Heavy load

[mari-grayson.livejournal.com]

There's a good gym near her condo, but it's geared for humans, and though Mar'i is always careful not to break the equipment, she really can only use it for cardiovascular workouts, not strength training. For that, she needs the facilities at the Tower.

Fortunately it doesn't take her long to fly from the mainland to Titans Island, and she hums happily as she zips along the halls to the gym, where she can find weights geared to people who can lift elephants.

Oooh. Someone else is here, too.

"Hello!"

(no subject)

[jla-bellereve.livejournal.com]

Today, Jack is in civvies, keeping an eye on the Yangtze in the most entertaining way he can imagine - with a couple of the local high roller lovelies on his arm, dice in hand, and plenty of spending money.
There's plenty of security on hand - King has provided them with the best muscle money can buy. Never mind that until four days ago, that muscle was in the employ of the other major crimelords in St. Roch. Thanks to Carney, they have security, they have crooked dealers where needed, they have technicians, and they have plenty of lovelies.

(no subject)

[jla-bellereve.livejournal.com]

Joe Carney, the King of the Hoboes, is getting used to the scene in his own fashion. He's been central to the RFG's takeover of St. Roch's gambling circles. Move in a little ahead of the others, use his talents to ensure the loyalty of the local muscle and riverfront prostitutes, and set things up so no one could resist them when they made their move on the Yangtze.
And weren't the crimelords surprised when they tried to flex their muscle, and found there was no backbone to it?

Today, he's right where he's really the most comfortable. In some old clothes among the hoboes and street folk, running the show from the bottom.

Time for discussion

[lanternslight.livejournal.com]

It's 8. Hal's at Ari's apartment, knocking on the door. He's dressed in his ever-present flight jacket, a nice shirt, and jeans. In one hand, he has a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

He knows she's wanted some time to just... talk. As opposed to... well, what they usually get to on their dates. He's set up a picnic in a nice out-of-the-way place, and he's ready to listen to whatever she wants to talk about.

Though he's still not sure exactly what this is all about.

Flashback: Tinsel and Heavybags...

[catboxer.livejournal.com]

It's the holiday season at Grant's Gym, and some wiseacres decided to decorate the place for the time of year. Apparently under the direction of the gyn's youngest resident. And as much as Ted Grant wanted to grumble about girlying up his gym...

The Kid.. no.. Donna.. had done a hell of a job..

It's been almost a year since the young girl had been left for him to take care of, and while it hasn't been a cakewalk, it has had it's moments. And this was one of them.

Why else would the man be sneaking his way into his own gym, gift wrapped boxes under each arm, playing a little late night santa for his young charge?

Now, admittedly, he had to have Joan help him wrap all this stuff. Some new clothing, that as far as he's been told, was the newest fashion. Though he knew the radio-tape deck would go over big. But Ted was going to have to just give her some money to by the music she'll want.

Each box was slipped under the tree one by one. And a real pine tree at that, hell, those new-fangled fake ones just had no cristmas spirit in them. Before he stepped back and smiled at his handywork.

Just one more thing to help Donna feel at home..

Counter-pressure

[damage-girl.livejournal.com]

Louis D’Aubigne is bleeding. There’s a tiny trail of blood in his wake, almost 200 feet of little red dots. This is his favorite part, to be honest. There’s nothing but you and your task, and seeing it to its end.

His elder sister didn’t get articulation and style; not that Angela really understood anything. That’s why he’d shoved her out of the workroom. This would take care and delicacy to proceed. If his investigations had indeed been fruitful, the package should be arriving shortly. First, give them the matches.

He’s been watching the younger girl passively, but he knows enough now. The hand that is sliced across the palm moves to a pocket, producing a stone. One more look. He holds it outward, reciting the incantation once more to perform the blood call. The picture at his feet, bordered by the red trail, is fuzzy at first. Then he sees her. As always, trying so hard. She’ll get her chance. Louis drops the stone, letting it bounce, bloody, across the stone floor. Show them how to use the matches.

After bandaging his hand, he goes to the computer, setting another similar stone next to the keyboard. When the package is opened, he’ll know. For now, he’ll wait on that. The younger girl is easier to find, and besides, this will be more challenging.

