Post by HoM on Sept 10, 2009 18:27:54 GMT -5
The Following Story Takes Place After DC2 Nemesis #7
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WAYNE MANOR:
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WAYNE MANOR:
Time hadn't stopped. The world-- none of it has stopped moving. Nekron came to the world, and civilisation was brought to the brink of survival. Some died. Some survived. That was the way things went on Planet Earth. Gotham City, surprisingly enough, had come out relatively unscathed. Dick Grayson was entertaining the crowds for the yearly Wayne Enterprises dinner party, where the rich, the business-minded, and the press all gathered to bask in each other's glow. He smiled and waved at people he recognised, and nodded at those he didn't. He knew how Bruce felt, when he'd host these parties... and he understood why he'd sit down in the Cave and go over police reports and criminal psych profiles. This was horrifying! He suppressed a smile, and continued about his host-duties...
"Mr Grayson! Mr Grayson!" Dick turned, and a microphone was shoved into his face, "You've taken a major step in making our City safer by taking a controlling stake in Arkham Asylum-- you donated a monumental amount of money to charities across the country-- and the world-- and as such you were able to secure the assistance of the Justice League in building a new, stronger 'New' Arkham! Do you have more plans for Gotham?"
"Well, I intend to secure a haircut in the next few days," he said, running a hand through his hair, "and maybe go shopping for some new suits, but no, questions regarding business, and not, say, my love life-- which I find so much more easy to answer: 'No, yes, yes, only if you have photos!'-- are best directed at the Director of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox." Dick smiled, and then put up his hands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to check on the hors d'œuvre..." He excused himself, and headed through the crowds of well-dressed celebrities and business-men from across the world, and dove into the kitchen, where Alfred Pennyworth was directing the staff. "Alfred! How are we doing?"
"Brilliantly, sir. The wine is flowing freely and we've yet to have any trouble from the paparazzi roaming the halls. Might I say, it was a wonderful idea to have security ensuring that the upstairs are kept out-of-bounds? Mr. Dempsey has reported three incidents of our respected 'guests' attempting to access the bedrooms for, erhem, 'frolicking'."
"We don't need anyone roaming the halls unescorted, Alfred. Undoing all the wonderful cleaning you put in day-after-day. That, my friend, would be a travesty."
"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm peppering your dialogue, Master Richard?" Alfred replied with a shake of his head.
Dick shrugged, and then broke into a broader smile. "I'm going to go speak to Tim, is he still in his... erm, his 'room'? Reading?"
Alfred rolled his eyes. "Yes. He is, how you say, 'still in his room'."
"Great, Lucius and the other guys from WE are here, they can handle the, you know, business." He headed through the hustle and bustle of the staff as they ferried full and empty champagne glasses, and trays of hors d'œuvre in and out of the room.
Before he got too far though, he heard Alfred shout, "Don't soil your suit, Master Richard," and couldn't help but smile.
Life was good.
BATMAN
Issue Forty-Three: The Return
Part One (of Seven): "The Calm"
Written by House Of Mystery, Alex Vasquez and Imari Jade
Cover by Nathan Kilburn
Edited by House Of Mystery, Alex Vasquez and Imari Jade
"...Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." - Stephen King
GOTHAM CITY:
"Heh... heh... heh... heh..." Jackson Reynolds had been a junkie for a bit too long. The newspapers called him and his 'Jokerz', because of the garish way they dressed, because of the make-up they had smeared across their faces in celebration for the greatest anarchist terrorist to ever touch American soil. Jackson Reynolds could no longer distinguish right from wrong, and all that mattered to him were two things. One) The next hit. He loved the feeling of freedom the watered down Smilex gave him, how it felt like he was mainlining adrenaline and sex, every movement a wonderful eternity of movement from point a. to b. Two) The unbridled chaos that the drug allowed him to commit, and the fact that doing wrong felt so right. So, when the strangely-dressed guys broke up their violence and vandalism party, he knew he had to speak up on behalf of his brethren. "I got to say, I'm not laughing at you, sirs, I'm laughing with you, and before you say that you're not, heh, laughing, you need to know that everyone's laughing on the... on the... on the inside," he broke into a fit of hysterics, doubled over, and then sprang back up, "anyways, who do you think you are, ruining our fun? Why would you do that, hey? Hey? Why would you come down here and--"
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Jackson Reynolds looked down at his chest, and then at the smoking gun the newcomers had aimed at him and the other Jokerz. Blood oozed out of the thumb-sized holes that had appeared in his body, and Reynolds' laugh became a wheeze, until he keeled over.
