JLA Watchtower (Archive)

Onomatopoeia sits in a cell in the Watchtower. Perfectly transparent on the outside, but somehow coloured with pleasing hues on the inside. A step up from some of the places she'd been held in the past. She's still got the cuffs on, and her black pants, top, and jacket. The four "heroes* bundled her in here after frisking her for any concealed weapons. Her hood hangs loose at the back of her neck, wrapped loosely about her throat with a cord. The small green light from somewhere in her neck is gently visible.

"Hmm..." She hoped they would bring in writing materials. She really didn't want to have to cough up more blood. They'd not even washed off the blood already on her chin and down her top. She'd loosen the bandages she had wrapped tightly about her chest, if she could. It was how she appeared male. She wasn't big-chested, but had always thought it a good idea to appear male. There are far more male ex-cons than female ones. Sometimes it made it difficult to breathe, especially when running away from a crime, but it was a boost to the adrenaline. She pulled against the cuffs deliberately again. Keep that pain coming.

She looked around the room. She knew they were out there, watching her. She blushed slightly, surprisingly. That wasn't common. But she was used to watching others, not the other way around. She'd seen a couple of other "heroes" on the short trip to her cell. They just looked at her. Probably didn't recognise her without her mask. Probably wouldn't recognise her *with* her mask. She wasn't the most well-known criminal in the world.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock..." if she had a watch on, she'd check it. As it happened, she didn't, so the point was moot. She wondered whether there were mind-readers up here. What they'd read in her mind... She had no idea. She was suddenly feeling anxious. Would they see something that she didn't even recall? Read some thought that had been crushed beneath the pain, fear, fury and sorrow she had experienced in her life? Or would they only pick up surface thoughts? She had no experience of these things. Still, she expressed her feelings about it. 

"Gulp." She hated herself for making such a ridiculous noise. It couldn't be helped though. It wasn't comedic, and it was certainly no cartoon sound-effect. She always hoped that if a "hero" interrogated her it would be Superman. She'd seen him on the television, watched his interviews, and he looked nice, and he looked genuine... but she had a feeling it wouldn't be someone so calm and controlled. She pulled on the cuffs again. Make the blood flow. Feel the pain.

Onomatopoeia sits in a dark room, staring at a bank of monitors through his mask. Most of the screens are black-and-white, a couple are colour. The vision is blurred as well. Onomatopoeia doesn't care. The sound system is perfect, state-of-the-art and the most expensive he could buy. He wanted to hear the sounds. A rat scuttles over his boots. "Squeak, squeak..." he whispers, watching the bottom-left monitor most intently. It's almost totally dark, but after shifting the zoom, he can make out three bodies. Another body is on the monitor to the far right, but he doesn't take his eyes off the other three for now. He watches their forms.

"Hfff.... hfff...." He mimics their breathing. "Zzzzz...." A smile forms beneath his hood. His fingers flick up towards the control panel, and lights come on throughout the rooms he's observing, all different colours. The three figures are now bathed in a sickly yellow light, the room they're housed in covered in photos of themselves with writing all over them. There seems to be no visible point of entry. The solitary figure in the other room is lit in a dark red glow. Her room is perhaps more bizarre.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock..." Onomatopoeia watches them start to wake, and waits to see and most importantly, hear, their reactions.