[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
The Chemistry Club, as it was advertised to Bane, doesn't resemble your standard meth lab. No heavies, no junkies prowling in the corners, no sleazy-looking dealers cutting drugs up with their credit cards.

This warehouse could masquerade as a S.T.A.R Labs testing chamber if you didn't look too closely. All of the staff are dressed well and wear the appropriate gear to shield themselves from the chemicals they're handling. Two or three men and women walk the aisles between workstations checking on the progress of their colleagues, and noting things down on clipboards as they observe the various tests being carried out.

Two chemists at one workstation inject unknown drugs into a caged dog and make feverish notes about the horrific effects the canine exhibits. A young woman with dead eyes pumps gas into a transparent box containing a chimpanzee, and raises an eyebrow as the chimpanzee begins to claw at its own flesh. She ticks a box and then turns her back on the animal.

One chemist, a man who goes by the name of Blakely, stands to one side of the workers and pulls a cellphone from his labcoat. He gets some glares as he uses it within the protected environment but ignores them. "Doctor; Diggs, Emmanuel and Issac have all made remarkable breakthroughs. Mm-hmm. The pills donated to Star City will mean that even those grungy youths will have something to smile about. We also have a new recruit joining us later. A big man with a big brain." He suddenly goes red and lowers his voice. "You said you wouldn't mention that. You know I can't control these things. You know it makes me feel ashamed. Yes, I know that's the point. You needn't mention my father again. I apologise."

Blakely walks to a quiet corner and looks over his shoulder to see if someone is watching. Confident that nobody cares, he continues. "So you will be making a visit to the lab tonight? Yes, I know you're not prone to exaggeration. Well we will have to tidy up a little. Well, you don't want to see dead animals all over the place, do you? Oh, okay. Well if these things don't bother you then..." Blakely begins to chew the inside of his cheek. "Don't say these things! Please! Look, I have to go. Please just.. There's no need to scare me like that."

Blakely hangs up, breathes out, and fans himself. He then storms across the lab and into a side room.

All the while unaware that a Boy Wonder is watching him...
[identity profile] jl-metropolis.livejournal.com
"Welcome everyone! I assume from everyone here that you've decided to take our employer's generous offer to join us in our endeavor to take this city as our own." The orator was Chiller, currently in his true form as he addressed his audience. To his right was a woman with long red hair, completely covered in a blue and purple striped outfit. To his left was a brute of an individual wearing a blue and gold armored suit. Behind the trio was another large man, but this one was decked completely in black fatigues along with a ski mask and sunglasses, completely concealing his identiyty.

"The underworld's in tatters right now and is ripe for someone to step up and fill the void. Of course if we know this so do the capes, so they'll be on extra guard." Chiller extends his arms out to the gathered criminals. "That's where you gentleman come in. We will ingrain ourselves into the very fabric of this city. By the time we're finished, not even Batman himself will be able to dislodge us."

Chiller smiles as he takes in the crowd.

"Now I'm sure you hae questions, so feel free to ask."
[identity profile] jla-villains.livejournal.com

Conrad Laughlin was a man on a mission.  More than anyone besides his specialists knew of.  The Justice League's Watchtower satellite required minute-by-minute updates and maintenance.  This is not something normally handled by its members, so tech support is always moving through.  

The background check is well and truly exhausting.  One day's work requires a month of informational requests, as well as interviews with family, and what appeared to be a "spirit sniffing" from a rhyming gargoyle.  That was the strangest part of the entire day so far.  The fact Laughlin's packed lunch now bore the faint smell of brimstone was just an added bonus. 

He wasn't able to bring any of his own tools as everything necessary would be provided by the League staff, and a schematic as to what he'd be facing was completely out of the question.  Conrad was working blind here, but when your client bases itself on universal security, its a moot point. 

Turning to the worker next to him in a rather bright orange (with garish blonde work-boots), he spoke quickly.  "If the pay for this wasn't ridiculous, I'd almost do it for the sights.  Where are you out of?"
[identity profile] jla-alcatraz.livejournal.com
Somewhere in the bayou of Louisiana, in a former Legion of Doom base, abandoned for a good fifteen years (and showing it), an increasing group of criminals of all varieties gathers. Starting through online chats, occasional telephone calls, and even rarer, an actual letter and meet-up, a general feeling of dissatisfaction has begun to plague the supervillains often referred to as B-Listers, or Second Stringers. This feeling has grown, and leads us to the meeting today, where the Fadeaway Man sits at a long, rusty table, his fingers pressed together to form an inverted v shape beneath his nose, as he ponders and plots.

"It's all incredibly unfair, you know." The Fadeaway Man mumbles this, quietly, to the villain to his right, with whom he has been sharing some absinthe. "I was once one of Hawkman's nemeses. The Shadow Thief and I quite often gave that lumbering oaf some things to worry about, I can tell you!" He takes a drink. "But now... Nothing. I consider myself lucky to be taken seriously by the cape and cowl brigade, even if I do possess the Cloak of Cagliostro."

