Bounce

The Bounce House

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

C A P T A I N M A R V E L

---

^{_{W I L L I A M J O S E P H B A T S O N ♦ W I Z A R D ♦ R O C K O F E T E R N I T Y ♦ S H I E L D / A V E N G E R S}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"S H A Z A M !"}

Billy Batson is the chosen successor to Jedidiah of Canaan, otherwise known as Shazam, the guardian of the Rock of Eternity. Originally, just a sorcerer’s apprentice, Billy would only receive his powers when he uttered the wizard’s name. Billy emerged into the chaos of the Second World War and quickly became notable as one of the young heroes of the war. Under the leadership of Thomas Raymond (Toro), he formed a team known as the Young Allies with Lizzie Lawrence (Liberty Belle) and were notable for supporting Operation Dragoon in Southern France. Remarked upon by the media of the day for his Herculean feats, Billy became known as “Captain Marvel.” At the war’s end, the death of Shazam passed control of the Rock of Eternity to Billy as he departed the physical world in order to begin his training in earnest.

Recently returned to physical form, Billy has assumed the guise of an ordinary boy attending school in Fawcett City while he adjusts back to both physical form and how human society has changed in the past 76 years. At the same time, people and organizations from his past have taken note of a young superboy who has appeared, closely resembling a forgotten hero of WW2.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

Billy Batson has always been a character distinguished by trauma, much like Batman or other Golden Age heroes. His being an orphan, his struggles with the foster care system, and his vulnerability as a child have always been contrasted by both the power of Captain Marvel and his optimistic personality. I want to explore a fresh take on Billy as the wizard, where he’s still the same vulnerable child at heart but burdened by the weight of decades and struggling to remain true to who he is in the face of his responsibilities as Shazam.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

As the current Shazam, Billy Batson is the physical embodiment of the Rock of Eternity and, thus, is always empowered by it. He can alter his outward appearance, either by use of illusion or temporally displacing his physical body.

In this context, Billy is both Shazam and Captain Marvel. Shazam being the title of the guardian of the Rock of Eternity and Captain Marvel being the name that the newspapers gave him during the Second World War.

Supporting Cast
- Aelfyre Whitemane. The Shazam counterpart for the planet Kymellia. A longtime friend of the Wizard Shazam and one of Billy’s mentors. Aelfyre is the guardian of the White Room.

- Roma. The daughter of Merlin and the Shazam counterpart for the dimension known as Otherworld. Serves as the guardian of the Starlight Citadel and is another of Billy’s mentors.

- Kofi Whitemane (“Freddy Freeman”). Aelfyre’s nephew and his chosen successor, learning firsthand from Billy. He has an equine appearance, to include reverse knee joints on the legs. To blend in on Earth, he assumes a human guise as Freddy Freeman but feigns a physical disability to mask his different leg anatomy.

- Courtney Whitmore (Stargirl). A new heroine starting out as young as Billy had. She wields a cosmic staff.

- Smartship Friday. Kofi’s Kymellian spaceship, which doubles as his home on Earth (shared with Billy). When not in use, concealed within an abandoned subway station in Fawcett City.

Rogue’s Gallery
- Dr. Thaddeus Silvana. The aging patriarch of Silvana Heavy Industries, with a hidden obsession into Nazi occult research into eternal life.

- Blaze. Daughter of Mephisto and one of the Under-Lords of Hell.

- Micah Flint (Rock). An astronaut irradiated and transformed into a rock-like monster in a cosmic accident.

- Belasco. One of Earth’s most powerful sorcerers, banished to Limbo over a century ago by Shazam.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

Sample Post

| Armed Forces Retirement Home
_{| Gulfport, Mississippi}

Patrick O’Toole had been a character in his youth.

A Brooklyn native who had lied about his age in order to join the Army during the Second World War, those who had served with him wouldn’t know a Patrick O’Toole. They knew Knuckles. Knuckles O’Toole, the Brooklyn brawler.

Officially, Patrick O’Toole had fought in the war in Europe, become a decorated sergeant, served as a drill instructor for a time before retiring from the Army. He didn’t really talk about it with his wife or kids, or grandkids, because that was how it had been. Loose lips sink ships. No one talked about the war, even though they’d all been living it.

What wasn’t in the public records was the fact that Knuckles O’Toole had been one of those enamored and foolish wartime youths who had been inspired by Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos to form a group they’d called the Young Allies. Fools, the lot of them.

And no better friends.

Today, Patrick O’Toole was ninety-eight. The oldest living veteran inside the retirement home. Soon to be ninety-nine. His wife had passed five years earlier, his children had all moved away, and so he spent the twilight of his life as alone as when he’d snuck away to join the Army at fifteen.

He’d met one other kid who was even younger than him.

“We were...” the old man began, trailing off as he raised a spindly, frail arm. His skin was translucent with age and marked by spots. It was a far cry from the heavy handed mitts that once fought their way through ranks of Nazi soldiers. “Where were we?” the man asked, seemingly talking to himself, as he tried to recall the details of the memory that had come to mind. “Marseilles. We were in Marseilles and Tubby... you remember Tubby?”

Turning his head, the aging spectre of Knuckles O’Toole looked over and down at Billy Batson. A young kid with a bedhead mop of black hair and eyes that were as blue as the sky. Midwesterner, the sort who was Minnesota nice by nature, from Fawcett City, Ohio. In more than eighty years, that face hadn’t changed. “Yeah,” the boy said, wistfully, as though sharing in the memory of yesterday. “Yeah, I remember Tubby.”

“Tubby wanted to crawl up a... a...”

The old man stammered, his mouth falling open as the memory seemed to fade on his tongue.

“It was a church bell tower,” Billy supplied softly.

“It was a god damn church bell tower,” Patrick echoed, as though now invigorated. Arms outstretched, the man seemed almost a shadow of his former self as he said, “And there he is, with his fat ass, trying to shimmy up this wood scaffolding...” the man uttered, lapsing into a familiar laugh.

Then the laughter became a cough, which seemed to wrack the man’s entire body.

Reaching out with one arm, the boy placed a hand on the man’s back. The truth was, what Billy saw was more than just the shared memory. Pulmonary hypertension. He could see it. See the threads of time starting to fray and shorten as they extended out from Patrick O’Toole.

The man wouldn’t live to see his ninety-ninth birthday.

Could Billy change that? Reverse the ravages of time and ease the burden of age on Knuckles’ body? Yes. All that, and more. Restored youth. Renewed vigor. With but a whim and the word, Billy could change it all back to the way it was -- to the way that he remembered him -- with but a snap of his fingers.

He didn’t.

He wouldn’t. Which was not to say that it was not, still, more than a passing thought. After all, if one had the power to do something, to change something, wasn’t it at least worth a thought?

You are not entrusted with the Rock of Eternity that you may install yourself as a god, Billy Batson. You are the guardian of man’s mortal life. Never forget that. One before you once thought himself a god, and was brought low by it.

The lessons of the past. Which were no less the lessons of the present.

As the coughing fit subsided, the man emerged back into the cloud of confusion that had first greeted the boy. “Billy?” Knuckles uttered, as though looking at the youth for the first time. Then, seemed to have at least the wherewithal to realize that wasn’t true. “Who was we talking about again?”

A pained smile tugged at the sides of the boy’s face. “Tubby,” the boy supplied patiently. “You were talking about Tubby.”

“Huh. Tubby,” the old man echoed, sinking back into the seat. “Ol’ Tubby...” he murmured, his eyelids starting to flutter. “He died in... seventy-nine?”

Had it been a question? Or a memory? In either case, Patrick’s head rolled back as the old man fell into a quiet sleep.

A heavy, wearied sigh slipped from out of the young boy. He remembered vividly the Brooklyn native who had taught younger Billy Batson how to fight. Like, really fight. The kind of fighting where your life is on the line. Because their lives had been on the line and it had been Knuckles’ strong hands that had carried their asses out of the fire on more than one occasion.

A hand brushed across his shoulder. Turning his head, Billy looked up to see one of the nurses motioning him out of the room. “He talks like you were there,” the woman -- Annie was her name -- remarked as the two stepped out into the hallway.

“He says I remind him of someone he knew then,” Billy answered cryptically. This particular ward of the retirement home was the assisted living section. It more closely resembled a hospice, with a nursing station monitoring the rooms.

Waiting for the inevitable.

“Anything you want me to help with before I leave, Ma’am?”

“I just appreciate your spending time with them,” Annie answered, as the woman made her way back behind the nursing station. “I know they appreciate it as...”

She’d glanced up then, trailing off as she realized that the boy was no longer there. Turning her head to the left and right, she was presented with an empty hallway.

“I swear that kid’s a ghost.”

| Normandy American Cemetery & Memorial
_{| Colleville-sur-Mer, France}

“I saw Knuckles today.”

A tear slipped down the right side of the boy’s face. Craning his head back, the youth drew in a breath as, for a moment, the myriad of emotion seemed ready to overtake him.

He didn’t know what to say.

Should he say anything?

He was here. It seemed he needed to say something. “Seven kids, thirteen grandchildren, and now he’s got five great-grandchildren. I think he’s done well,” the boy said. Then, paused with a pained laugh as he added, “I think he’s done the best of all of us. Who’d have imagined, right?”

Another tear slipped down his face. He continued to stare up, but couldn’t help the fact that he was crying openly now. It was a pregnant pause before Billy found the courage to look down again.

At his feet was a simple headstone. It was identical to rows and rows of white marble headstones. He knew the names of many. Some better than others, but these had all been a band of brothers. The Americans who had died fighting in Europe against the Third Reich and Axis Powers.

Brothers and Sisters.

Elizabeth Lawrence
Women’s Airforce Service Pilots
Our Liberty Belle

“They’re everywhere!”

“Snipers in the bell tower! Toro, can you..?”

“I’m pinned down. We’re in a crossfire!”

“Billy, you have transform.”

“We’re too close!”

“They’re mowing right over us. IT’S A TRAP!”

“Billy, just say it!”

“I can’t.”

“You’re the only one who can! Billy, say it now!”

“God... fuck...”

“BILLY!”

_{“Shazam.”}

He remembered. All of it. Like it was yesterday. He could still hear the echoes of the German machine guns. Shells exploding in massive clouds of earth, as the tanks had rolled into view, blocking their only escape. It was supposed to have been a simple assignment, a rendezvous with British intelligence.

The whole thing had been a set up.

But the sound he remembered the most was the thunder, when the flash from the lightning had cleared. And he would never forget what he saw when the smoke had cleared.

Billy had been the one who had pulled them out of the fire that day, but he’d only managed to save less than half of them. Toro. Knuckles. Tubby. Wash Jones.

Lizzie had been pressed up against him. They’d been pinned down, taking cover together with German fire coming from both sides.

All his power and Billy couldn’t save her.

“Billy...”

In mid-air, a holographic window seemed to appear, containing the image of a horse-like alien.

When Billy had looked up, he wasn’t sure just which of the two of them were more startled.

“...are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Billy tried to utter, though he’d choked on the word even as he brought his arm up to wipe at the tears running down his face.

He wouldn’t have believed him either.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Still wiping at his face, the boy straightened up to ask, “What’s up?”

“Friday just picked up some trace energy readings. We believe that there is a Z’ynx ship hiding on the dark side of your moon.”

Billy was still having trouble with Earth geography. And the hundred-however-many nations. Keeping up with the different alien nations in the galaxy was, frankly, more than his brain seemed ready to handle. “Is this bad?” the boy asked finally. Might as well get to the point of it. It was either a good thing... or it wasn’t.

With aliens, he honestly was never sure what constituted good or bad.

“Potentially. The Z’ynx are space-capable, but quite primitive even by human standards. I do not imagine that they are here to open peace negotiations.”

Great. If it wasn’t Hell on Earth, it was the threat of alien invasion. What ever happened to the days when stopping a single nation dictator was all that being a hero required?

The air around the boy seemed to shimmer. His clothing and form crackled with an electric energy, as a red costume emblazoned with a golden lightning bolt appeared. As a white cape draped over one shoulder, the boy said, “Well, we should probably ask them.”

“You sure that you are okay?”

“Just... catching up with old friends,” Billy offered cryptically, before glancing back up toward the sky. “Dark side of the moon? See you in a bit.”

The holographic window blinked out of existence, giving Billy another moment of privacy in which to glance around the cemetery and memorial one more time.

Then he turned his head back toward the sky.

_{”Up, up and away.”}

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

@NinaDivine

Sorry, I had completely missed that you’d linked that one. When I moused over, I thought it was the Beyond version (or Gods and Monsters). I didn’t mean to offend in any case.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

@Archangel89

Because I refuse to acknowledge any Zod that isn't Lor-Zod (even though Rebirth has screwed him up royally), I feel compelled to point out the Gods and Monsters version of Superman.

The Bounce House

A Q U A L A D
A Q U A L A D

^{"Witty Quote"}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Arthur Curry _________________________________________________________ 11 | Single _________________________________________________________ Middle School | American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ SUPER STRENGTH Arthur possesses strength in the 100 ton class (as an adult, this will be 160-200 ton class). ◼ INHUMAN DURABILITY Arthur can withstand the crushing pressures and frigid temperatures of the deep ocean, which also translates to being able to shrug off most small arms (below .50 cal). ◼ TELEPATHY How Atlanteans communicate underwater. ◼ HYDROKINESIS Primarily, Arthur uses this ability to propel himself through the water at insane speed, but with concentration he can also manipulate water. ◼ ENHANCED SENSES Arthur can see in the near lightless depths and his hearing is more acute than a normal human. - N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ OLYMPIC-LEVEL SWIMMER It goes without saying that Arthur takes to water like, well, a fish. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ MARINE TELEPATHY A descendant of the legendary Atlan through his mother Atlanna, Arthur has the unique ability to commune with sea life. ◼ LATENT MAGIC Arthur has Atlantean magic in his blood, but not enough to cast it on his own. Holding an enchanted relic however enables him to channel magic. -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... ________________________________________________________________________________________ The son of a lighthouse keeper in the sleepy town of Amnesty Bay, Maine, Arthur knows very little about his mother. And his father seems cryptic but adamant on keeping it that way, for reasons Arthur can't imagine. What's clear is that Arthur isn't like other kids his age, which is a difficult problem to grapple with at a time when he's also aged into a period in his life where fitting in is the most important thing to him. Rather than wrestle with swim team competition and the eternal question of what to think about the prospect of a middle school dance however, Arthur is confronted with the reality that someone wants him very dead. The question of why will take him to places beyond imagination, and truths he may be unprepared to receive. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ The story of a forbidden love between an Atlantean queen fleeing an arranged marriage and a lighthouse keeper in Amnesty Bay, Maine, told in the vein of the Golden Age Superboy stories where Arthur's childhood is the story rather than relegated to flashbacks. In a world where Superman is not an icon and Batman is merely a rumor on the streets of Gotham, Arthur Curry still being a goofy kid seems to fit. Orm is the primary nemesis in this take, re-imagined as Arthur's uncle who has usurped the throne of Atlantis in his bid to become Ocean Master, using Atlanna's flight as justification for imprisoning her and assuming the throne. His quest to eliminate Arthur as a contender to the throne will bring other familiar faces to the story, including Black Manta.

---

---

^{All formatting originates via the work of Lord Wraith}

Final Fantasy XIV RP

I may have a character in the vault.

@Inkarnate

Why am I expecting an excessively violent, kawaii Miqo'te cat-girl?

_{I have a Plan A and a Plan B for when Plan A is deemed unplayable. Neither is likely to surprise you.}

Final Fantasy XIV RP

Expressing interest.

_{Hug a tree. Love Gridania. White Mage represent.}

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{I'm not a grammar Nazi, I swear...}

@Retired

Hider

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{[ Prev ] “FEAT OF CLAY, Part II” [ Next ]}

G O T H A M C I T Y

---

^{S.T.A.R. Labs}

Coming here was starting to feel like visiting a friend in the hospital.

The cybernetics lab resembled a surgical suite. All white walls, white tile, and a flood of lighting. A flat table was the centerpiece of the room, atop which the body of the doll was laid out. The illusion of his humanity had been cast aside. The left side of his face was missing, exposing metal plating and a series of blinking lights infused by a host of optic fiber. Most of his chest and torso was a gaping chasm, through which the mechanical anatomy was visible. Even still, someone had tucked a stuffed animal under the crook of the doll’s arm. A stuffed penguin that was supposed to be Tux, whom Dick had learned was a mascot associated with the Linux operating system.

Monitors overhead displayed a cascade of compiling code, as well as a variety of graphs that Dick couldn’t discern any meaning from.

“We’re getting close.”

Sarah Charles’ voice. Dick turned to glance off to his right and saw that the woman had stepped into the lab behind him. “Now I understand why he used DOS for the monokernal architecture,” the woman remarked, though what she said sailed straight over Dick’s head. More so when she cryptically declared, “Toyboy is the kernal level. There’s no user level.”

Not understanding, but taking that as a sign that progress was being made. Dick merely gave a nod as he half-heartedly uttered, “Of course.”

Not to be dissuaded by her guest’s lack of appreciation for proper operating system design, Sarah pointed up to one of the monitors, displaying a cascade of code, as she continued. “Now that we understand the language that Schott developed, we’re replicating the processes and the architecture, but moving him to a UNIX-like kernal that will mimic Linux close enough to be compatible with some off-the-shelf options for expanding his capabilities.”

All right, now Dick was able to start picking up what Sarah was putting down. By moving Toyboy to modern software, it put contemporary applications on the proverbial table. “We’ve also installed a second CPU for better task switching, and created a microkernal operating within a virtual drive running Tails. If this works, it’ll mask Toyboy’s internet connection through the Tor network, while protecting the host drive by isolated the executable file permissions within a partition of file structure that’s enclosed in ramdisk memory..”

Should he be getting college credit in computer science for having stayed awake through all of that? “I’m just going to nod and pretend I understand at least part of that,” Dick deadpanned glibly. And trust that it would be difficult to trace. Sarah’s work with secure computing and telecommunications was a large part of his success as Nightwing in the modern era. Bruce’s tactics and techniques for remaining hidden in the era of the 1970s had steadily eroded across the 1980s with the emergence of new technologies.

“I finally read the notes about the heart.”

Glancing over at the woman, Dick just inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. “I think I was hesitating because I was afraid when I did, I’d realize you were right,” Sarah admitted candidly. “Remember when we pulled Toyboy out of storage and I said that Schott must have been a right bastard to have used Horton Cells? You said ‘I think he’d agree.’”

Something like that, anyway. At the nod from Dick, the woman continued. “All this time, I’d thought that you were talking about Toyboy,” she admitted. Then paused, before saying, “But you were talking about Schott.”

+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +

BLÜDHAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
Later that day

“Most of what was in the apartment is coming up empty, though preliminary lab analysis of hair samples confirms that Schott was there.”

Cissy Chambers was running Dick through the status of their major open cases. The search for the man wanted for fifteen separate counts of kidnapping, two counts of child murder, and three aggravated assault charges being at the top of the list.

“You said that the name ‘Michael Jarret’ rang a bell, so I looked into it,” the lieutenant noted. Flipping a brown folder down onto Dick’s desk, the woman continued as Dick started to read. He’d only just laid eyes on it when the recollection of his conversation with Toyboy about the 1996 case came back to mind.

“He was one of Schott’s classmates. Survived Hinkley Creek and then took his own life a few years later,” Cissy noted.

“Schott stole his identity,” Dick uttered gruffly. Laying the folder on his desk, the man just stared down at it for a moment. “My god. What if..?” he began, the thought seemingly stopped there. Instead, Dick looked up and said, “See what you can find on Jarret’s suicide.”

Reaching out with one hand, Cissy flipped several pages in the file. When she’d stopped, Dick realized that what he’d just asked for was right in front of him.

And it was only a single page. Half a page even. “There was a note and the ME didn’t ask for an autopsy, so they just closed the case file the same day that the body was found,” Cissy noted, her tone matching the scowl on Dick’s face. “But I agree that its suspicious in light of current events.”

“One more...” Dick uttered cryptically. He was quiet a moment, before he looked up and explained, “There’s another survivor who died by suicide. Check into it.”

The lieutenant gave a nod, retrieving the folder from off of Dick’s desk and replacing it with another from the stack in her arms. “That leaves the pawn shop case,” she offered, prefacing the brief to come. Dick flipped open the folder as she continued. “I asked Dolph for a preliminary report on the pawn shop case, but he says they’re coming up empty.”

“What about the forensics?” Dick asked, even as he thumbed over to the section of the file that contained the CSI notations.

“Dave’s team went over the cash register. There’s a clear impression of a hand, but no fingerprints. Only thing they came back with was some mud.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but continued on. “We get the footage from the store?”

Cissy gave a nod. “It’s on the sharedrive.”

Setting the folder down, Dick shifted his posture as he turned toward the workstation on his desk. Logging in, he pulled up the reports database and then glanced over for the referenced investigation number. Then, pulling up the media files associated with the case call number, brought up the video file.

On the computer monitor, a man who could have been Boris Karloff’s ugly twin stormed into the store. And, sure enough, grabbed the cash register and proceeded to crack it like an egg with his bare hands.

The stony face was distinctive to start with, but what stuck out to Dick most of all were the eyes. There was something about those eyes. “How does someone get a face like that?” the man blurted aloud.

“We already ran the image,” Cissy said, chiming in from over Dick’s shoulder. “Cross-referenced against DMV, FBI, and Department of State. Whoever he is, he’s off the...”

The phone ringing on Dick’s desk interrupted them.

Reaching over, Dick swiped the handset. “Grayson,” the man uttered. As he did, Cissy stepped back around toward the front of the office. “Uh huh,” Dick remarked, cradling the handset between his head and shoulder, freeing his hands to fumble for a pen and paper. “Twelfth and Farnam? Tell them that Lieutenant Chambers and I are en route.”

Cissy was obviously curious as he hung up the phone. Standing from the desk, Dick reached over and pulled on his usual, sable-colored trench coat. “Jewelry store robbery,” he offered, tossing a pair of car keys at her.

“Description matches our pawn shop case.”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{[ Prev ] “FEAT OF CLAY, Part I” [ Next ]}

B L U D H A V E N

---

^{12801 12th Street Northwest}

“Two-Eighty-One. Robbery in progress. Pawn shop. MLK and Dodge.”

Another day, another series of random criminal acts, senseless violence, or just plain malfeasance on the part of humanity. Which, he supposed he should be grateful for, being that crime was something of job security for him.

“This is Unit Twelve, en route.”

Throwing the bulletproof vest over his head, Dick casually looked over at Cissy Chambers even as he fastened the vest to his torso. “Who’s in unit twelve?”

Chambers was in uniform, already in S.W.A.T. gear and checking the load out of the Glock 22 police pistol that she carried. It was a standard sidearm, carried by more than half the police organizations in the United States. Still, the .40 caliber pistol looked unusually large in the woman’s deceptively delicate hands. “Harrison and Dolph,” Cissy answered, tossing a look his way as she racked the slide back to load a round into the chamber.

Then she looked away again, dropping the magazine and loading another round in.

The Glock 22 was the Bludhaven Police standard issue for everyone who had graduated from the police academy. Every uniform cop carried the .40 caliber, though plains clothes detectives tended to have more leeway. Particularly as they often favored sub-compacts that were more readily concealed. Among BPD, that would be a Glock 19 or a Sig P229.

Dick carried the Sig, chambered .357. Like Cissy, he racked the slide and then dropped the magazine. As he fumbled about to find what he’d done with that spare bullet, Dick candidly remarked, “Double check the evidence room against their reports when they get back.”

Chambered gave what sounded like a nervous laugh. The kind of sound that made clear that the woman wasn’t certain just how she was supposed to react to a statement like that.

Sliding the magazine back into the grip, Dick gave the base of the pistol a quick slap to check that it was snugly locked in place, then just turned to level a stern look over at the lieutenant.

Cissy’s head cocked to one side. “You’re serious?” she blurted aloud.

“You tell me how Harrison’s leasing a Porche Macan with a baby on the way and paying child support on the last kid. All on a corporal’s salary,” Dick stated, in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed to leave no room for debate.

Returning the pistol to the underarm holster that he wore, Dick grabbed a black jacket that had yellow piping and the word POLICE emblazoned across the back. Throwing that on, the man adjusted the radio that was on his belt, clipping a mic up on the left shoulder and then looping an earpiece around his right ear. Finally, he switched frequencies and said, “All right, this is Grayson, we got eyes?”

“Hostetler. I’m across the street with visual. No lights or movement inside.”

It had been forty-two days since they’d pulled the thirteen kids out of the cages underneath the old Gotham Corridor Self-Storage. In that time, Anton Schott had gone from person of interest to official suspect. A CrimeStoppers tip had turned up, indicating that Schott might have taken up residence in these apartments.

The property manager had identified Schott’s photo as a resident went by the name Michael Jarret. It was a name that Dick hadn’t been able to place immediately, but he knew that he’d seen or heard it somewhere recently. If Toyboy was here, Dick probably could have gotten that answer in less than a minute. But, this was Dick’s other job. And so he’d just have to make do for the time being.

Schott, or Jarret, hadn’t been seen of late. He was never a punctual resident, but he’d missed this month’s rent payment.

Dick was worried that Schott had already fled. But sitting on the apartment wasn’t likely to tell them anything if that was the case. Toggling the radio again, Dick made the call. “Take down the door.”

From the stairwell, Dick could hear the S.W.A.T. make their move. Voices shouted, echoing in the night as a loud crash could be heard. Through the earpiece, Dick could clearly make out the words. “We’re in.”

At that point, Dick and Chambers were both on the move. Guns drawn, the commissioner and the lieutenant moved up the stairwell, passing quickly down the hall and then through the open door.

The S.W.A.T. team had posted inside. There was no one home.

Turning around, Dick did a slow turn to survey the interior of the apartment. It looked like it had been ransacked. Drawers yanked out of cabinets, then overturned and left discarded on the floor.

If Anton Schott had been here, he was long gone now. Grinding his teeth as he returned his pistol to it’s holster, concealed by the jacket that he wore. Then, planting his hands on his hips, Dick just stood back and watched as his officers did their job. Cordoned off the scene. The forensics team was on their way up, to start bagging and tagging whatever might turn up of interest.

Chambers had gloves on, picking through the trash for anything that might be of value.

Maybe something would turn up. Right now, it looked like they had nothing. “Shit,” Dick swore under his breath.

“Commissioner,” a voice called out. Dick looked up to see one of the S.W.A.T. officers. “Dispatch is calling you.”

A grunt and a nod of acknowledgement would have to pass as his thanks for now. Switching frequencies again, Dick tapped the mic on his shoulder and said, “Grayson. Go.”

“Commissioner, unit twelve is asking for you to stop by the scene of the two-eighty-one at MLK and Dodge.”

+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +

Earl’s Pawn Shop was a staple of the southwest corner of Bludhaven’s so-called Old Town district. It was catty-corner from the Sunoco gas station that was frequently referred to by Bludhaven Police as the Stop ‘n Rob.

A robbery in this neighborhood was just another day of the week.

Dick’s unmarked cruiser pulled up near the doors. As he exited the car, the first thing that he took note of was the doors to the shop. They appeared to be the industry standard. Heavy, metal frame. Safety glass with metal bar reinforcement.

The doors were off their hinges, as though a tank had come barreling through. Except, to get the doors and frame like that, it would have had to have hit them from the inside heading outward. Not from the position of someone trying to break inside.

It had his curiosity at least. Strolling in through the doors, he quickly spotted Dolph. In the dark blue Bludhaven uniform, talking to a woman who was presumably someone to do with the complaint.

So where was Harrison? As he glanced around the inside of the shop, he only saw the one uniform. As Dolph broke away from the witness, Dick called out and said, “All right, you wanted me here. What do you got?”

“To hear the witness tell it, Commissioner, we’ve got a larceny,” the young officer remarked. Dolph had graduated from the academy last year, but was easily one of the more promising of the recruits that Dick had on the force at present.

Made it a damn shame that he’d drawn Harrison as a partner. Eventually, either Dolph was going to dime out his partner or would fall prey to the all-too-common practice of following the bad example. Just which path the young Dolph was headed down, Dick wasn’t certain yet. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” the officer complained, seemingly at a loss.

“A larceny? Not a robbery?” Dick asked in a neutral tone. The complaint had come in about a robbery, which the state of the entrance would certainly suggest some force was used. “So the suspect wasn’t armed? What did he do, wait for an open register, grab the cash and go?”

Taking a half-step back, Dolph pivoted at the waist just enough to beckon Dick’s attention over to two hunks of twisted, wrought metal that were lying atop a counter. It was a moment before it clicked that the heavy, reinforced metal frame had been, at one time, a cash register. “Commissioner, the lady there says that a man did that with his bare hands.”

Dick’s frown deepened. The register. The doors. Could they be dealing with a metahuman? “They got video?” Dick asked, glancing back up at Dolph.

“Harrison’s seeing if he can figure out how to either run or record the tapes,” the officer answered with a nod. Then a shrug as he added, “Apparently, no one’s actually had to review the footage since it was installed.”

Dick gave a barely perceptible nod. “And the lady?” he asked, inclining his head to indicate the woman that Dolph had been speaking with when he’d come in.

“General Manager. She’s the one who called it in,” Dolph answered succinctly. “Says she saw the whole thing.”

“Got it,” Dick answered shortly. Then gave another nod as he said, “Get back out to the car and call over to the precinct. Tell them I want a forensic team to go over that register. See if Mister Big Hands left us some fingerprints.”

While Dolph hurried from out of the store, Dick ventured further inside. Strolling up on where the woman seemed to be trying to order a display, he simply asked,“You Earl?”

“Earl’s been dead since ‘Ninety-Two,” the woman offered in reply. By her voice, Dick was guessing she wasn’t a Jersey local. Transplant more likely. Somewhere in the South. “You a detective or something?”

“Or something,” the man quipped back in reply, even as he flipped his credentials out for her to inspect. “Dick Grayson. BPD.”

Flipping the badge case closed again, Dick tucked it away as he continued. “I know that you’ve had to do this a couple of times already, but would you mind talking me through what you saw again?”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by DocTachyon>

Damn, these holidays really have me slipping.

Although I did consider dropping samples on secondary apps.

@Lord Wraith

This is blatant favoritism.

@Retired

@Lord Wraith Villain! Verily, thine offense against thy players shall not go unopposed!

Ye, look upon mine visage and dispair