The perpetrators, dressed in their fine grey suits, loaded up their Tommy-guns, and looked around for any witnesses. This was a victory for the Gun-Moll. Wiping the dirt and the grime from her soon-to-be pristine criminal empire. "Come on boys! We got another block to peruse, another load of them smiley-boys to fill full o' lead!"
"Excuse me?" came the voice from the darkness. "Are you serious?"
Weapons were aimed wildly. The leader of the group felt sweat dribble down his temple. "Who's there? Who the £$%^ is there?" A batarang flew from the darkness and dug into the man's hand, the razor sharp blade jutting through soft tissue and severed muscle. "Gnnnarrrghhhh--!"
Jason Todd landed in the middle of the thugs, fists raised. "Me.”
WAYNE MANOR:
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THE CAVE:
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THE CAVE:
"Not enjoying the festivities then, Tim?" Dick Grayson arrived in the Cave by way of the service elevator, juttering down from the top floors where no guests were present. They'd temporarily sealed the Grandfather Clock entrance, to make sure no one accidentally stumbled into the secret of Wayne Manor, and things were going well. Tim Drake, on the other hand, was training, taking the opportunity to spar alone in the Cave whilst the world above enjoyed themselves. He'd worked up a sweat, pushing himself to the limits of his endurance, and he was soldier on.
"Aha," said the Boy Wonder, glancing up at Dick as he threw an R-shaped batarang at a target that popped up in the range he was moving through. Dick almost thought that Tim was dancing-- he'd come so far in the years since he'd first entered this house. He was a worthy successor of the mantle of Robin, that was clear enough. "I'm not really... comfortable... being in the spotlight like that. I'd rather not take part, you know?"
"Oh, I understand completely," Dick leaned over the railings and looked down on his partner. "What danger level you on? Seven?"
"Nine-- ooohhtt--" Tim sprang up, dodging a barrage of rubber bullets, and causing Dick to jump. "I started at five earlier. Working up. Trying to get a better time."
Dick continued to watch Tim's progress, and then finally spoke up. "... Are you OK, Tim?"
Tim didn't look up this time. "Yeah, sure. Just, y'know, trying to get a better time."
"Right, well, be safe. Don't go higher than ten."
"Wouldn't dream of it," replied Tim quickly, as he somersaulted into the air and back down again, landing feet first on another target. "Hhff!"
GOTHAM CITY:
"Do you have the list?" Hush was flexing his fingers, pulling on the gloves that allowed him a better grip on his dual pistols. He had two strapped to his hips, and two shoulder holsters just in case. He had a spare one on his back, and a smaller pistol at his ankle. His knife was strapped to his leg, ready to be unsheathed and unleashed at a moment's notice, and he was perfectly willing to use it if the moment called for it.
"My Kill-List? Checked and double checked, my susurrous comrade. I know who I have to kill to complete the mission I was given all those years ago." Constantine Drakon was practicing Tai-Chi opposite his friend-in-arms. "A... decade... in a coma... induced by that bastard Batman... oh, it'll be such a sweet delight to slit his throat from side to side, and watch him bleed out as his city falls to chaos." He gave up his exercise. "Hh. Can't relax when I'm thinking wicked thoughts like that. How about you? Are you ready?"
"Batman will know the pain he put me through." Hush's bandages shifted as he smiled. "Gordon will rue the day he chose not to join me in my crusade against that child-killing bastard."
The smile faded.
Drakon could tell that much.
"We'll have his life, friend," Drakon placed a hand on Hush's shoulder. "For your lost son. And for my lost decade. His life, and our revenge."
WAYNE MANOR:
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DOWNSTAIRS:
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DOWNSTAIRS:
Alfred Pennyworth was talking to Lucius Fox about Wayne Enterprises. The company stock had plummeted in the wake of Bruce Wayne's death, but with Fox's savvy, and Dick's ideas, they'd ridden the wave. Lucius was impressed. New Arkham was not only good for the safety of Gotham City, but it was a PR triumph. Their stock had gone up in the past few months, and they were once again the biggest company they were before Bruce's death. "How is your family, Lucius? They haven't been up to the Manor since... well, since Bruce passed... you should know they're always welcome."
"Things have been hectic, Alfred, I'm sorry, we'll be sure to visit soon," replied Lucius.
"Good, good, don't feel pressured, Lucius," said Alfred.