Watch the fire, in all its articulation and style, do its work.

One moment longer...

[brian-durlin.livejournal.com]

The last thing that Savant remembers clearly is an earthen-hued fist rushing toward his face.

Savant blinks awake, taking stock of his injuries. He's felt worse; the most annoying thing, really is a slight shortness of breath from resting so much of his weight on his arms. He wraps his hands around the chains suspending him from the ceiling and tries to pull himself upright, to rest his weight on his legs. Pain flares through his calves and thighs, and suddenly he's less concerned about his arms.

They want to know about Oracle. Giving in isn't an option. If nothing else, it's a point of professional pride. It hasn't been long and with Huntress and Creote out of the country, he knows he cannot expect rescue right away. He smirks a little, despite his situation. Well, not unless Miss Lance is feeling generous. Best not count on that. There wasn't anything to do but wait and hope for an opening.

The last thing that Savant remembers clearly is an earthen-hued fist rushing toward his face.

Savant blinks awake, taking stock of his injuries. Only one eye wants to open, for some reason. It's difficult to breathe, but he cannot tell if that's the result of being suspended from his arms or having his nose broken. Again. He's going to drop that walking lump of silly putty into a vat of shellac for that. He manages to get his bound legs beneath him, but standing almost sends him back into unconsciousness. Torn muscle. Perhaps broken bone as well. Not good.

They want to know about Oracle. Giving in isn't an option. He hasn't been here long and with Huntress and Creote out of the country, he knows he cannot expect rescue right away. He smirks a little, though that slight motion causes his barely-healed lip to split again. Canary might show up, if she's in a generous mood, but he doesn't think that he should bank too heavily on the goodwill of a woman he once tried to torture information out of. The others will be here sooner or later. This isn't anything he can't handle.

The last thing that Savant remembers clearly is an earthen-hued fist rushing toward his face.

The slow, labored rasp of his own breathing stirs Savant back to consciousness. His eye opens slowly. His vision is unreliable anyway, so he closes it again. He tastes blood when he swallows and tracks the pain down from there. He doesn't bother taking stock; he feels he might faint from shock if he finds a place that doesn't make him want to crawl back into unconsciousness.

'Move your legs, Savant. It would be embarrassing if you suffocated before the calvary arrived.'

He screams between gritted teeth as he lowers his weight onto his savaged legs.

They want to know about Oracle. Giving in isn't an option. These are desperate people, to do so much damage in so little time. They will say or do anything, and likely kill him no matter what the outcome. He thinks they may have made threats, but he can't remember them clearly. The others are...somewhere. He can't remember clearly. He needs to hang on long enough to actually let them get here.

'"Heroism consists of hanging on one moment longer..."' he reminds himself.

A thought strikes and Savant chuckles softly in the darkness of his cell. If nothing else, Creote will notice that he is missing when it comes time to dole out his pills.

The last thing that Savant remembers clearly is an earthen-hued fist rushing toward his face...

A sort of candle in the window

[http://users.livejournal.com/_darkknight_/]

Wayne Manor's living room has its usual Christmas tree standing in the window, decorations artfully, even flawlessly, arranged thanks to Alfred's usual skill. Its lights supply the sole illumination in the darkened room as the master of the house squats by the tree, examining the packages already in place from the usual Wayne family well-wishers. The gifts, along with most of their givers, mean nothing to him: he has been no fan of Christmas since age eight. Too many memories, too large a wound unhealed.

But one box, newly placed, is settled against the tree skirt, its position adjusted with care. Inside the box is a drawing, but nothing like the usual expensive art that graces this house. A child's hand has, in crayons, drawn a picture of a two adults, labelled with arrows Mommy and Daddy, being carried from a flame-engulfed building in the arms of a tall, masked man in black with pointy ears and a flowing cape, half-angel, half-demon. A smaller figure - Me! - watches on with a smile. The drawing, done in Gotham Memorial's Wayne Foundation Burn Ward, was replaced by a Foundation check for $200,000 to help a family that had lost everything but each other in a brownstone fire.

Saving a boy's parents is something particularly important to Bruce.

Taking a fountain pen from his suit pocket, Bruce writes a name on the gift's tag before leaving the room, head bowed.

To Mom and Dad, from your loving son.