns hangs a vacancy sign.  Constant exposure to the weather has left it battered and drained of color.  A fitting sign for a house that's been forgotten.  Or has it?  A faint light emanates from within. 

The gate rests half way open under the glow of a full moon.   
[identity profile] spirit-of-truth.livejournal.com
It had only taken Diana making a quick phone call one afternoon, and not long after she had set up a reservation for six at one of the more exclusive restaurants in Detroit.

She'd sent invites to Selina and Lois, two women that she admired greatly for long time. And if nothing else, it ought to make for fascinating dinner conversation.

"I have heard that this is an excellent restaurant, so I hope that none of you will be disappointed." She smiles at her dinner companions.
[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
A twenty-two year veteran of the Metropolis PD, Detective John Mercado is what the rookies like to call a 'lifer.' The adjective is apt - he's been with the PD for two decades and he'll be with them two more, if they let him. In those twenty-two years, he's pretty much seen it all - wives who've shot their kids, sick pedophiles collecting kids in the basement, you name it. Working in Metropolis has added an element of the surreal as well - he's almost gotten used to the criminals running around with laser pistols and hypno rays, let alone the real freaks like Parasite.

This woman he's been sent to talk to was no Parasite victim. But whoever did this to her is every bit as sick and depraved.

Mercado gives the rapsheet a look. Catalina Reyes, DOB 09/02/76, 5'2 and 115 lbs. One known relative - Alejandro Reyes, an official of some sort in the government of third-world nation Costa Linda. No criminal record. Seemingly the model citizen, and yet her record is so blank that it automatically raises the detective's suspicions. She doesn't even have any traffic violations, for Pete's sake.

He's not here to worry about that, though. Mercado is here to find the scumbag who did this to her.

Flashing his badge, Mercado steps past the nurse and into Reyes's room.
[identity profile] catalinareyes.livejournal.com
Having taken a day or so in New York for shopping and a glance at a former flame (or inferno), Catalina returns to Metropolis on a private jet courtesy of her new business partner. In the limo ride back to the luxury suite she occupies with Max, she is uncharacteristically quiet, pensive.

She even tips generously the bellhop that carries her luggage and purchases to the suite for her.

"Max?" she queries as she closes the door behind her. "Estas aqui?"


(OOC Note: some may find this scene potentially disturbing. Consider it R-rated for violence.)
[identity profile] pulitzerwinner.livejournal.com
Lois Joanne Lane Kent has a...somewhat earned reputation for passion. She is a fiery individual and usually declines to disguise that fact behind a placid demeanor. Seeing her carve her way through the press room with a high color in her cheeks is thus nothing unusual. Many of the savvy newspaper staff prefer to keep out of her way when she looks like that.

Her hand rests on the broad, ample, and sturdy shoulder of her husband as she leans down to whisper, "Clark, honey? Can I have a word with you?"

In the other hand is a large photograph, rolled tightly in her fist.

Nearby, a young reporter whispers to a copyboy, "She better be hell in bed to make up for what that poor schlub has to go through."
[identity profile] pulitzerwinner.livejournal.com
No, not really.

Lois is supposed to be taking a day off (probably because of something she said to irk the Chief) and she is in fact not in the office. Doesn't mean she's not working. Parked on the sofa the Kent apartment, pen between her teeth, she is typing in her usual manic and poorly spelled manner on a relatively new Macbook Pro.

Which she hates and which she vilifies often.

Notes are spread out on the cushions beside her and across the coffee table on which the Mac is resting; the pages look as organized as Dresden after the Allied air forces paid a visit. On the screen is the end of an article under construction: Sources within Wayne Interprises have vehemetly denied claims that Queen is the focus of a ...

"Hey, Smallville? Hostile? H-o-s-t-y-l-e?"
[identity profile] x-superkara-x.livejournal.com
Supergirl sits at the back of the stage, somewhat nervous. She hasn't even had an opportunity to get changed yet, and she's been back for a few days now. She watches the man in front of her giving her a loose introduction, requesting that any questions about her true identity are left unasked... This is all so weird. So much like her Earth, but so different. She just couldn't put her finger on what.

Until she hears the man at the front of the stage announce the time, and more specifically, the date, so the recording can begin. She's about to stand up and ask what he means when he says the year... That wasn't the year she was from. Things begin to fall into place. But before clarity can hit her, or she can garble out all the questions she wants to ask, she's at the lectern, facing the press.

The flashes of cameras go off, and she nervously smiles. People shout out questions, and she ignores them. Concentrate on smiling. Don't think of the possibility that... That this is her Earth. But she's been gone for... years. Where? She fixes a grin on her face, and scans the room. She wants to cry, but needs to look strong.

Breathing in, without doing it so hard that people rocket towards the stage, she exhales softly. Better. "I'll be happy to answer your questions, although I have many myself." Her voice rises above the crowd. "Just... please. Give me some time, and ask one at a time. I may have super-hearing, but I'd rather not have to siphon one voice from room of shouting reporters." She smiles at the laughs she gets. This could be easier than she thought. "Now, who wants to start?"
[identity profile] jl-metropolis.livejournal.com
Tonight, on "You are Wrong" with Jack Ryder....

The recent economy boom, can it last?  Are Happy days here to stay? 

Reality shows and celebrity worship, is that television phenomenon making a comeback?

And a round table discussion from tonight's guests, Star City entrepeneur Oliver Queen, Real Estate magnate Max Shreck, the "Daily Planet"'s Clark Kent, (( and whomever else wants to call or chime in :D ))

The topic  "Why the World needs its Heroes."...all live, on "You Are Wrong!!"



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

After the fluff pieces to start the show, and a few vulgar interruptions from Ryder himself, the main topic begins. 

"Gentlemen...with the recent developments in Metropolis, the rise of a new island in the Pacific Ocean, and so forth...how are our heroes helping?  The floor is yours."
[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] wrist-magnum.livejournal.com
[This thread continued from here.]

"Now I don't know a lot of first names. The screws and the docs weren't big on socializing with the inmates when I was in there. Plus, I had a whole lot of bad going on in my head at the time. There's a little guy, last name was Kendrick when I was inside. Brown hair, kind of pale, lots of freckles. Got that whole Irish complexion thing going on. He was one of the big ones. Steady retainer from Maxie Zeus. Kendrick had a daughter, and Maxie was sure she was one of his crew, come down from on high or something, so he took Kendrick into his mob on a contingent basis. There's Bill Lashley, big guy, played a lot of football in the 70's before his knees went. He's off the high-security block last I heard. Had a bad thing go down with Zsasz, lost two fingers in the door of Zsasz's big metal box. But if you can get some coin to him, he'll smuggle in supplies to the inmates." Floyd spared a glance at the digital recorder lying on the table. "That thing gonna get everything?"

"Look, Kent," Floyd continued over a forkful of some really bad pie, not waiting for an answer, "You can just consider me, whatsit, deep background for anything you got in Gotham. All I want in exchange is a word from you, if you should happen to hear the name Black Mask pop up. If he does, you gotta let me know. He's got a score with me, needs settling, and it wouldn't cross his eyes at all to come after my kid."

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