"I promise. Oh, and mentioning my family, there is my beautiful wife-- if you'll excuse me..." Alfred smiled as Lucius made a beeline for his wife, and then turned his attention back to the beautifully decorated ballroom they were all now stood inside. This was one of the lesser used rooms in the house, one where Martha Wayne would host one of her many marvellous soiree. Bruce had never much liked using this room, and as such, when Alfred came to cleaning it... his heart was never truly in it. But Dick had, in his infinite wisdom (Alfred thought, with a smile) decided that such beauty must be shared with the world. And so, when it was time for Wayne Enterprises yearly dinner and dance, instead of booking out one of the many buildings in Gotham itself, they set it in their home, and the Manor was brimming with life because of it.
"Hey Alfred," said Dick, as he walked up behind his faithful retainer, placing his hand on the manservant's shoulder. "S'a good night, don't you think?"
"Very much so," said Alfred in response. "...Oh."
"What?"
Alfred turned slowly to Dick, and arched an eyebrow. "...Excuse me?"
"Pardon?" Dick said, groaning.
"The door." Alfred stated, with a sense of finality.
Dick swivelled his head around, and saw what Alfred had seen. "Oh."
Barbara Gordon, on the arm of her father, the Commissioner, had just entered the ballroom. She was wearing a long, sleek dress that was the deepest blue, one strap hanging off her left shoulder. James Gordon, on the other hand, was wearing a tuxedo. It was new, and Dick could tell that the Commisioner was uncomfortable in such attire. Grayson headed for them, and then took James' hand in his own. "Commissioner Gordon! Always a pleasure."
"Richard," replied James, nodding his head. "It's been some time since I've stepped foot in this house of yours."
"Shameful, absolutely shameful," said Dick with a smirk, before turning his attention to Barbara. "Babs, you look... absolutely... amazing."
"Why thank you," said Barbara.
She knows it, Dick thought. She knows she looks amazing. Oh. Oh, crap.
The Commissioner sighed, and then smiled, shaking his head as he looked around the ballroom. "Oh. Look. There's someone I know." He leaned in close to Barbara, and whispered something in her ear, before nodding his head curtly at Richard once more, and joining the masses that had culminated in Wayne Manor's ballroom.
"So," Dick said, glancing around.
Barbara smiled. "So. How's the night gone?"
"Quietly."
GOTHAM CITY:
"Mother..." Jason Todd was watching a robbery-in-progress. No alarms had been triggered by the fact that these men and women had punched their way through a brick wall, and in fact, he'd simply stumbled across the crime on his nightly patrol. It was a fascinating crime to watch, and Jason had to pull himself out of said fascination before he plummeted from the looming darkness up above, and trash-talked the scum. He looked at them-- they didn't look at him-- and he saw that their hands were bloody messes, bone was scraped and exposed, and thick, congealed blood was caking their wrists and dribbling down where they'd pounded-- again and again-- the harsh concrete walls.
"Baby want a band-aid?" The Dark Knight took a batarang from his belt, and threw it hard, the metal shrieking through the air and colliding brutally with the back of one of the criminal's heads. That got his attention. The man was dressed all in black, like he had just come from a funeral, and his pale skin and unintelligent look in his eye made the word 'zombie' flash in Jason's mind.
"...Huh."
The punch came fast-- Jason dodged, slammed his elbow down hard on the man's own, and heard the bone shatter. The creep didn't even wince. Instead of favouring his other side, the broken limb was swung into Jason's face, and the Dark Knight was thrown across the alley, and into a garbage heap. "Don't say a word," grunted the vigilante, before climbing back to his feet. Jason had heard rumours about these guys, living automatons traipsing about the city, not feeling pain, committing incredible feats of criminal excellence. He'd heard whispers and cries-- depending on who he asked-- about the identity of their boss, but had nothing concrete yet, just a load of mumbo supernatural jumbo, and he didn't like relying on such illogical bull£$%^ery if he didn't have to.
"Sorry," he said, as he dodged the next punch thrown. "I got distracted." The batarang drove through the man's flesh, and blood oozed out slowly. Even with a metal blade hindering his movements in his once-good arm, the man was still coming at Jason, and it was beginning to feel very eerie. "...This is disgusting."
The man didn't say anything. The only sound in this alley was that of their movements, and Jason's voice. It was at that moment that the Dark Knight noticed that the others had vanished away into the shadows, but before he could track them, he'd need to take down this guy, and that wasn't going to be easy. "Make a deal with you." Jason smashed his elbow into the man's face, shattering his nose. "Fall down." The man said nothing, instead, he thrust his head forward, attempting to bat the Dark Knight aside with his forehead. The move failed, and Jason broke the man's jaw. "That's all I've got. Fall down. This... is a one-way street."
"Hhhk." The man suddenly fell to his knees. Jason took a step back, ready for anything. The man's body shook with an unholy fury, and then he fell face first, his blood congealing with the sticky residue of the alley floor.
