[identity profile] thessaly-ann.livejournal.com
This is the eight night in a row that Ben Gibbons has sat perched on a bench outside Thessaly's apartment, serenading her and promising to love her forever.

Her neighbours are complaining now. How can they sleep with all that ruckus, night after night? Why doesn't she put a stop to it?

Not that they're complaining to her. They may not suspect, but few can bring themselves to raise their voices at Thessaly. There's always something about her that makes them uneasy.

More than Thessaly's presence here, however, is the trace of one far more sinister. One who delights in games, who sees the world as its own chessboard.

A chessboard, though, where everyone's naked and every move only strengthens the orgiastic intensity.

It's a presence familiar in its source. Too similar. Like that of the King of Dreams.

Judging from the man downstairs, she has little difficulty guessing which sibling this is. The only unknown is why. )
[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
How curious. A man in love with another, yet not within Desire's realm.

As Desire peers out through his citadel, her likeness made of flesh and tissue, he cannot help but grin at the sight.

The blonde one, he is certainly one of Desire's, though not yet ruled. His affections, his attractions, they are plain to see. With but a slight a pull, Desire could intensify those. Make him a glad servant of the women he reviles.

But yet, this man feels desire without love. He is just like so many over whom Desire holds sway. He is boring.

It's the other man who makes this so interesting. The Russian. He feels love, but the desire is not there. Sure, there are twinges and occasional longings, but not a true craving.

That makes him interesting. That makes him fresh and exciting. And because this is a game, Desire has to conquer that. This man must come into the world of desire.

So Desire turns again to the blonde one. He pushes and pulls on the threads connecting him. She reweaves him, subtly, letting things fall into place. But not into the woman, no.

The object of love has to become an object of desire. What better way than to turn the emotions back? Let the object desire for the objector.

Watch and learn, my sister.
[identity profile] brian-durlin.livejournal.com
It's raining outside. Not storming, merely a light spring shower pattering a cascade against the walls and windows in the night.

Savant doesn't mind. He likes the rain, even in storms. He finds it soothing. Restless as the wheelchair-bound martial artist has been, he'll take any soothing influence that he can find. At the moment, the combination of curl reps (under Creote's watchful eye, of course) and the first season of Rome (which mysteriously appeared in the apartment not long after they'd returned) in addition to the rain leaves him almost content.
[identity profile] love-of-duty.livejournal.com
If only his Russian comrades could see him now.

Hair pulled into a ponytail, decked out in a "Kiss the cook" apron and plaid-patterned oven mitts.

He'd prepared food for Savant, in honour of his surviving being kidnapped. He'd also baked various herbs into the food, specifically those to help with memory, but Savant didn't need to know that. Made it easier that way.

Kobe beef, with cranberry bread and a small lobster role. One of Savant's favourite meals.

He's hoping that this dinner will lift the man's spirits. He's seemed depressed and unwell since leaving the hospital. No telling what he went through at the hands of 'Clayface.'

Food's ready, time to eat.
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
If Savant had been comprehensible enough to protest, he probably would have objected most strenuously to being brought to an ER after his torturous incarceration thanks to Clayface -- and this ER in particular. The downside of being a blackmailer, Huntress knows, is that once word gets out you're bedridden, the line will form to the left to finish the job someone else started.

This means she has to stay at the hospital until he's able to walk out, under Oracle's orders, along with the burly Russian. She'd take shifts but he won't hear of it. She shrugged and went to get coffee, and treated patients and hospital staff alike to her signature glare while she dripped freezing water from her sodden clothes.

So here they all are, some hours later; he's in a private room. And she's pretty sure she's going to need it soon herself -- for an imminent case of pneumonia.

"AAACHOOO!"

Someone pass her the Kleenex.
[identity profile] love-of-duty.livejournal.com
That 'Clayface' character seems to have retreated, leaving Creote and the Huntress to find Savant themselves. And Creote is certainly wasting no time. Running through the halls, kicking down doors, he's determined to find the man somewhere here.

He's on the look-out for more guards though, especially knowing that at least one was a shape-shifter.

It's a big place though, and it may take him a while. Unless he can find some sort of trail where Savant may be, that is.

Breakout

Jan. 13th, 2007 01:07 am
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
Huntress is rarely not in a mood to bust some heads. She never thought it would be on Savant's behalf, and especially after what he did to Canary so many moons ago. But here she is, with his -- what should she call him? 'Partner' really doesn't work ... at least, not in her head. She's fairly sure Savant's oblivious -- and even if he weren't, she'd rather not think about it too much. With that in mind, Oracle none-too-subtly told her to stop Creote from taking his vengeance on Savant's captors too far.

The irony isn't lost on her.

