jla_watchtower | Entries tagged with hugo strange

bigbadharv.livejournal.com

Harvey Dent has been a model prisoner, but they're taking no chances with Two-Face.

They're making him await his trial in Blackgate.

If they send him up the river, he'd prefer it here. The other option is Arkham, and that spells the end of any hope for his sanity. If they sentence him to Blackgate, it is not a total defeat.

Still, it's a hellhole. Prison politics of the worst kind, shit food, shit people.

And the kind of corruption among the guards that allows a palm greaser like Rupert Thorne to have an unsupervised visit to his cell on his way out.

On his way to his Bat-granted freedom.

aknightdarkly.livejournal.com

Hugo Strange does not expect to be held here long. As far as he knows, there is no direct evidence linking him to anything other than being in costume the night that insignificant harlot came upon him with her insipid bird costume. Assault on criminals carries a light sentence, he imagines, if they even decide to give any weight to this stranger's story. She has no credibility. She is not the Batman.

So he remains in his cell, quietly. A model prisoner, for the most part. Takes advantage of the opportunity to read, and to occasionally mock Rupert Thorne when they cross paths. Once Thorne realized that it wasn't Bruce Wayne, but rather the true Batman, Hugo Strange, who brought about his downfall, the look on that corpulent slug's face was worth ten years of confinement.

Not that he faces that. He does not expect to be here long. His unseen benefactor no doubt has plans to secure his freedom. There is work to do.

det-montoya.livejournal.com

The pack of cigarettes is still sitting in the top drawer of her desk. She should have brought it along. A little extra something to keep her warm as she waits on the rooftop would be a Godsend. With hands shoved into her jacket pockets, Renee Montoya watches as Stacey flips the switch of the Bat signal. Her gaze immediately shifts to the night sky. The symbol stretches across the clouds for all to see.

When she was a teenager, she used to look out her bedroom window and watch the light ripple in the darkness. Back then it was a sign of hope. A promise that good would always win out over evil. It's partially what lead her to law enforcement. Now?

She's old enough to know there's no "happily ever after".

Her gaze drops and her thoughts return to Thorne.

aknightdarkly.livejournal.com

Thorne is done. Finished. Imprisoned and dead to rights.

But Professor Strange has found that it is not so easy relinquishing the mantle of the Bat, now that the job is done.

So he's out on his own, relishing the thought of goading Thorne into killing a man right in front of the police.

The Blackgate prison riot was an interesting diversion, though, and it gave him a new goal - tracking down the escaped convicts.

The two young toughs he's chasing down an alley right now may or may not fit that bill. He doesn't particularly care. The guilty must be punished, for that is the Way of the Bat.

With a whiff of a Batarang, one of them screams as he loses the use of his knee, falling into a heap. Leaving the other one unsure of what to do.

The cape curls around the Bat in the dark.

"Surrender or die."

jla-extras.livejournal.com

Rupert Thorne is sweating. This is outside his norm, and he knows it.

The choice of a funeral parlor for making these weapons deals felt like imaginative thinking at first, which was necessary, since the goddamned Batman has been making it his personal mission to never let a businessman get a moment's sleep.

Now, though, he's nervous. Wondering whether or not the choice of location was actually a sad irony.

Still, he has to remain smooth and in control, despite the fact that his pulse is racing.

The cigar helps. Always does. This isn't something he'd handle personally, usually, but he'll be damned if the Bat hasn't gotten him edgy. First guy to call it paranoid gets the cigar in the eye.

He doesn't like to be kept waiting, either.

Finally, though, the caskets roll in, which means they can get this done. Before the Bat shows.

"It's about time."

aknightdarkly.livejournal.com

The curtains are drawn in the windows of Rupert Thorne's penthouse, so there isn't much to see.

Provided you don't own goggles that can track heat signatures.

The Bat does.

The corpulent lump is sleeping. Not solidly. No, the slug has not had a good night's sleep in many weeks now.

That brings a smile to the culprit's face.

The temptation to barge in there and harass him once again tonight is strong, but he must not overplay his hand.

In a few days' time, his empire will come crumbling down on his head, and the One True Bat will be there to watch him suffocate beneath its weight.

This, he knows. This will be his true victory over Wayne.

aknightdarkly.livejournal.com

Dr. Hugo Strange is alone in his study.

Freshly shaven once more, he sits in the leather chair in the dimly lit room, watching the sunlight slowly fading away through the drapes.

The grandfather clock ticks in the hallway, the only sound.

Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. Rupert Thorne is no exception.

The familiar smell of old literature permeates the room.

Thorne is a monster. He tortures Gotham City with his vice just as he tortured me to get your name. But he could not break me. He will never break me. Instead, I will break him.

He hears the slight rustle of paper down the hall, and his mail slot creaking shut.

I will deliver the justice you purport to uphold. I will succeed where you fail, or do not even try.

His eyes close, and his breathing deepens.

Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. Bruce Wayne is no exception.

A sequence of buttons is pressed on a panel in the arm of this chair, and a wall turns inside out in response.

I will prove that you are but a shell, Mr. Wayne. A hollow champion of hollow ideals. You are nothing. I am darkness. I am the night.

He rises, crossing the room to gaze up at the cowl he will wear tonight, once again haunting Thorne's footsteps as he did after faking his own death to escape the monster.

I am Batman.

jla-extras.livejournal.com

Rupert Thorne feels complete again.

After turning his penthouse upside down looking for that last ring of his, it's finally been found, wedged in a darker corner, where the Bat had thrown it after breaking his fingers.

The recovery has been relatively quick - surprising, the healing agents one can get on the black market in this superhuman world. Now, he can clench and unclench his fist once more, with all the rings he's used to. Thorne is not particularly ostentatious by most standards, but he does like to have things a certain way.

Like Thursday night dinner in DiNucci's Italian Restaurant.

His usual table, the back corner. Never sit with your back to the door. Any door.

Sitting across from him is his right-hand man, Alphonso Gates, who's been at Thorne's side for twenty years now.

"So, how are things coming on the West End?"

jla-extras.livejournal.com

Rupert Thorne hates these stupid interruptions. When one of the Batpeople gets lucky and manages to catch him in a bad spot. It's never anything permanent, never anything he can't slick his way out of by greasing the right palm somewhere in the chain of command. Unfortunately, Gotham City has had a relapse of that unpleasant disease called 'an incorruptible D.A.' Everyone has his price, and it's only a matter of time before Hudson's is found.

But the Batwoman fiasco is all water under the bridge, now, and Thorne has resumed control of his criminal empire as a free man for quite some time now. There are always a few stumbling blocks once you get out of the system and back into the life - some punk who thinks it's time to make his big play, a few morons who listen to that kind of talk - but they're usually not too hard to clean out. It's just dusting off the operation, getting rid of the excess build-up, and get back down to the polished shine it used to have. He treates his men well enough to ensure he'll get some loyalty when a problem like this flares up.

Now, he's ending the evening in his preferred manner - a glass of cognac, a good cigar, and that velvet smokers jacket he likes so much. It belonged to his father. They've both made good use of it. His feet are up on the table, and he's gazing out at Gotham through the magnificent view from his penthouse.

This time, no ill-advised dealings with the freaks of the industry. Business as usual. As it SHOULD be.