"What the £$%^...?" From the man's bloodied and shattered mouth, a stream of darkness, moving like ants, swarmed out, and into the gutter nearby. The man was dead. Jason looked around, and realised he'd just been beating on a cadaver. "What a monumental..." he looked around the alley, slowly, and saw the small girl watching him. "...waste..." she wasn't caked with blood like she had been before. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, her ruby red hood was over her head, and the big white wolf with his crimson caked lips was nowhere to be seen. "... of time..."
'Time', she whispered, seemingly repeating the last word out of Jason's mouth. She'd never spoken before, had she? He couldn't remember. His life, these past few weeks, had been a mess of fighting a darkness that threatened the world and the universe, of angels and superheroes and capes and magic rings, and this... his madness... it had eluded him for some time. But was it back?
"Time? Time for what?" Jason stuttered. his hands were shaking. He felt weak, the pit of his stomach screamed. He hadn't felt this way since his last confrontation with The Wrath. The man who had stolen his life away from him. "Time for what?!"
'It's time...'
WAYNE MANOR:
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DOWNSTAIRS:
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DOWNSTAIRS:
"My God," whispered Dick Grayson, a smile playing on his lips.
"What is it?" replied Barbara Gordon, into his ear.
He laughed softly. "You're teasing me. I can't believe it, you're teasing me."
They were dancing in the middle of the ballroom, one of a few couples who had taken to the floor. The music throbbed and ebbed and flowed, and they were close together-- bodies scant centimetres away from each other, hands clasped tightly. Dick's hand was on the small of Barbara's back, and she was leaning oh-so close to him... "Oh, I don't think so, Dick."
"You don't?"
"Completely," she purred, "what would I have to gain?"
Tim Drake readjusted his tie as he found Alfred Pennyworth's side in the audience. "Are they at it again?"
"The dance is a metaphor, I do believe, Master Timothy."
WAYNE MANOR
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UPSTAIRS:
[/b]...
UPSTAIRS:
Mickey Fynn paced the floor. His laptop was buzzing in the darkness, glowing a serene blue and allowing his shadow to dance behind him like a court jester. They'd given him his own room in the Manor.
Which, he realised, was like being given an entire apartment, when it came to these guys. The Manor was so big that he had actually called Alfred Pennyworth for directions when he got lost, a few days before.
He didn't dare go home.
The Wrath might be waiting for him.
His emails were routed through the computers down in the Bat-Cave. "Big Brother you can trust," he had whispered to himself when Alfred had broached the idea to him. The Wrath sent him untraceable IMs every few hours now. Batman-- Richard Grayson, that is-- wouldn't let him see them. Instead, he was hosting one hell of a party downstairs, and even though he'd been invited to join, he didn't feel like it. Instead, he was working on a story.
It was coming to him in dribs and drabs, but it was coming none the less. He had thought, with his alcohol problem hitting him so hard in the recent months that he could barely walk, that he'd lost the touch that had made him one of the best, all those years ago, but all it took was a bit of fear-- and yes, being forced by convenience to give up his bottle of whiskey a day habit-- to regain the itch.
He sat down in front of the laptop once more. He hadn't made it far, but it was a start, at least.
Under The Hood
By Mickey Fynn
By Mickey Fynn
I have lived-- survived-- in Gotham City all my life. From the streets of my youth, to the heights of my adulthood, and I have seen this place change. Change, not for the better, but into the disgusting cesspool of crime and deviancy that we live in day-after-day. Back in the old days, it was the Families. Maroni, Falcone... anyone who's lived in Gotham City for more than a year knows the names. There are others, of course, but that's not what's important. This city has always been crooked. A crooked little town built on crooked little foundations. But "But... but..."
"Mr Fynn?" Mickey turned from the computer screen and toward the door.
"Hullo?" he said, to the faceless voice. He recognised it, none the less. It was the Drake boy, adopted son of Bruce Wayne before the incident on Gotham Dam. Alfred and Grayson had their lawyers on the situation straight off, and as such, Drake stayed at Wayne Manor.
"Ah, Alfred wanted to know if you wanted to come down and join the party? He said you could, heh, use the excitement."
Fynn opened the door, dressed in a white shirt, pulling on his jacket. "I ain't wearing a tie."
"We'll see about that," winked Tim Drake, motioning down the hallway down to where the party was still going on. "Well, Alfred will."
Gotham City:
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Gotham Central:
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Gotham Central:
The streets were running red. Things were going from bad to worse. 911 calls were rampant across the board, and Batman was nowhere to be seen-- well, not the Batman they were used to. There was a Batman on the streets, wreaking his own brand of havoc, leaving a mess for the cops to clean up. He was destroying criminals, leaving them in broken piles.