There's no point in subtlety where Huntress is concerned, and she can take out her frustration at Sigiorello's reluctance to make her a capo (and everything else that's wrong with the world, in her opinion), on the door that stands before them.

There are few things in this world more satisfying to her than the sound of something breaking.
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
Security cameras have turned up nothing, and a money trail, ditto. The only clue to Savant's disappearance lies in a muddy residue that can only belong to Clayface, and the surrounding streetwalkers and homeless are Creote and Huntress' best recourse now.

Wonderful.

Huntress pauses at the alley entrance, staring out across the darkening streets.

"Alright," she says finally to the Russian. "You take this half of the block, I'll take the other."
[identity profile] love-of-duty.livejournal.com
Creote has waited a few days after noticing that Savant's disappearance was unnnatural. No longer.

Unfortunately, he has no way to contact Oracle. She's the one who finds them.

Still, she's a computer genius. A quick trip to the public library, find a computer there, see what he can do.

They don't just fake genius, though. There's not even a trace of her that he can find. And while no, he's not anywhere near her, or even Savant's, skill level, he isn't inept with these things either.

Perhaps if he does enough snooping on here, though...
[identity profile] old-saint-nick.livejournal.com
There is some debate within mystical circles if there is indeed such a creature as the embodiment of Christmas Giving known as Santa Claus. But whether or not there is such a being, the spirit of giving itself is very real, be it incarnated in a fat man in a red suit or not.

Throughout this small blue planet of Earth, people have brought trees into their homes, decorated them with lights and ornaments, and placed them in locations of honor. Stockings have been placed on the chimneys. But most of all -- in the spirit of community and giving -- people have placed gifts under the tree.

Some are looking forward more to the receiving than the giving. But for many, it is the act of giving which warms them, which fills them with the holiday spirit.

Each person, in their own way, becomes a part of this spirit of giving. Each person, in their own way, becomes Santa Claus.

Istanbul

Nov. 28th, 2006 09:19 pm
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
In the shadow of the Blue Mosque's minaretted glory, through streets packed with assorted wildlife and peoples, Helena Bertinelli is making her way to a courtyard nargileh bar with her entourage of Lady Blackhawk and Creote in tow. The air is thick with the scents of spices, tobacco smoke and animal dung, in a city brimming with Middle Eastern architecture and culture.

They're not here to sightsee, however.
[identity profile] brian-durlin.livejournal.com
Savant leans back onto the blessedly giving cushions of their couch, in quiet awe of his own restraint: he managed to last a whole twenty-four hours before removing the cotton gauze from his nostrils. Given the choice between risking nosebleed and nearly inhaling the damned stuff every time he tries to sleep -- and he's actually been tired enough to sleep; another minor miracle! -- he'll take the risk.

Injuries aside, he's feeling rather good about the entire Sigiorello incident. They all walked away from it, something that he'd very much doubted would happen, and, for now, he's willing to take a day or two to heal and let other matters tend to themselves.
[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
At least five of the Silk Brothers are out of the fight. Three more, hovering at the edges of the battle, await the chance to take out the weakened fighters. Rabbit's nose is broken, but he is far from finished. He pauses, that laconic smile plastered over his face, as Canary spits out blood.

"Did you lose a tooth, Siu Jerk Jai?"
[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
The rain is slick and unrelenting tonight, spreading ever-larger reflections across the concrete at a steady pace. Under a mackerel sky, luminous orange and pink with bounced city light, a looming hulk of metal bearing an illicit cargo and under unusual guard comes into port.

The Twelve Brothers in Silk are here to deliver Tan's shipment to Sigiorello's mob, come hell or high water.

It may well come to both.
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
Huntress is here, watching the limousine below with binoculars and an intense interest. She smiles as she sees Sigiorello's body language become agitated, his cellphone conversation continuing in earnest.

"I just love seeing a Mob boss get bad news."
[identity profile] brian-durlin.livejournal.com
The small digital timer taped above the stove says that it is seven minutes after four in the morning.

These sleepless nights are becoming a concern. Savant knows there have been a good many of them recently because his default condition -- when he is not riding an adrenaline rush or in the midst of manic plotting -- is one of bone-deep weariness.

He's been doing all that he can to secure their throathold of information in the wake of Huntress' admission, but it still feels like nailing plywood over the windows as atomic bombs prepare to drop. It is better than nothing, but not by much. There was a reason he'd never targeted any of the mafia families during his blackmailing career, namely that the odds of escaping from such an encounter as a fully functional human being were about as likely as withdrawing one's hand unscathed from a pirhana tank. There were always more lucrative, less vicious targets to be had. Except now, he had waltzed up to the head of the Gotham mafia and been personally introduced.