Finishing his absinthe, Lamont sighs. "You know, I have a stash of weapons, armour and gadgets of all shapes, stripes and colours in my pocket dimension! The dimension my cloak can take me to. And that's all fine and lovely, but what's the point in stealing a Qwardian anti-matter gun if you don't know how to fire it, and nobody on your planet will buy the damn thing off you?! I stole a dozen of the bloody things!" His slams his fist against the hard table, making a resounding crash. "It is not through lack of skill that we are where we are, but sheer bad luck. If I had had Lex Luthor's money to begin with, I would have an industry and a monopoly on business. If I had had Felix Faust's magical ability, do you think I would use it to steal trinkets, when I could be ruling the world?! No! It's time we made a stand, is what I say."
[identity profile] scream-and-cry.livejournal.com

"Good evening, Gotham City." The words that cut into every television across Gotham this night, and reveal the familiar and incredibly creepy masked face of the Scarecrow on every screen, dead centre, and utterly void of emotion.

"First of all, allow me to apologise for interrupting your viewing pleasure this evening. I'm sure it must be sheer terror to not get your fix of Desperate Housewives, or the Simpsons, or whatever it is people watch these days, but I promise I will make it worth it. In fact, it will have to be worth it, because to interrupt these signals I had to spend an awful lot of money. I'm doing this for you. For your benefit." He leans towards the camera. "Be grateful."

There's something strange about the Scarecrow's voice tonight. Almost like it's through a synthesiser to make it deeper and more ominous. "So now the why. Over the past few months I have ostensibly been living a legitimate life, investigating potential embezzlements, scaring off blackmailers, and looking into tawdry affairs. Oh, and Mr. Joseph Freeman? Your wife is cheating on you. With a midget. I laughed, anyway." He leans back now, and puts the tips of his fingers together in an arch.

"But yes, the why. I... Am not going to tell you. You can all reach your own conclusions to be honest, and putting it down to a persistent psychopathy would probably be the soundest opinion. But I am not wasting my hard stolen cash just to appear on television, oh no. I have also been hiring over twenty lunatics, most of them former patients of mine, and all of whom have successfully just kidnapped every baby from every maternity ward across Gotham, and brought them to me as I started this little show. A little misdirection goes a long way, in show business." He chuckles, and the mask visibly goes in as he inhales, his eyes dark pits through the burlap.

"I can feel the panic now. The worry of every mother, father, doctor, nurse, hospital trustee who is wondering "How do I explain the hiring of these former gang members on my staff!" and so on, but also the fear. Oh, yes, the fear. If I told you the feelings I feel when I think of the delightful outpouring of shock and awe, our two favourite words in this great nation, all directed at me... I would be taken off your televisions. I love the idea of you screaming, you crying, you wondering what this evil man is going to do to your poor children, and here's the dealbreaker-"

He removes his hat, and places it on one finger, twirling it around. "- I can do whatever I want with them. Dump them in the river? Sure. Feed them to Killer Croc? Why not. Help Zsasz with his scores? Almost certainly. All I ask of you is a simple thing. Every name of every baby will flash up on the screen once I'm done, with a value underneath it. I'm a fair man, and every ransom is meetable for each of the family involved. For instance," he picks up an identity tag, that was once on a baby's leg, "young Vincent Shore, $800,000. His parents are lawyers. And young Julie Angel Ramone?" He moves this tag closer to his eyeline. "I should really wear my glasses... $23,000. Her mother is single, and works as a waitress when she gets an opportunity. And Angel is an ridiculous middle name. I can't stand all of that new-age nonsense."

"Paying these ransoms couldn't be simpler. Call the number at the bottom of the screen, and you'll get through to one of my polite and well-trained operators, who will take your bank details and link them up to one of my offshore Oolong Island accounts. Your baby will be delivered safe and sound, and with a copy of my book, "Why the world needs Batman", which really sold quite well. All of you who bought it, helped fund this show, so thank you most heartily." He puts his hat back on.

"Finally, to Batman, Robin, the GCPD etcetera. You can try and find me. I would love to see you try. This is of course a recorded message, as I wouldn't be stupid enough to have your infamous Oracle figure track my location through this broadcast. I'm off for a stroll personally, but calls can be put through to me if you beg long and hard. I'm Dr. Crane, Gotham City, and I'm listening."

The broadcast cuts off, showing the names of babies, to the sounds of their crying.

[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
Blackgate is rioting.

The prisoners are managing to get out of the facility but more of them are staying - for the moment. The chance to turn the tables on their jailers is not often presented and many of them are taking advantage of the opportunity.

The standard alerts have been set out but what hope is there of a response when the heroes are fighting each other? What hope is there of response with all of the things that must surely be ccupying their time and their focus?

As the rioting prisoners of Blackgate spread and spill out of the building, there is a worry about those contained in Arkham. How long will it be until the join in the chaos? Those incarcerated in Arkham need little reason to attack their captors and some of them are all but precient in their ability to sense the mood of the city.

Most of Gotham City rests between these two attempts at oubilettes. Most of the time the city allows the high walls, fences and guards to lull them into a sense of security. Tonight, however, the city is afraid.

With good reason.

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