Harvey Bullock was looking at a map of Gotham City, red pins where crimes of a gang-related nature were taking place littering the map.
"S'weird," he said, Sarah Essen turning at his voice. "The city... it ain't itself."
"What do you mean, Lieut?" asked Essen, as she approached the board.
"Well, Ess," started Bullock, "the city is a mess. The crime stats are spiralling-- we got some new players on the scene, and they're making a mess of all our good work."
"That's obvious. Our CIs are falling like nobodies business, Lieut. Guys are realising they got holes in their gangs and they're plugging 'em faster than we can punch new ones back in. The Underground is becoming watertight, and if it continues on like that... then we're lost. We need to take these bastards down."
"Preaching to the choir, Ess. Gordon's already authorised over-time on an unprecedented level. Cops are on the streets, putting out fires where they can, but these bastards, as you so eloquently put it... they ain't scared. They've come to Gotham, and they ain't scared. Batman ain't what he used to be... Christ."
"Tell that to his face," shrugged Sarah, before heading back to her office. She hesitated at her door. "You've been here for over twenty-eight hours, Bull. Go home. Grab some sleep."
"Yeah." Harvey grabbed his coat. "I'm gonna' do that."
"Sweet dreams," Essen called after him, as he pulled on his hat and left the building. "Sweet dreams..."
* * *
[/b]Harvey Bullock's key clicked into the lock as it turned, and he smiled as the familiar smell of home hit him hard in the nostrils. Not just home, but-- he pulled his service weapon-- there was something wrong with his house. There was a foreign smell, and he didn't like it. "Who's there? Who the £$%^ is there?"
tap
tap
"It's the cigarettes, isn't it? They're not your brand. You're a good cop, aren't you?"
The voice was one foreign to him. The apartment was dark, there was no light to illuminate the dark recesses of his home. "The best. Get out of the shadows, mother£$%^er. Hands high."
tap
tap
"That isn't going to happen."
shrrp
Harvey Bullock's gun fell from his fingers clumsily-- the weapon dead weight in his hands-- and he clutched his throat as globules of blood dripped on through. "Gghhuuuhk"
Constantine Drakon stepped out of the darkness, the blade he held in his hand dripping with Harvey's blood. "This is my message. Tell Gordon that I'm coming for him."
"hhhgggghhh"
"Not that you'll be up for speaking." He crouched down, kicking the weapon away from Harvey. "Or anything much else." Drakon smiled, a job well done, and then moved toward the door. "Hh?" He looked back into the foyer of the house, and at the window that had slowly been pried open during his assault. "Oh my. He's all yours."
Harvey Bullock looked up at the newcomer in his home, and then prayed silently. "Hhhhgghh"
Wayne Manor:
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The Cave:
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The Cave:
"Jason's been busy," said Dick as he trawled through the raw data from the night he'd been without his mask. He was dressed in full costume, though his cowl hung around his neck. "Across the city, acts of vigilante violence. The good kind though, apparently." Dick shook his head. "I'm going to have to talk to him, aren't I?"
"Do what you have to, Master Richard," said Alfred, as Robin somersaulted toward the two of them. "Master Timothy, what have I said about excessive gymnastics?"
Tim grinned from ear to ear. "That I'm acting just like Master Richard?"
Alfred suppressed a smile. "Hurm. Now, boys, if you'll excuse me--"
"Oh." Batman blinked as the photo loaded up on the computer screen.
"Oh?" Alfred turned, curious as to what would spark such a quiet reaction in the Caped Crusader. A live video feed was suddenly streaming in the computer. "What is this?"
"I'm hooked into the Gotham Central database. Let's me keep abreast of... goings-on." The camera was across the street from Gotham Central. What was going on? "This feed... it's hacked into all the GCPD computers." A blur of red was visible on the steps of Gotham Central. As the camera focused, Batman gasped. The Wrath was tied to the GCPD sign above the door to the precinct. Officers were already swarming toward the murderer, weapons raised. "What's..." An officer climbed onto the shoulders of a detective, and then pulled the mask away from The Wrath-- and Harvey Bullock's lifeless head lolled down, causing the police officers present to scream and shout in surprise. Dick could see them shout 'ambulance!', again and again, 'paramedic!', and they rushed to get the pale Lieutenant down from where he was strung up, dressed in The Wrath's cape and mask. "My God."
"What... what does that mean?" Robin whispered.
"We're needed." Batman pulled on his cowl, and looked to Robin. "Gotham needs us. This is a declaration of war."