When The Invisible Hand Makes A Fist

[mistahjay.livejournal.com]

At WayneTech, they called it 'The Office', often making spooky noises and arm motions in the tradition of school children everywhere. It was a massive door on the edge of a massive hallway with a few cheap wooden chairs in front of it. Everyone waited until they were called in. And, Jake realized, it had the same effect as if he were an eight year old waiting for the principal to have time to yell at him. The brown haired man, just starting to hit the troubles of middle age, looked over at the fuming face of his wife, Helen. The ambitious lawyer couldn't bring herself to show the pain she was feeling, he knew, so she retreated into that temper of hers instead. It was probably better than letting himself lose his head, Jake knew, but he still felt a little bad about it.

And what were this advertising consultant and his wife doing outside of the office? Well, Jake knew he would get in trouble for something some day, but he never thought...not the girls. He could still feel the cold lump of panic in his gut when he realized what his eldest daughter had done...

"At least no one got hurt." Jame murmured out loud, ignoring an urge to add a 'yet' onto that sentence. He was going to see Bruce Wayne himself, after all.

"...oh Jake." Helen was trying to sound furiously exasperated but, somehow, it came out more like a wimper than anything else. The couple shared a worried glance, and quietly held hands as they continued to wait.

Suicide Squad... Attack!

[clackclickbang.livejournal.com]

Rebecca Jarvis, Onomatopoeia, sits on a crate in a dockside warehouse, looking at her team-mates through tired eyes. This is her second Squad mission, and this one seems even more insane than the first. According to the briefing they all received, Cuban terrorists had smuggled a nuke into Miami somehow, and would be detonating said device within short order. Nobody had an exact time frame, nobody knew what they were waiting for, but the bomb is supposedly being guarded by fanatics with all manner of firearms. Enough to make the Suicide Squad necessary.

She looks at Count Vertigo as he clasps his cape around his neck. Rebecca sighs. She'd given up habitually using her mask, her doctor having advised that it was all part of the recovery to go without a costume. So although she has a bodysuit and a trenchcoat, no hood adorns her head.

Plastique and Bronze Tiger are talking near the warehouse doors. She's not spoken to them a great deal. She's not spoken to many of them a great deal. Cheshire seems to be more or less a psychopath, Vertigo seems arrogant as all hell, and Multiplex is just weird. Bane is strangely erudite, but... Her problem is more with their general attitude towards their crimes. None of them seem at all eager to rehabilitate. This Task Force X thing seems more just a means to get out on the street and kill more people, or steal more things.

She puts up her hand, and grabs Vertigo's attention. "Aren't we supposed to be listening in on their frequency to see when they're moving the bomb?"