Troublesome.

Savant stares at the machine in front of him; the laptop's screen provides the only illumination in the tenemant apartment's small kitchen. His eyes are intense and dark with lack of sleep. His fingers lie still on the keyboard. Every few minutes, he enters a few lines of data, but mostly, he is lost in thought. His caution is ridiculous. If Oracle wants to find out what he's doing, she will, and he doubts that his coding will stand up beneath her scrutiny for long. As it is, he feels as if he's trying to perform surgery with a stone blade. But he cannot simply sit back and do nothing.

Creote had not been introduced. With any luck, he would be considered simply a thug, one more anonymous mass of muscle, if more skilled than most, hired on for a quick show of intimidation. Creote can vanish if need be. His KGB training ensures that.

Savant is not so sure the same can be said for himself. It is not just that he is definitely on the radar of the mafioso now, he is simply not certain he wants to give up being Savant. As horribly wrong as it's all gone, he made this for himself. The idea of crawling back into the skin of Brian K. Durlin, even assuming that is possible, makes him want to vomit and starting from scratch again is hardly more appealing.

He may see things differently when there's a gun to his head and box-cutter to his balls of course.

Savant's gaze focuses on the computer screen again, on the pitiful little deadfall trap of information he's trying to weave, just in case. His lips twist into a sneer as he pushes the machine away and rises to his feet.

Wrong. All wrong. He's been threatened before. Been in mortal danger before. Played chicken with very powerful men before and never been the one to blink. Something is off here, something off-kilter, and he does not like it. And he has taken his meds, dammit.

Scowling, Savant heads for the roof. Katas 'til dawn, then hopefully he can force his body to collapse for two or three hours.
[identity profile] jla-extras.livejournal.com
The entire Japanese restaurant has been reserved for the evening. In the past hour, several large Cadillac Escalades have pulled up, in turn depositing men in expensive suits at its front doors. The doors in turn are being watched by bouncers who look more suited to working for the Secret Service than the Mob. The owners of the restaurant, understandably nervous, flit between the kitchens and the dining area with glasses and plates in hand.

Inside, Sigiorello is hosting an elaborate dinner for his capos in a haze of Cuban cigar smoke, conversation and warm sake. This meeting's taken months to set up, and a lot of greased palms to secure. Nothing is allowed to go wrong tonight.

Nothing can go wrong.
[identity profile] brian-durlin.livejournal.com
Savant whistles quietly to himself, walking the railing of the apartment roof, watching the cars on the street below. There are fewer that stop in this area now that things have gotten difficult for the local corner dealers. Savant suspects that Jussub will step up his own game soon, but their little ongoing spat over turf with the resident druglord has taken a backseat to other pursuits recently.

Huntress will be there to collect the information from the gangster's laptop. That is no problem; the disk is tucked away safely in Creote's back pocket. (It had been in Savant's a moment before, but Creote had confiscated it once his former employer had begun his rail walking. Creote worries too much; it isn't as if they don't have copies.)

Savant glances over his shoulder, having to look down at Creote from this vantage point. At least the big Russian is cooperating, even if unawares -- his muscle shirt and jeans show off his body to good advantage. Not that it's easy for a man built like a bipedal bull to hide his physique, but it is good that he's showing some skin.

"You should probably be the one to return Huntress' grapple line to her," Savant remarks.
[identity profile] love-of-duty.livejournal.com
When Savant first showed up in the Gotham (and surrounding) area, he'd met the Batman. Who'd promptly told him just how much he failed at the hero thing. Savant's bore a slight grudge since, but Creote still has a bit of respect for the man's methodology.

Which is why, tonight, he's sitting on a rooftop near the docks and watching the workers pulling crates off a ship. Drugs, most likely. Definitely Sigiorello's men.

Of course, while there's a certain amount of admiration for the theatrics involved in the Batman, there's also a certain amount of "no way in Hell."

For instance, there's no way in Hell he's swinging on the cord Savant just bolted into the mast of the ship.

"For the last time, no. It's unsafe. It's fragile. It lacks grace. And Huntress is going to kill you when she discovers you stole one of her grapples."

If Savant wants so desperately for someone to swing his way into the fray, then he's welcome to do it himself.
[identity profile] sexy-huntress.livejournal.com
The arrangement had come by way of a curt phone call: "The roof. Midnight."

She's been here for a few minutes already, a thumb dog-earing the manila folder in her hand. Huntress appears to radiate a dark, level intensity in the darkness that's surpassed by few.

In reality, she's nervous as hell.

Profile

jla_watchtower: (Default)
JLA Watchtower (Archive)

November 2016

S M T W T F S
  12345
6 789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
27282930   

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 8th, 2025 02:49 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios