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2 yrs ago


I came here to have a good time. I sure ain't disappointed.

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26 Oliver Jonas Queen Chaotic Good

26 Harold "Hal" Jordan // Highball Chaotic Good

|| B I O G R A P H I E S ||

In Mahz's Dev Journal 4 mos ago Forum: News
<Snipped quote by Mahz>

@GreenGrenade ayy, we'll know the last time each other were last online now. :D

@Nightrunner That was a pretty neat read, man. I've only read snippets of Snyder's Batman, so this might encourage me to try and catch his entire run. I have a few titles and characters I'd be keen to talk about here, but I'm a bit undecided on who or what to run with first, lol. I'll definitely be back here, though. You can never have enough places to nerd out in.

"Oh yeah? How about an arrow up your ass?"

|| N A M E & A L I A S ||

Oliver Jonas "Ollie" Queen

The Emerald Archer... Green Arrow

|| A G E ||

Ollie's 38, but depending on what mood you catch him in he acts anywhere between 5 and 70.

|| A P P E A R A N C E ||

Ollie’s aged well for the most part. Yes, the situations he’s struggled through over his decade-long career as the Green Arrow have summoned a wisp of grey amid his blond hair, and his cohorts love to tell him how his van dyke beard has somehow grown more ridiculous with every passing year, but any other attribute of his would indicate youth not seen in many who’ve experienced what he has. He’s muscular and well-defined, his arms especially impressive after spending so long a time with a bow and arrow. Scars both old and new cover his skin, reminders of the tortures he faced on both Lian Yu and in Star City. Beneath a series of equally gruesome ones on his left pectoral lies the tattoo of a captain of the Solntsevskaya Bratva – nothing but a remnant of less proud times, left behind after his final confrontation with the Russian mob all those years ago.

|| S K I L L S ||

He doesn’t call himself Green Arrow for the fun of it – Oliver’s an archer, and a damn good one at that. There’s a reason why some people call him the best marksman in the world, making even Deadshot jealous; his aim with a bow and arrows (some of them the tricky kind) are unparalleled, and if you give him any other projectiles – and some firearms – it’s likely he’ll use them with just as much accuracy. His five years in purgatory, along with his experiences as Green Arrow, have forged him into a living weapon of peak physical condition; he may not be the greatest martial artist the world has ever known, but he’ll sure give anybody that’s not his wife or Batman (or a few other people he’d rather not acknowledge) a run for their money, his acrobatics adding some flair to his otherwise direct fighting style. The assassin called Shado taught him Japanese in his first year on Lian Yu; her teacher, Natas, taught him Chinese in his second; and his ex-brothers in the Bratva taught him Russian in his fourth. The thing he got really good at during his time in purgatory, though… really good at… was the art of killing.

But he tries not to think about that.

|| B I O G R A P H Y ||


@CallSignCorsair The fact that you're using someone from the Invincible-verse makes me love you a little more than a little
Just stopping by to tell @Gowi that he needs to go with Green Arrow or I'll throw my graduation in the bin and apply as the Hal to his Ollie.

I probably won't, but damn, wouldn't that be cool.
@Archangel89 I made 'em in Photoshop, but I get my fonts from
@Lord Wraith Nah, it's fine by me. Spectre and I worked things out on Discord, it's chill.
So one thing I'm curious about in the Batman posts is Alfred's last name. Is Pennywise like a codename, or did you guys change it from Pennyworth to Pennywise? Because every time I read it I think of the killer clown from It.

Yeah, it's a codename. The irony of it only struck me after I settled on it, but I like it, so I'm stickin' with it.

Is the guy in the shadows with the smile Joker? Because said figure has called Batman 'Bruce' twice now and Joker infamously doesn't give a shit about the man behind the cowl.

Nah, Joker's locked away in Arkham at the moment. It's probably a Talon.

It's not a Talon.

Harold. Got it.

Well, you got me. Arc's over people, Byrd guessed it.

Previous Chapter

M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 3 ♦ A R K H A M A S Y L U M ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J

The cell door opened, and Batman stepped inside.

Edward Nashton’s cell was immaculate. What possessions he was allowed to keep (books; an enormous amount of them) were stacked neatly, according to size, on the desk to the left. His bedsheets were tucked beneath each side of his bed, straightened, without a wrinkle to be seen; the only ones present were those that formed beneath his weight. Everything in his cell spoke of severe obsessive compulsion: the books, the bedsheets – the clock, set to the nearest millisecond.

The Riddler reclined on his bed with the back of his head resting in his hands, legs spread outwards. Hearing the cell door clang shut, he looked up, his lips curling into a smirk as his eyes settled on Batman.

“What’s tall, bat-like and my intellectual inferior?”

His eyes twinkled with amusement and hatred in equal parts.

Straight to the riddles, as always.

“Your material’s getting sloppy, Riddler,” said Batman.

Nashton scoffed. “My writer is of questionable talent.”

He paused, examining a fingernail as he sat up. “What can I do for you, Batman? I don’t assume you’ve come to admit mine being the better mind, so why don’t you hurry up and stop wasting my time? I was quite happy staring at the ceiling.”

“Three men were murdered tonight in the Narrows. Whoever did it is a professional,” said Batman. “Dutch Hancock, Happy Ackerman, and Koby Hillam. Do those names ring a bell?”

“Should they?” Riddler raised an eyebrow.

“They worked for you.”

“And, what? You came here to ask me who would have it out for the sycophants I employ? In this city?” He paused, holding a hand over his heart. “Oh, my dear, dumb, Dark Knight. Just about everyone.”

That much was true. In the thirteen years since whispers of the Batman reached the ears of Gotham’s criminal element, the vigilante had made many enemies, and had seen them make enemies of each other. It was no exaggeration to say that nearly everyone would want the Riddler and his men dead. A man like Nashton was not easy to get along with, and his fanatic narcissism was polarising at best. For the men competing for control over the city – men like Oswald Cobblepot – it was easy to hate him, and even easier to want him and his operations gone. But for all of the potential suspects, something didn’t add up.

“An owl’s face was drawn with your men’s blood at the scene,” said Batman. “Do you have any idea what it could mean, who that symbol could belong to?”

“Actually, I don – ” Nashton’s smirk disappeared, his mouth hanging agape, eyes wide. “Oh, no… no, it can’t be…”

He ran a hand through his hair. “No, no, no… not them…”

He looked at Batman. “The Court of Owls.

Nashton chuckled, and the Dark Knight turned away, knocking on the cell door so the guard on the other side would open it. If the Riddler was going to waste his time, as was his nature, Batman was better off following up on what little clues he could uncover at the crime scene.

“Batman,” Alfred said through the comm-link, “If you’re done, sir, there appears to be a robbery in progress at Gotham National Bank. I thought you might like to pop in and grunt ‘hello.’”

“Thank you, Pennywise,” he answered, walking out of the cell as its door swung open. “I’m on my way.”

M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 3 ♦ G O T H A M N A T I O N A L B A N K ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J

With the press of a button, Batman cut off all electricity to the building. Anything that could hint at him being there – security cameras, alarms – was shut down, deprived of power.

He was perched on the balcony of the bank manager’s office. Below him, two men stood guard, balaclavas covering their faces, shotguns at the ready – twelve gauge by looks of them, cheap in materials and make. They were scared, agitated, looking erratically over their shoulders in the direction of their accomplices, who were gathering money from the bank’s vault. That the building was empty, but for them, was a relief. The lack of professionalism the two men displayed, their inability to keep their cool, would only heighten the chance of an innocent being killed. Batman couldn’t allow that. This way, he could take care of the criminals before they knew what hit them.

“Hey, T,” whispered the thug on the left, “How much longer d– ”

Batman dropped from his perch, plummeting down onto the crook, his cape slowing his decent just enough to prevent the man’s death. The thug crumpled beneath his weight, losing consciousness on impact. His gun fell to the floor beside him, and Batman picked it up, discarding the shells.

“What the f– ” began T, aiming his shotgun at the wraith before him.

He was met with a shotgun butt to the chin, falling down with crunch.

Batman dropped the first thug’s firearm, stepping behind one of the balcony’s pillars. Alfred had told him that there were up to five robbers in the building, and with two down, that meant three were left inside the vault. On the other side of the pillar was the hallway leading to it. He could hear the tap-tap of uncertain steps clicking on the tiled floor. A gruff voice called out.

“T? Ax?” It got no answer. “Yo, stop messing around. We heard some noise. You’re our getaway, remember?”

Batman scowled. Not only was this crew unprofessional, they were stupid, too.

Shit,” exclaimed another voice, unsettled by the silence. “It’s the Bat. He’s here. Dammit, Buchinsky, I didn’t sign up for– ”

Quiet, you idiot,” interrupted a third voice, Russian in its accent: Buchinsky. “Take point. If it’s black and has horns, shoot it.”

Buchinsky’s identity was no mystery to Batman. Calling himself Electrocutioner, Lester Buchinsky was likely the reason this crew was so incompetent. With an ego as inflated as his, there was no doubt that he thought he could pull off this job the way he did – with his getaways acting as lookouts, and his crew too nervous to work coherently. No, when you were Lester Buchinsky, you didn’t need a good plan or a professional team. You just needed your glorified tasers.

Buchinsky’s point man exited the hallway, shotgun resting on his shoulder, each step bringing him closer to Batman.

“All clear,” he called out, stepping past the pillar the vigilante hid behind.

Batman grabbed the barrel of his gun, pushing it away from himself, simultaneously striking the man across the face, wrapping his punching arm around the thug’s neck in a reverse chokehold. He struggled, weakening with every passing second, his muffled cries waning along with him. Within three, he was out cold. Batman emptied his gun and moved back into the shadows.

Buchinsky and his remaining man stepped out of the hall. The gunman walked in front, protecting Electrocutioner, his breaths heavy – scared. Batman ducked low, waiting for him to walk past the pillar, sweeping his leg across the floor – catching the gunman on his shins, kicking his legs out from under him. The gunman fell forwards, chin hitting the tiled floor with a loud thud. He was out of the equation, for now. Batman emptied his gun, and leapt towards Buchinsky.

The crook didn’t even have time to taunt the Dark Knight. His gauntlets – the glorified tasers – crackled with electricity, and yet he couldn’t bring them up fast enough to defend himself. His surprised yelp was cut short, Batman’s fist crunching into his nose. He hit the ground hard.


What –? A shotgun.

Batman ducked to his right, his instincts taking over –

The shot barely missed him, pellets shooting past his head. Hand reaching for his belt, he grabbed a Batarang, turning to look over his shoulder and throwing it at his would-be shooter.

The projectile embedded itself in the gunman’s hand – the one he’d tripped – and he dropped the gun, cursing, blood trickling down his hand.

Batman brought his fist up beneath his chin, and the gunman dropped like a brick.

The vigilante had to hold back a curse of his own as he realised his mistake. He’d emptied every gun of ammunition – every gun but one. He’d neglected the second lookout’s firearm… the one called ‘T’.


He grappled up to the balcony, making his way towards the air vent through which he’d entered the building.

He didn’t notice the figure that hid in the shadows. After he was gone, it smiled to itself.

“Getting sloppy, Bruce.”
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